Going Naked

Last week, I was having a cup of coffee with a friend of mine. She was at the end of her tether. How come? I asked. Well, she has a French boyfriend, you see. Everything is going well but there is something bothering her: he likes to wander stark naked in their apartment. All the time. She is not very comfortable with this. And yesterday, he even went on the balcony -without his clothes on- to water the plants. When she confronted him, he simply didn't understand what the big deal was. To him, being naked in his own flat is completely natural. And the balcony is part of the flat. Of course it is.

I listened politely and didn't laugh. She was very worried. This is not good behaviour, you see. Memories started coming back to me. My neighbour, in Saint Tropez, spends the whole summer without any clothes on and we got so used to it that we were having whole conversations with her (we were fully dressed, for the record). I have to admit that I don't notice her any more. My grandfather, who still has sharp eyes despite nearing 90, pointed out that she has new breast implants, and he doesn't like them. Something is wrong with the shape, apparently.

I hate to generalise but, in France, being naked is less big of a deal. Young kids routinely go naked on the beach and nobody bats an eyelid. In short, I tried to reassure my friend and explain to her that it didn't really matter. She was a bit more upbeat in the end. She was convinced that this was nothing more than a cultural difference. A job well done, I thought. I was very proud of myself. Silly old me.

I went to their flat yesterday to bring back a forgotten scarf. I knocked at the door, and was greeted by the said boyfriend. Stark naked of course. I kid you not. Well, I have to admit that I almost had a heart attack. I dropped the scarf on the floor and couldn't get myself to get it back because that would have made my face even closer to you-know-what. I made my excuses and left as far as I could. I can't believe that I was so patronising with my American friend. He does indeed take it to a whole new level. This whole nudity thing is a bit too much, even for me. I couldn't make small talks as if he wasn't naked. I just couldn't. It was beyond me, don't ask me why. Maybe I am getting older.

Or maybe I am more British than I thought. It simply was too much for me. It reminded me of a neighbour who used to put the rubbish out for collection in his underpants (see here). Not nice. I wasn't expecting to see this. Don't get me wrong, he is very good-looking and everything, but I can't handle it. Note to myself: don't defend French men any more. Ever.

May Break Time

Not much will happen in May. This is because nobody works in May in France. I have never really understood why, but the same thing keeps occurring every year. It has something to do with the fact that the 1^st of May is a Bank Holiday, then the 8^th of May, then the Ascension and finally Pentecost. In short, May is a very good time to take a few days of holidays, and they will be nicely complemented with the lovely official bank holidays. In France and nowhere else, obviously.

I have a lot to do for my business but nothing is happening. I have tried to call. I have sent various emails. I was even starting to wonder whether my email box was working –It was, I have sent myself a test email and all was fine of course. Nobody is answering. Radio silence. France is desert. I was asking some companies for various quotes and haven’t received any answers yet. It has been three weeks. Maybe I have to beg them to work for me? I am starting to wonder.

Things are slightly different in London, and people are eager to work over here, which is great. I get quotes as soon as I ask for them. I really hope that things will start to pick up soon, because this situation is starting to get on my nerves.

It feels like it is break time, except that I didn’t ask for it. On the positive side, I am putting all my things in order and came to realise that my electricity provider was invoicing me for another house, down my street... Guys: check the supply address of your bill; you might be surprised (as I certainly was). I called and, in pure British style, explained that I was very confused with the fact that the supply address wasn’t my home address. On the bright side, I am not paying anything until the mistake is corrected. On less bright a side, I now have to send all kinds of documents to sort everything out and for some reason they can’t change my details until end of June.  Bureaucracy is the same everywhere, right?

 I can’t wait for May to be over. I need some action here!

French Invasion

Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC-BY-SA 3.0

There is something going on in London. You just have to walk through the streets of Hammersmith, Kensington or Chelsea to notice it: the French are everywhere. Despite the fact that the French government seems to be denying it, the French are coming to London ‘en masse’. This is an invasion. Just go to South Kensington tube station if you don’t believe me.

