Coiff & Co.

Another sunny day. Hooray! Time to do something that I have been putting off for some time, a haircut.
I walked into town to the new location of the hair salon that I visited last year.
It is now in premises about 3 times the size.
Open the door, glasses steam up instantly. Young girl (probably not at lycee today due to the strikes) greets me. I make my demands for a cut and I am told that there will be a longish wait. That is not a problem I say.
There is no obvious waiting area so I hover about, looking out of the window.
This will obviously not do, and one of the 2 stylists waves her arm towards a cupboard and one of the chairs in front of a mirror. I spot a large notice on a pole which tells you what to do.
Remove your coat and put it in the cupboard
Take a smock out of the cupboard and put it on
Take a seat and wait

I follow the rules and swivel on my chair to watch what is going on. Eventually it is my turn. Other people have popped into the salon but they are not prepared to wait and will return later. Unless you make a reservation we cannot guarantee you a slot at the time that you come back, the stylist says. No one makes an appointment.
I have my hair washed. This seems to be compulsory, despite having washed my hair less than 2 hours previously. Before the washing, I am asked my family name. I spell it, and it is written onto a yellow pad. I wonder if they are the French branch of the Sweeney Todd family and that this information will allow them to contact the next of kin should an ear or anything else be sliced off inadvertently. The girl disappears behind me and there is a whispered conversation. She reappears and rips the page off the pad, folds it up and puts it in a pocket located high up on the left sleeve of my smock. Now at lease if I should get lost or collapse between the basin and the cutting chair they will know my family name.
I have my cut and as usual I am asked if it is ok. I put on my glasses and say Yes. I then ask if anyone ever says no. Now this could go horribly wrong and she still has scissors in her hand but I have always had a reckless streak.
Fortunately she is okay with this bit of banter and says that Yes it happens sometimes, but not often.
I quit while I still have a head or should it be while I am still ahead?Once I get home, I happen to see my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. I look like a pineapple with flyaway hair or a mandarin duck. An improvement, even if I do say so myself.

Bonne journée

The sun shone for a while this morning, so I set off to complete the task given to me by my Instep advisor before our next meeting on Monday next week.
I got my folder together adding the two letters that I had received earlier in the week and set off to the Chamber of Commerce which is in the centre of town.
I did not get far as I was waylaid by Madame, clad in her pink pyjama ensemble. After asking how I was, she asked me if she could borrow my extension cable so that she could vacuum her car. She told me that one had to take advantage of the good weather.
I went back into the house and gave her the item, telling her to just lock it back into the hallway cupboard when she had finished with it.
I set off again as it was coming up to 11am and the CCI closes for lunch at noon. I entered the building and saw that there was a young lady seated behind the reception desk talking to a man in is 20’s. He then started off up the staircase adjacent to the stairs. No, he could not do that she said. He did not seem pleased and after a few more words, he headed for the entrance.
He pulled the door open. Meanwhile the receptionist had said “Bonne journée” and he had ignored her. She looked displeased and said again in a loud, challenging voice “Bonne Journ2e”. He headed out of the door and she looked at me in a way that said –the rudeness of some people-
If she remembers his name, I suspect that any future business he may have there may well be more difficult to accomplish.
Bonjour, I said. I explained the reason for my visit. Did I have a copy of my CV and a letter of motivation? She asked. Now my advisor had not mentioned bringing any such items. I certainly don’t have a letter of motivation, but I have got a CV. I searched through my folder at least 3 times. Nightmare! No CV.
I had a dim memory then of my advisor asking me if she could keep a copy of it, but I should still have had one left.
The receptionist (they probably are not called receptionists and are much more powerful than that) said that it was not a problem and that I could email my CV to her. She wrote down the address on a post-it note and checked carefully to make sure that, being such a feeble person, I could read her writing. We parted with the mandatory farewell of bonne journée.
Once I got home I emailed in my CV and I received a reply that she would forward my CV to any interested parties and I would hear in due course should anyone wish to have a chat with me about my qualifications, work search etc. The receptionist has the power to progress my cause, or not…..
Oh well, at least I can say I completed my task and have an email to prove that I made the trip.

