A Dog's Best Friend?

Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. 

Jean-Jacques Rousseau 

This little fellow stood here patiently for over an hour. We passed him in Lugano as we strolled down to the shores of the lake for lunch. On our return journey up the hill the dog was still in the same spot, optimistically hoping that somewhere inside there was a friend who would throw him a tasty morsel.

Snippets from Life in France – The Business Card

Setting up house in rural France when one speaks little French and normally resides 16000 km away, is a voyage of discovery. Although fraught with difficulties, (a head on car crash, a few trips to hospital, falling through a rotting floor, trying to deal with my elusive and swindling Man on the Ground….), when reflecting on the positive experiences, the negative ones  diminish in significance.

One of my greatest joys has been meeting the colourful characters who reside, temporarily or permanently, in our corner of France. With a tendency to be shy, I had to put aside my foibles and take the initiative to talk to people in painfully poor French. As a passionate flâneur, opportunities naturally arose to make acquaintances as I meandered through the village. One such person was Toby. I had passed Toby’s maison secondaire on the edge of the village a few times during my daily strolls, twice stopping to photograph the worn exterior of sa maison before I chanced upon him, seated on his terrace with a pipe in one hand and a glass of red in the other, savouring some regional produce and the delights of dusk – a time when the cooling air releases the fragrance of the forest and birds are called to song.

During my first apero chez Toby, an old film camera was produced as Toby boldly inquired, “ Do you mind if I take a shot of your face with your name? Terrible memory. Like to avoid embarrassment.”  Dutifully the “newcomers” lined up on the terrace, chatting (wine glass in hand) while waiting for their turn to have an identifying portrait taken – a procedure reminiscent of that of the dreaded, annual school photograph.

Like many houses in France, the antiquated exterior of Toby’s maison belied its tastefully restored interior. Giant butterfly nets hung from oak beamed walls and each item of decoration and carefully placed furniture had an interesting history.

Toby was relaxed and quietly confident – a man who has made a career from his passions and takes life in his stride. A charming host and an entertaining raconteur with a soft BBC accent. His thick brown hair has a rogue lock that frequently has to be flicked out of his face. With a portly frame and gentle demeanour, Toby reminds me of a much-loved teddy bear. He seldom ventures into the heart of the village, preferring to spend his time meandering through the local forest where he collects butterflies and other insects from which he makes preserved collections – a pastime he has pursued in France since childhood.

One gets the impression that despite the personal challenges he has faced, Toby still views life as a “Boy’s Own Adventure”. During our conversations, it was clear that he has an upbeat outlook on life that enables him to make the mundane appear exotic. One gets an inkling of this from his business card on which the whole family appears along with the farcical name of his commercial enterprise. A side of this card reads as follows.

Toby Nightingale Sporting & Natural History Anthony Nightingale Poultry & Rural Pursuits Henrietta Nightingale Fencing, Theatre & English Literature	(Interpretation: A gentleman who enjoys the pursuit of his passions, regardless of the financial rewards. Life is to be enjoyed.)
	(Interpretation: Anthony has finished school and, at the age of 18, doesn’t know what to do with his life so he is currently breeding poultry while he “finds himself”.)
	(Interpretation: Henrietta is a drama student who has completed an Arts degree and fences as a hobby. Has yet to discover the importance of financial security.)

Now how could life ever be dull with a business card like that?

Bonjour France: French Lessons 2

French lessons at School continued..............

..................The following year my Form 1 French teacher, Fanny Bligh, is superseded by the young, dapper Mr Nicomidis. Immaculately dressed in navy waistcoated suits and pointed-toed European shoes, he cuts a striking figure amongst his tweed-coated peers. Despite his small stature, this newly arrived immigrant has presence and palpable enthusiasm.  At last, French spoken with a European accent, albeit Greek.  But Mr Nicomidis’s passion is soon thwarted and our learning stunted, due to his immaculately groomed hands. The nails on his little fingers are inexplicably long and filed into a neat, point. Strangely, these two fingers are at a permanent angle to their neighbours and used to point and poke the surrounding air.  The distraction of his hands becomes unbearable and Mr N starts to loose control of his charges. “You” he shouts pointing to an offender with a crooked little finger, “copeee the parrrrrge”. A page of text is thrust at a student. 
The class heart throb, George Konstansis, takes delight in devising new ways to raise Mr N’s blood pressure. Consequently George often finds himself locked in the classroom cupboard from which we hear muffled demands to be let out. Little progress is made in Form 2 French.

A new year and I move to a single sex school. Despite my protests and obvious lack of talent, I am to persist with French due to my Father, who speaks the language fluently.

Thus begins the dark days of Miss Ball, a small rotund woman with massive breasts, which obstruct her view, sensible lace up shoes and a very short haircut. The fun is over. Miss Ball is a linguist with an exclusive interest in those students who show flair in French or who are “pretty” -  qualities I don’t possess. I am quickly assigned to the marginalised group at the back of the classroom, where I am intermittently lashed by Miss Ball’s sharp tongue. My formal French education comes to an abrupt halt.

Decades later, the scarring caused by the ferocious Miss Ball still persists, heightening my nervousness as I organise our departure for France and contemplate speaking French with other adults who are actually French! 

EASTER GALLERY

"Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who come alive."                         Howard Thurman

"Easter spells out beauty and opens the doors of hope, trust and renewal."

"Forget love; I'd rather fall in chocolate." Anonymous

"There's nothing better than a good friend, except a good friend with chocolate."                                                 Linda Grayson

An Easter quote for politicans and fanatics of all religious persuasions.

"Easter says you can put truth in a grave, but it won't stay there."Clarence W. Hall