I am not too happy about this. The sad truth is, I used to feel thinner over here. Well, not any more. Lots of Femmes Fatales are walking along the streets and I feel like I have put on some weight, which is not nice. Nowhere is safe: London is becoming like Paris, full of lovely brunettes with long legs and stylish skirts. What’s next? The menus in the restaurants are all in French, they mention ‘amuse-bouche’ , ‘brioche’ and ‘a la carte’ dishes. Crepes are trendier than pancakes. Most of the waiting staff in Kensington is French, and most waitresses look like off-duty models. I am starting to feel overshadowed by the beauty of the lovely creature bringing my food. And, of course, we are all sipping cafes as opposed to coffees. London is rapidly becoming a French city.

Apparently, new French schools will open shortly, because the French lycee is over-subscribed. Such schools will follow the French curriculum. Being French-educated in London is very posh, despite the fact that you barely learn to speak English!  It is supposed to give your CV some cachet. I can’t believe it.

In London you can easily find French brands –at a premium, of course. And if you are not a French brand, it looks like having a French name does the magic too. I never really understood why, but a French word is likely to increase your profits. Look no further than Agent provocateur: it is a British brand selling lingerie at a premium. Simple but effective.

What I love most is when French tourists are asking me for directions. I tend to reply in French to save them the embarrassment of speaking English. They thentell me that ‘My French is Excellent’. How funny.

The French seriously considered invading London during the 18^th century.  Their various attempts were all unsuccessful. No need to send an army to invade Britain: just raise the taxes and all French will flock to London. And it is happening now.

C’est la vie.

Being A Mother: Here And There

Well, for once, I think that I miss France. Am I allowed to say that being a mother is so much easier over there? In London, being a mum can be, well, challenging. Nothing is designed to help you.

Let's start with the delivery of your baby. In France, you will be able to recover in hospital for a few days and, if you want, your baby will be taken care of during the night. Well, in London you will be kicked out after a day. Then, you are on your own. If you are lucky, a health visitor will come to visit you every other day, but most of the time they are too busy to bother anyway.

In France, you will be offered free physiotherapy sessions to get your flat tummy back. In London, well, you have no help to get back in shape. It is entirely up to you, but as you will have a lot on your plate, it is likely to be very low on your priority list.

I am starting to believe that there is a conspiracy against mums over here. For starters, the cost of childcare is prohibitive (twice as much as in my home country, as a rule of thumb).  The worst is, as far as I am concerned, the opening hours of the schools and nurseries. It is simply a joke. Basically, nurseries usually open at 9.15/9.30 and, before you child is 4, they will only keep him or her during the morning, or until 11.30 am. Yay! You have been kindly given two whole hours of freedom. It is hardly going to help you get back to work, isn't it?

In France, you can start school at 2 or 2 and a half and they will keep your child from 8.15/8.30 to...4.30 pm! And the best part is that it is completely free. I can assure you that my daughter was not traumatised at all with such long days. She was running to school every morning and I had to follow, half asleep.

That said, every cloud has its silver lining, right? In France, everything is taken care of, everything has been designed to help you, and there is, in general, little need for additional support. As it is clearly not the case over here, mums have to build a network of support. All mums know and help each other, and I can always count on another mum to pick up my daughter if I am stuck somewhere. We all cover for each other. We even lost weight together after the birth of my younger daughter. Simply put, we are on the same boat and I have found a solidarity that I didn't have in France, which is nice.

Wherever you live, there is a group of mums ready to help with local information and to provide some support. In my new neighbourhood, I found Kensington Mums, a site run by Dina. And the dynamic Dina is organising a Kensington Mums Motherhood exhibition on the 7th of June. If you are around, you are welcome to join. I decided to participate and it was good fun (you will see on the day...). I can't help thinking that such an initiative wouldn't have happened in France.

Don't get me wrong, I still wish that London schools had a sibling policy, the same holidays and longer opening hours. But at least, in London, I have friends and shoulders to cry on when it all gets too much!

Wife Or Mistress: Take Your Pick

Valerie Trierweiler: Wife Or Mistress?

It is all over the news in France but for some reason nobody has reported it over here. A MP has asked how much Valerie Trierweiler, the current girlfriend of French president Francois Hollande, was costing the French taxpayer. The response was very diligently published on an official website (see here) : if the figures are to be believed, Valerie Trierweiler is costing a bit less that 20 000 € per month whereas the former First Lady Carla Bruni (who for some reason is not explicitly named) was costing more than 60 000€ per month. Right. So, what do we make of this?