27.1.09 – Mud in your eye , All piss and no wind

One of the ministers of the French Government is planning to announce a state of National emergency due to the chaos and damage that the storms have caused in France. As if this were not enough to be going on with, Thursday will see a number of major unions on strike and on the streets to protest about, amongst other things, unemployment, retirement, etc. So, good luck to anyone arriving in France then. I think that the main demonstration in my area will take place in Pamiers.
As a by-product of my recent commencement of officially registering as a job seeker, an application for unemployment benefits continues to grind along. I received a 2 letters today from Pole-emploi dated 21.1.09 saying that there was no chance of me receiving anything due to some clause in Article 1. The second letter dated 22.1.09 says that the paperwork for my unemployment benefit has been forwarded to Paris?
In the UK, such letters would be signed by a human being, possibly on behalf of someone. My letters have the typewritten ”Le Directeur”. I get the feeling that I am just a number and that I will soon have gigantic inflatable spheres preventing me from escaping from the compound.
I have just finished listening to the end of Elizabeth George’s “What she did before he shot her”. It ended in an even bleaker way than I had anticipated. Considering it was written by an American who lives in America though, and that it was set in the London of the run down housing estates in the Kensington area, the dialogue and local colour was impressive though.
Yes but where does the relevance of the posts title lie?
Well, at Sunday’s choir practice, a lady at my table for lunch was telling me that her English teacher had been teaching her useful phrases. So now whenever she in a PUUB and about to drink, she raises her glass and says “Mud inyereye”. Being a perfectionist, I told her that if anyone ever used that expression, it would be “Here’s mud in your eye” and that I thought it was an old American expression, probably used by Humphrey Bogart.
I tried to tell her that if she ever found herself in a similar pub situation in Scotland, she should say Slandje! I did not complicate things by trying to spell it for her though. Sláinte!
Another phrase that she had learnt was "I am going for a woz". Again I had to correct her "I'm going for a waz". She seemed sceptical that I knew what it meant. So I translated for her benefit and for the others at the table. "Je vais pisser"

Warning do not read! this post will waste your time

Shortly after posting yesterday’s blog we had a power cut which lasted about a minute. Still lucky though as many homes throughout France are still without power.
The rain poured down all night and this plus the day’s music which was going round and round in my brain meant very little sleep.
Yesterday I was given more sheet music, which I have paid for out of my annual choir membership fee. This now joins the other pieces of music in my small nylon briefcase. (a promo gift from Gresswells at some past library and information show).
If I was to go on the choir’s roadtrip to Fribourg in July, I would presumably be singing it all. As I do not read music, and evidence suggests that not many of my fellow choirist(e)s do either, this would present some difficulties. Still I am sure I read somewhere that if you go to sleep with a book under your pillow you take it all in subconsciously. So tenor parts here I come!
My new list of tunes:
Verbum Caro (extract des “Litaniae de Venerabilite Sacramento » by Wm Mozart : I didn’t know he had even been to Obamaland.

Miserere from the same work as above. Both appear to be in Latin

Signore Delle Cime by Bepi de Marzi. An Italian piece which is could be a haunting song about one man and his chimney, but there is also a montagna amongst the lyrics. He probably got the stone to build his house and chimney from the mountain.

Te Deum by Mozart. This is also in Latin and the title speaks for itself. He seems to have set some verb conjugations to music, probably to help him remember them
Salve Regina by Gabriel Faure. Now we have a road in town named after him, and I think that last year there was a celebration of his music in the nearby town of Pamiers. Although this is a kosher copy, the text is small and feebly printed. Again in Latin this is a song about an ointment used by the Queen.