Well, not much really. There is a big debate in France about whether Valerie Trierweiler is really a First Lady, because she is not married to the president. They haven't even filed a joint tax return, which, according to some, only makes her the 'official mistress' ('la favorite'). Right then, maybe a mistress is cheaper than a wife. As a pragmatic friend of mine pointed out, the problem with mistresses is that you can have more than one. It reminded me of an earlier decision of Francois Hollande: he cut the ministers salaries by 30% but increased the number of ministers from 20 to 34, and I have never understood whether there was a saving for the taxpayer in the end. Figures are never to be believed because, in France, the definition of an independent audit remains unclear, and costs are presented in a misleading way (e.g.: unit cost and not total costs if we take the example of the number of ministers).

So, what can we make of the comparative costs of the First Ladies/Mistresses/girlfriends?

I am not so sure. France has a long tradition of having a king initially, then a President with a roving eye. Francois Mitterrand even had the taxpayer foot the bill of a second family on the side. There is nothing new here. I think that, if a meaningful comparison must be made, then some ground rules must be established. I have come up with an initial set. Feel free to add to the list. The costs will include:

- the wife and all actual mistresses and girlfriends, their accommodation and other advantages (bodyguards, jobs offered to them, etc...)

- the cost of getting rid of all the exes (or keeping them at arm's length, if you want)

- the surveillance of potential new girlfriends (sometimes Presidents use their prerogatives to listen to their phone conversations and try to get to know them before making a move...)

- the costs of all the lovely meals in even lovelier restaurants to seduce new targets

- the cost of redecorating new official residences once a relationship is finished and a new conquest wants to erase all traces of the old one.

Did I forget anything?

What I am just trying to say is that we must be careful what we wish for here. Too much information might sometimes hide the real points at issue here (i.e. France is going back into recession). Don't get me wrong, as a taxpayer, I find the cost of any First Lady/girlfriend/mistress too high. I don't understand what we get in return and I am sure that there is more to the costs than what is shown anyway (knowing my home country, it is only the tip of the iceberg). But please, can French politicians just get back to work on the real issues ? As for wife or mistresses, well, I don't care as long, as I don't finance such a lifestyle. Come on guys, back to work now. Please.

Urban Choreography

Members of the Mariinsky Ballet perform in Swan Lake. Photo: Courtesy Mariinsky Ballet and Orchestra

In a big city like London, there are unwritten rules to walk, get off the Tube, hail a cab or even catch a bus. You need to realise that living here is a well-oiled choreography. If you don't know the dance, you will feel strangely out of place, with people looking at you in a funny way or sighing noticeably when you walk past them. This is the sign of an urban faux-pas aka a missed dance step. You haven't done things properly. To make matters even worse, the urban choreography is different in Paris. No wonder it took me so long to get it right.

For instance, in Paris if you want to catch a bus you need to lift your whole arm above your shoulder and waive vigorously. If you do this in London, people will think that you are, well, slightly weird, and possibly completely mad. This is because over here you need to keep your arm close to your hip and lift it a bit. That's all. That's also why I always had a seat on the bus initially : people probably thought that I was a bit deranged. Well, I have learned my lesson and I am now doing things the right way (at least that's what I think), and usually I have no seat any more, which tends to prove than I don't stand out.

Likewise, let's say that you are on a packed metro in Paris and need to get off at the next station. The proper etiquette is to push everybody who dares to stand in your way and mutter 'Pardon' ('I'm sorry'). Everybody will understand and if you don't do it in this very order (i.e. push, shove and then vaguely apologise) you simply might miss your station. Now you are warned.

Things are slightly different in London. You need to close your bag, stand up if you are seated or simply do something that indicates that you want to get off and people will usually magically let you get off, some will even go on the platform to let you out. Failing this, just say a very clear 'excuse me' and the person in front of you will usually answer that he or she is getting off at the next station too. Unbelievable.

The list of choreographic differences is simply endless, and it is far too easy to get it wrong. Because of such choreographic differences, I witnessed a funny situation no later than this morning. Two cars were coming in opposite directions and wanted to turn on their respective righthand sides. Over here, you pass the other car on the outside. But in France, for a similar manoeuvre, you need to pass the other car on the inside (this means that you almost have to turn around the other car). One driver wanted to do it it the British way, and the other the French way. They started tooting their horn, because each of them was convinced that he/she was right. I wonder whether they managed to turn in the end. I need to see whether they are still there. If an accident had happened, do you think that you could argue that the cause was a cultural difference? I wonder what the insurance company would say.

In short, even after the best part of the decade, I feel that I am still learning. It is a never-ending process.

French Banker's Blues

Monday mornings are always that little bit more difficult... So here I am, having a lovely cappuccino in the independent coffee shop around the corner of my house.

I love this time of the day. For me, it is an opportunity to organise the week and to try not to panic about the long list of tasks ahead of me. Two guys then enter the coffee shop. They are French, reasonably good-looking and fashionably unshaven. Typical metrosexual, with Armani jeans and Hollister T-shirts. They believe that nobody can understand them. Of course they do. Typical behaviour, isn't it? They sit down and start a passionate conversation about their respective trading positions while sipping their skinny lattes. Things are not well. The French bankers have the blues.

Taxes are too high, you see. It is not worth staying in London any more. One is considering going back to France, the other feels trapped because his children are going to British schools, but might consider a move to Singapore. And the school fees are soooo high and have even been raised. Can you believe it? His wife is having her annual health check-up, paid for by the lovely private health insurance. She then has a spa appointment and will pick up the kids later today. One of them is going to the Philippines for their holidays (where do they find the time and the money?). Life is really difficult.

The trading floor has been reorganised and half of the team has been made redundant. It seems to me that even less traders are needed given that they have been shouting behind my back for the best part of an hour, and it is mid-morning only. When do these guys work? How do they make their money? Their concerns range from the French exit tax to their latest equity investments. The problem is that their company won't pay them their generous housing allowance after a few years and they have been asked to go local. How rude! You see, it is not worth it, and they can't finance their lifestyle on a local salary. Maybe they would like to be expats for life.

Finally, they stood up and left. They were still complaining. I couldn’t believe it. Come on, how can you complain when you obviously have so much? This got me thinking: my target for this week is to be grateful for what I have.  Time to stop complaining! I might be French too but I will make a point of NOT complaining. 

AH7ZJG9UAPW7

Are The French Dirty?

Despite my British passport, everybody thinks that I am French. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don’t. People assume lots of things about me. Such things may come from what they have read or been told. Who knows? I don’t try to understand it any more. In particular, one of the usual prejudgments is that, as I am French, I don't shower a lot and don’t clean my house very well.

As a result, I have had mums coming to my house to ‘inspect’ it before they would allow their kids to have a first play date with my children –you never know, they might catch something (it is called a French bug, very contagious indeed –be careful ladies). One mum in particular even opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink and looked in amazement at my cleaning products. With kids, I try to disinfect as often as possible, and she was so impressed that she didn’t hear me come back from upstairs. She was still crouching when she asked me whether I was really French. What a bloody cheek!

Yes, my house is clean and I like to do a bit of spring cleaning in March/April. Honestly. That said, such misconceptions make me want to pick my nose, eat my bogies in public and forget what a vacuum cleaner is.  The sneaky mum then went on explaining that she had just come back from a week-end in Paris and couldn’t believe how dirty it was, with rubbish and dog poo everywhere. That’s why she was so intrigued by my lovely cleaning products.

I didn’t know what to say. I shut up. You can’t fight this, can you? And there is no point anyway. I can’t win. You have to choose your battles, right?

As I was angry, I went to the gym for a workout, and bumped into another mum at the sport centre. She was sitting at the café next door when I got out, after my shower. She said ‘You took a long shower, didn’t you?’. I didn’t know that my shower had to be timed but there you go, it looks like I am under close surveillance. I must be careful. I couldn’t help it, I had to answer back. I then said:

“ Did I really? That’s funny, because I don’t really mind body odours. I think that they are very sexy. Don’t you?”

She was stunned. I walked by.

I shouldn’t have said that.

Love Is In The Air

London is nice and sunny.  After a few miserable weeks, spring has finally arrived here. That said, something else has arrived in London too.  When I look around, love is simply everywhere. It started when I was taking a stroll in the in the park and saw a superb peacock wheel. My daughter asked me what this was all about. I explained that the peacock was trying to impress a peahen. The said peahen didn’t seem too impressed, but I am sure that everything will be all right in the end. The peacock was trying very hard indeed.