Zigeunerleben by Bob Schuman Opus 29 no.3 extract from Drei Gedichte von Emanuel Geibel. It seems to be a poem by Emanuel Geibel.
Fortunately there is a translation of the poem from German into French at the end of the score.
It starts off all about trees and leaves and the last 2 lines
“Le mullet piaffe au lever du jour”
Les silhouettes s’en vont, qui te dira où »
probably means that he woke up in the shower just like Bobby Ewing and dreamt about the forest etc. Why? Well it is obvious, but as there are many out there less dead good at languages than me so here it is.
His messed up hairstyle (a mullet is a hairstyle much favoured by footballers in the ‘80s) at daybreak. The shadows (dream like figures such as Miss Elly, JR etc) have buggered off, God knows where.

The Lord bless you and keep you by John Rutter which being in English is easy to understand. It is all about God blessing and shining and the last page and a bit is all amens, so the home straight in this one should be a breeze. Quite what it will sound like as my fellow singers miss off the endings to all the words………


Les fetes d’hebe by Jean-Philippe Rameau (1683 – 1764) obviously took him ages to write despite being only 8 pages long. He probably travelled with it constantly tweaking it like that Italian bloke with the Mona Lisa (which I have seen in the Louvre and in real life in very small, probably a handy magazine size for ease of portability).
At first I thought this might have been a song about the grass festivals, but a closer looks and I see an “r” has been omitted. Then I remembered a line from “The life of Brian” where the hero Brian Coen is refers to himself as a Heebee
i.e. a Hebrew. So this is a Hebrew party song, probably along the lines of “Agadoo-do-do” Should be a real crowd pleaser. Perhaps there will be movement and hand actions to go with it.

Did I mention that I was tired?? The good thing about our choir is that no one ever says what the songs are about, so I could be right.
If you read all of this right to the end. Give yourself a gold star or honk your horn.

OOPs! another power cut

French resistance

After the night and day of the big storm all seems to be well. Apart from my wheelie bin being blown over no damage seems to have been done to my property. The man with the garage opposite has lost plastic sheeting off parts of the roof though.
It was the extra day of choir practice today, so I had to drag myself out of bed relatively early to reach the practice before the 9.30am start. I passed a few uprooted trees, a small collapse of rock and earth, road with lots of small pieces of broken roof tiles etc. Last night we had a power cut for a good 3 seconds. We were lucky. Hundreds of thousands of homes in France were left without power. Mental note to self, think about alternative emergency source of heating / cooking.
Almost the full choir turned out for the practice and we began the Petite Messe from the beginning. It was a struggle and I for one was glad when it was lunch time.
Before the meal appeared, people produced bottles of wine, olives, cake etc for people to share. Dejeuner was salad, blanquettes de veau (very tasty), red wine, tart, cheese and black coffee. Not a drop of milk in sight.
We managed to make the meal last as long as possible, but eventually we had to move all the chairs back into choral formation.
At around 2.45pm the choir’s part-time accompanist arrived to assist the choir director. This is the first time that I have seen her. She usually only appears at major practices and for the public performances.
As yet we have not met any of the people who will be performing the solos which are dotted about the piece. Boy are they in for a shock unless we make mighty strides towards perfection, or “top” as the choir presidente calls it.
In our quest for “top” she announced that we will have an extra day of practice on the 29 March.
By 5-30pm most of us were getting too tired to carry on. We were saved only because the lady who was in charge of the building was wanting to leave.
We knew this because she had her hat and coat on and was standing outside peering through the window at us……… Vive la France!

A duty to entertain and inform? That's pants!

Things are returning to normal as we march onwards through January. I think that if anyone aspiring to live in France came during January and February they might think again. The weather is dismal. So far all we have had recently is lots of rain, with more to come. Other departements especially in the North west of the country have been on an orange alert, red being the highest level. Rain and wind s of 100 mph or 140kph being the problem. It is being likened to the last bad storms of 1999.
I walked into town between showers. Well that was the plan. The weather decided to wait until I reached town and then to tip out some more of the wet stuff. The market only had a few stalls open for business. It is a head down, stay at home kind of a day.
I now have a loaf of bread though, so that will last me til Monday.

There has been nothing much to write about so I will cast about for something of import.
Miss France was invited to the inauguration of the new president so she will have been having a good time.