It continued at the airport, where I was picking up my older daughter. The guy standing next to me was waiting for someone with a bunch of red roses. How romantic! What is going on?

Everywhere I go, there is a couple kissing or looking at each other as if the world around them didn’t exist anymore. This can be quite annoying, because you can easily be blocked by such a couple passionately kissing in the middle of the pathway. Maybe I am just a bit jealous. Or simply older. Becoming more cynical is probably part of the aging process, right?

When I was walking on High Street Kensington, a young man started kneeling in the middle of the street and took his fiancée’s hand. I couldn’t believe it. I would be so embarrassed if I were the fiancée. I don’t know what she said, I just walked faster to continue to run my errands.

Who said that the British were less demonstrative?  Is it me, or are British men quite romantic? I don’t remember seeing things like these in France. Don’t get me wrong French men seem to look at women in a very sexually explicit way (see here for my last experience of Paris), but I don’t remember seeing romantic demonstrations there. Maybe I forgot.

Spring is definitively here, and there is nothing like a ray of sunshine in London to cheer you up!

Is Less Really More?

Roquefort or Stilton?

You all know the old saying 'less is more'. Basically, it means 'don't overdo it'. As in, for instance, don't put on a gorgeous necklace and fantastic earrings, because it will be too much and could even clash. I used to completely agree with such an attitude. Well, now, I am not so sure. What has changed exactly? Well, lots of things.

For starters, the latest craze in London is the crop top. Basically, just like hot pants, the shorter, the better. Take a normal T-Shirt, cut it just under the breast and there you go, you have a crop top. Crop tops are everywhere, and Crop ! Crop! Crop! seems to be the new motto in London. This made me wonder: why does everything need to be in a lighter, shorter version?

I ordered a salad in a restaurant tonight. It was a bit disappointing because all I had was 4 leaves of endive topped by a spoonful of crab meat. Surely it was, once again, a minimalist version of a normal dish. I ended up ordering a big British cheese board to compensate, and immediately felt better.

Sometimes, you just need more and less is not more. Honestly, don't you think that this minimalist fashion is, well, a bit boring? Where is the fun in this? Come on, it is perfectly ok to have a maxi dress, is it not? And to have a starter AND a dessert? And if I want to have three necklaces and earrings on top of it, so be it! After all, who cares?

In a professional environment, I was repeatedly told that I should not make my points too strongly, because, you see, you need to suggest and, in a British environment, less is more too. What a load of rubbish! At the end of the day the notes I was reading were so bland that I didn't know what to think after reading them. Not helpful at all...

This minimalist mindset is starting to get on my nerves. Come on, why can't we have full-length T-shirts ? Or large portions of food when we are hungry? And if I feel strongly about something, why can't I tell it as it is?

How do you deal with it? Did you succumb to this minimalist mindset? I sometimes wonder where it will lead us: minuscule T-shirts and non-existent opinions?

The Fashion Schism: Hot Pants

Everyday, I am reminded that my daughters are more British than French. Today is no exception. We have to prepare for a dinner and I want the girls to be dressed a little bit more formally. Me being me, I am intending to wear my black dress. You can't go wrong with a little black dress, can you? I personally like mine, because it is classic, timeless, flatters the figure, and the length is perfect. Here is a picture taken a few months back. Well, for my elder daughter, it was a no brainer: she said that she was going to wear her formal hot pants. I was stunned.

Naively, I thought that hot pants could only be something informal but no, I was wrong, there are hot pants for all sorts of occasions. In British fashion, that is. I have never seen a French woman wear hot pants in a formal setting. You can wear them on the beach during a sunny day but that's as far as a you would go. And given the fact that I do not have the legs of a young girl, I am not sure that I would risk it. Would you? This is a great fashion schism: hot pants are BIG this side of the channel, but not in France.

So here she is, wearing her formal hot pants. 

In pure French style, I would prefer a black dress but I have no saying in the matter. Come on, she looks better in her dress doesn't she? 

To tell you the whole truth, she didn't want to try my black dress on, because 'Come on, it would be a maxi dress on me!' Wearing teeny-tiny hot pants is OK, but a normal dress, please no! And she prefers her hot pants anyway. Maybe it is some sort of teenage rebellion, maybe it is a British fashion statement. I will never know.

I had to face my fears. I decided to try her hot pants on. You see, I am no Kate Moss, and I am 40 now, but this is something that I had to try at least once. Well, it is done, and here is the result. It is nothing short of a miracle that I managed to fit into her hot pants.

Well, that's a tick in the box. That said, as I am French, I will stick to my black dress. And she will stick to her hot pants. She is British, you see.

How To Be A French Politician

Let's start with the fact that I am upset. To me, French politicians in general and the actual government in particular have lost any credibility whatsoever. The last straw was a few days ago when the Budget minister, who was in charge of tackling tax evasion, admitted to having a hidden account in Switzerland with €600 000 on it. In itself, this is not illegal. What is illegal is the fact that he didn't declare it and repeatedly said that the allegations of tax evasion against him were false, even threatening to sue anyone who would report them. He lied to his colleagues, to the Parliament, and tried to intimidate anyone who would dare to mention the matter until, eventually, he had no choice but to admit the truth. The whole saga lasted a few months.

The French media were surprisingly polite and considerate in reporting this. You may remember that a newspaper insulted businessman Bernard Arnault (f... Off, rich c****) just for wanting to become Belgian and our Prime Minister said that the actor Gerard Depardieu  was 'pathetic' because he wanted to move to Russia. Well, I couldn't find any insults in the newspapers this time around and the word 'pathetic' wasn't used at all. A clear case of double standard. Journalists and politicians have always had a cosy relationship in France. Very cosy indeed.

But fear not: in order for my readers to understand what this is all about, I have decided to compile a list of the skills that you need to have if you want to make it as a politician in France. This list will be useful next time you hear another big fat lie or another lecture citing French philosophers coming from one of our beloved leaders.

1.    Being a sex pervert is seen as a quality (DSK);

2.    Having lots of affairs is a sign of good health (F. Hollande, J Chirac, F Mitterrand....the list is too long and I would need several posts to be exhaustive);

3.    You don't need to apply the principles that you preach. Principles are completely disconnected from the reality and laws don't apply to you anyway (see Jerome Cahuzac). Of course they don't;

4.    It is all about scoring points and not doing things. Debating is much more important than solving problems. After all, you need to be popular, not solve issues, right?

5.    If something goes wrong, just create a new law/decree/rule (it is a shame that there is no law against hypocrisy and incompetence). See, you have done something! No wonder we end up with so many laws and rules;

6.    It helps to be married to a journalist (a lot), or to have one as a lover;

7.    It also helps to have a degree of Ecole Nationale d'Administration (for some reason, most French politicians have the same academic background. Exactly the same. And it is not about what you learn, it is about your grades. Go figure);

8.    No need to speak English or any other language. Who needs anything else when you speak French?

9.    No need to have any work experience. Having worked in the private sector is actually frowned upon;

10. You can change side. Clearly, it doesn't matter as long as you remain in power. Francois Mitterand used to support Petain before becoming a resistant of the eleventh hour at the end of WW2. He then became a socialist.

In short, I am gutted. Is it the same everywhere? Older generations have fought hard for a democracy and this is what we get! I can't believe it. I am so angry that I am considering getting rid of my French citizenship. I probably need to calm down. What would you do?

Vintage? Really?

Would you pay a fortune to buy something that was already worn? Apparently, some do. I haven't really seen it in France, but vintage is big business over here.

Come to think of it, in  France, some well-kept mistresses sell the gifts of their sugar daddies in well-known shops to finance their lifestyle. But that's as far as it goes and, frankly, I find the whole business model a bit sad. I have never seen this passion for old designer clothes in Paris. Except maybe in fleet markets, when you look for a retro dress. Maybe I just missed the vintage revolution.

Anyway, my question today is: when does a piece of clothing become vintage? If I don't like a top, can I say that it is vintage and sell it at a premium? After my spring cleaning, I started to have a lot of 'vintage'  to sell. I used to give old stuff to what I thought was a charity, only to find out that the guy was keeping (most of) it for himself. I felt cheated. Not nice. So instead, I am trying to find ways to make a little bit of cash with my so-called 'vintage' -or rather, old clothes that I will never wear again. What can I say, I am becoming stingy. Every little helps, as they say.

Well, it turns out that my 'vintage' clothes don't interest a lot of people. Recycling clothes doesn't interest a lot of  companies, but you might want to try the usual suspects (eBay, GumTree) and a few others that I didn't know existed (MusicMagpie, Clothesforcash)

I didn't make much (a bit less than £50) but hey, you have to start somewhere, right? And I am very grateful for the extra space in my wardrobe!