The “Where’s Wally” books are called “Ou est Charlie“ in France. “Where’s Waldo” in USA etc Wikipedia also has a list of his other names used for him around the world.

In my early days of employment in Glasgow I remember finding a dried out frog left in a book as a bookmark. Other items used to mark pages were bank notes, les capots anglais or French letters thankfully still in their unopened foil wraps, mostly empty foil strips of women’s contraceptive pills etc. The last odd item found in a book was as far as I can remember a pair of black panties with a skull and crossbones motif. From memory when we checked to see who the last borrower of the book was, it was someone who used the mobile library.

No we didn't touch them.

Steppin’ out

Being back in the rainy season for at least the next 4 days it is harder to stay motivated, but as I have probably got lots to do, I get up at 8.20am to start the day.
My first official duty of the day, after my caramel tea and cereal (in separate vessels) was to phone the UK tax office to see if they were expecting me to fill in a tax return. I had not received one from them, but this could have been because I told them I was going to be resident in France.
I dialled the special “from abroad” number and after some options I was through to a lady from the tax office. I gave her my details and explained my situation. She told me that unfortunately as their computer was down, she would not be able to check my records. She would however phone me back tomorrow. This means that I will leave all the paperwork which might be of relevance spread on the chairs and floor until tomorrow….

Bee boy is back after his long weekend away, so it is open house again. To keep him on his toes keyswise though, I continue to lock the main door when I go in and out.

In the afternoon it was back to the Instep office to meet my advisor. My advisor for the next 6 months is a friendly lady who tolerated my mangled French very well.
The Ariege is one of, if not the poorest departments in France and this year they are expecting 3,000 jobs to be lost. Our 45 minute chat lasted for an hour and a quarter, but this was okay she said, because the next appointment had cancelled. I have been given the task of going to the Chamber of Commerce in town to chat with them about possibilities. She did have a moment of excitement when she found a job advert for work lasting 8 months working in the south of the region. She had spotted the need to speak English but had however missed the fact that the person had to be an expert in the Prehistoric period and the prehistory of the Ariege. There are numerous caves with prehistoric painting in the area.
My next appointment is in two weeks time. As we were concluding the days business she asked me when I had registered. When I told her it was last week she seemed very surprised that I was already on the orientation course.
I like to think it is because I am special..

Literature update

I am currently listening to Elizabeth George’s “What she did before he shot her” which will keep me occupied for 23 hours. I am just over half way through and I fear that several of the characters that I have become attached to will not be the recipients of a happy ending. On verra.
Over the last few weeks I have listened to: “The Chopin manuscript” by Jeffery Deaver with chapters contributed to by 15 or so other authors. Jeffery wrote the first chapter, then the book was passed to the other authors in turn, who added their own twists and turns. Not one for the faint hearted as the body count mounts at a steady pace throughout. It fell to Jeffery to tie up all the loose ends created in the final couple of chapters. It was written specifically for audio, so I do not know if it will ever appear in text format.
Victoria Hislop’s “Island” set largely on Spinalonga, a small off Crete which was home to a colony of people with leprosy earlier in the 20th century, and which I visited briefly one afternoon in the mid 1980’s.

Disappointing ending with this one though, almost as though the author got bored and decided to end the book in as short a time as possible.
Alexander McCall Smith’s “The finer points of sausage dogs” which had very few funny bits in it and was rather a mess in my opinion. Did anyone edit it before it was published? I found the main characters extremely annoying and did not warm to any of them.
Alexander McCall Smith’s “Irregular Portuguese verbs” which was more successful on the comedy front, but I still hoped (in vain) that all the main characters would be killed off. There is a third volume but I do not have it yet.
Michael Simkin’s “Fatty batter” was far more successful on the funny bone front. Unfortunately the last section of the book with vignettes of some of his team’s matches tacked on, perhaps to pad the book out a bit. This space could have been used to fill in details e.g. about this English actor's relationship with his wife. Perhaps she got fed up of him and his obsession with cricket and whipped off his bails?