While I was busy deciding what to take and what to toss, I found a treasure : an old Daniel Hechter skirt with the matching jacket. I had completely forgotten about them and I am not selling it for anything. Have a look at the picture. It is adorable, isn't it? I am not sure that I would fit in it any more but who cares, I still love it!

Maybe that's what vintage is about. It is the stuff that you would never, ever sell!

On this note, I will keep on tidying up!

When A French Lingerie Company Gives Advice To British Women

Honestly, how condescending can you be? A French lingerie company has given tips to British women on how to be seductive. If you don’t believe me, well, you can have a look here. As you know, I have dual citizenship now (French and British). And, for some reason, I find the advice quite irritating. It ranges from the obvious ‘Be a lady’, to the plain ridiculous ‘Be feline’. Give me a break.

Why am I so angry with this? It is true that, whether we like it or not, this is the country of Bridget Jones’ granny pants and anyone walking through the local Marks & Spencer will find British knickers a bit dull, but very cheap given the quantity of fabric used.

I think that I am upset because this article implies that French women are sexier than their British counterparts. Is this true?

Once again, the perception that French women are sexy is deeply entrenched in the British mind. I never understood why, I suppose that’s just the way it is. It is probably better for French women (yes, that would be me too) to exploit the stereotypes rather than fight them. So yes, apparently we have a certain ‘je-ne-sais-quoi’ and an apparent fragility that looks sexy. I had no idea that I had it but it comes with the passport, you see. But does it give the right to a lingerie company to lecture us on how to be sexier? No, absolutely not. And I hate to be patronised anyway.

And am I allowed to say that I don’t like their lingerie collection? Those photo shoots are just plain silly. As for the advice, well, excuse my French, but I find it plain rubbish!

Top 10 Tips To be Taken Seriously In your Job In London

Today, I would like to take you over to a post I have written on another site. It is a contest, and it would be great if you could like it on FB, share in on FB, Twitter or LinkedIn, or leave a comment. Every interaction counts, so don't be shy and click here! On this note, I wish you all a great Easter week-end.
Merci d'avance!


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Darling Pillow

Am I the only one to be exhausted? It simply never stops. Don't believe the non-sense that things are easier for French mums. There is always a birthday party to go to, a play date to organise, an appointment to the doctor to remember, not to mention  keeping the household going with food and laundry. Just like every other mum, really. I wish I could have an uninterrupted night of sleep to recover but for whatever reason it never happens. There is always a kid coughing, or having a tummy bug, or screaming in the middle of the night because of a nightmare. And if I manage to grab a few hours of sleep, my little one wakes me up at 6am anyway because, you see, she is hungry. I wish I could give her some money for her to buy some breakfast outside but I can't.

How do mums manage? How do you deal with sleep deprivation ? They say it gets better over time but that's not true, is it? I fully understood the meaning of 'being tired' once I became a mum. There are nuances and depths in the word 'tired' that I didn't even know existed. The relationship I am craving right now is the one with my pillow. Pillows are nice and warm. They don't snore. They don't wake you up. I love my pillow and I don't like anyone else. Don't count on me, I am not here for anyone, understood?

Drastic action was required. I can be creative. As I seem to be spending a lot of time in my car waiting for a child, a meeting, a call or something else, I decided to take my pillow with me to grab a few minutes of sleep on my back seat wherever possible. On the parking lot. At the school gate. Anywhere, really.  It worked at first. The main thing is not to forget the alarm, obviously, otherwise I would sleep for a long, long time.

So here I am, having a little snooze at the school gates when the parking attendant knocks at the car door to wake me up. What now? Is there a law against sleeping mums? Apparently there is, because my parking meter ticket fell off the windscreen. There is a conspiration against mums. I simply cannot win. It must be written somewhere that I can't have a rest.

I stuck the ticket back, and smiled to avoid a fine. It worked (despite the huge bags under my eyes) and I thought that I could get back to sleep, only to be woken up by a policeman who enquired whether I was alright. Please, let me sleep. I am sure that he meant well. I am fine, thank you very much. Why doesn't anyone accept that I need to sleep?

As for my relationship with my pillow, it is going from strength to strength. I am thinking of going exclusive. Just me and my pillow. How about you? How do you do it?

ONCE

Grafton Street, Dublin

From time to time, miracles do happen. For me, it happened yesterday. I was offered two free tickets to see ONCE, the musical, by Superbreak theatre breaks. As it feels like I have been hibernating  for a really long a time, I jumped at the opportunity and found a lovely girlfriend to hit the town.

We weren't disappointed. First of all, the organisation of the evening was flawless, with someone waiting for me at the entrance of the Phoenix theatre whereas others were queuing in the cold to get their tickets. On top of this, the musical was, well, one of a kind. It is all in the title, really: ONCE. It is hard to explain, I am so used to big Hollywood blockbusters that I had probably lost the ability to be genuinely surprised.

ONCE is very simple, very understated and the scene is even a bar open to all spectators before the performance starts.  You really feel like you are in the middle of Dublin, listening to a talented but discouraged Irish busker. You feel for him. You barely understand what he says because of his accent. Then, he meets this Czech girl. She is a musician too. She oozes energy and can appreciate his talent. Apart from their love of music, they couldn't be any more different. She turns him around.

Me being me, I thought: well, that's what this show is about: a meet-cute. In pure rom com style, they are going to make fantastic music together, fall in love despite their cultural differences and live happily ever after. Sprinkle a bit of American dream on top of it and there you go: here is the new musical in town.

Well, I was wrong. I mean, partially wrong. The musical performances are fantastic, I certainly had this one right. Of course, it is a love story. Or rather, it is a story of unrequited love: between a man and a woman, and also between struggling human beings and music. It is a story about the choices we have to make and how sometimes the best route is not the easiest one. I am still haunted by a question : will they be happy with their respective choices? I kid you not: I am still thinking about it. ONCE simply feels real. And I keep thinking about this unfinished love story.

ONCE raises universal questions. We all have our luggage, but when is it time to drop it and start afresh ? ONCE is about what following your dreams entails, without any pomposity or self-pity. It is also about the help that we sometimes need to get to the next stage.

I am ashamed to say that I didn't know that ONCE was a movie before becoming a musical. Apparently, it had its fair share of success in 2007. I feel like watching it now. Where the hell have I been all these years?

On this note, I leave you with "Falling Slowly". Relax and enjoy!

Over Sharing

Sorry Guys, I might be French but I am not a therapist

We have all had to deal with over sharers. Some love to share all the graphic details of their latest stomach bug. This is actually quite helpful if it is done over lunch, as you are sure not to be hungry for a while.

Others will give you all the details of their latest surgical operation. You will have a full explanation of their treatment, how the procedure went, how long it took them to recover, their state of mind, who visited at the hospital, and so on, and so forth. The thing is, I wouldn't share such details with my close family, and I really don't know what they are trying to achieve by sharing everything with everyone. I have even seen acquaintances sending long weekly emails detailing what had happened to them, with gruesome details. Lovely. Sometimes being kept in the loop is not that great.

That said, being French seems to induce a different type of over sharing. For some reason, people love to share their sex and relationship issues with me. It is quite funny really. I remember having a morning coffee with colleagues and one of them, out of the blue, told me that she was having an affair with a married man. She was asking for my advice. I didn't know what to say. I muttered that, as long as it wasn't with my husband, well, I didn't care. I brushed it off. Frankly, I didn't want to talk about it. She praised my non-judgemental attitude and I felt like running a mile away.

A few weeks later, a male colleague of mine, who just had had a baby, complained that he didn't have any time to read with his wife in the evening, let alone do anything else. I almost choked on my chocolate croissant, muttered 'give it some time'. I made my excuses and left. What is going on?

Why do people feel the urge to share such things with me? I wouldn't tell them to my best friend. But the worst was yet to come. I bumped into a younger colleague of mine in a beauty salon. She explained to me in a very loud voice that she was going to have a Brazilian wax because her boyfriend liked it. Too much information. I politely nodded. Encouraged, she asked me what type of wax I was going to have. I panicked for a second and explained, in a low voice, that I liked the way the lady was doing the eyebrows shaping. It seemed to curb her enthusiasm.  I felt very embarrassed.

So here it is: I am not a relationship expert and I don't want to be one. I am, in fact, quite shy. I like being discreet. Please, don’t tell me everything!