Of course, I was not pleased that yet another flight from Toulouse has been cancelled. Of the five demonstrations against Nicolas Sarkozy's pension reforms, due to be put to the vote in the Senate on Wednesday, two have resulted in me having to make alternative arrangements. The call to 'bloquons l'economie' is beginning to have major consequences, with Paris's two airports, Charles de Gaulle and Orly, destined to be devoid of fuel by Tuesday and many petrol stations closed. Two friends told me that their flight home with Easyjet operated at a cruising height below the level requiring supervision by ATC. Desperate times require desperate measures, especially when the trains, too, are stopped in their tracks.
Saturday's demonstration in Toulouse was, by all accounts, a jolly and good natured affair. Indeed, in all the major cities where upwards of a million people appear to be on the march [not as many, it has to be said, as the three million reported at previous demonstrations], this particular 'rapport de force' [over the raising of the retirement age from 60 to 62, still the lowest in Europe, seems still to be light hearted. Whilst in one major poll it transpired that 65% of French people accept the demographics and the inevitability of some rise in retirement age, in another, by Ifop, it appears that a staggering 84% of 18-24 year olds are in favour of the protests. The placard saying "Strike until you retire" is not a joke at the protesters' expense, although it certainly brings a wry smile to my face.
As a stroppy student planning to read History and Politics, I was an enthusiastic supporter of the 'soixante-huitards'. We all believed we could change the world. Now nearing sixty myself, I can see the appeal of taking to the streets again, especially against a government as unpopular as that of Nicolas Sarkozy. To cast off walking sticks and zimmer frames and give one's new hip and knee joints a serious outing in pursuit of one's own self interest is temptation indeed. To walk off into the sunset of one's life, probably with more than a quarter of it left to tend one's roses and coo at one's grandchildren, with a comfortable pay-off from the state from 60 onwards, is a right that cannot be surrendered. Bugger who pays for it, though. No wonder the Germans, who already have a retirement age of 67, have shown little sympathy to either the Greeks or the French.
What I have difficulty comprehending remains the enthusiasm of the very people who will have to pay for it all, especially as France's pension deficit currently stands at 32 billion euros. Would UK students walk alongside us, I wonder, as our pensions are eroded? Both mine and my husband's dates for drawing our pensions have already been revised upwards, from 60-62 and 65-66 respectively [especially, rightly, over mine as we move forwards towards pensions equality], with not a pipsqueak from the National Union of Students. I think not. In contrast, to quote Ifop political analyst, Frederc Dabi, in France "since 1968 politicians have taken to watching the mobilisation of youngsters like one watches boiling milk."
As I have written about before, the French state, I am convinced, has a horror of it's streets, a legacy of those dark days of tumbrils and torment that have so shaped its modern democracy. It is particularly terrified, courtesy of the 68-ers, of its students and schoolchildren. For in 1968, Charles de Gaulle was almost toppled by them and forced to question the loyalty of his troops garrisoned in Baden Baden in the process. In 1986, and again in 2005, 'la jeunesse dans la rue', blockaded behind their barricades, so terrified the government once again, the power of the street prevailed and an anxious government kow-towed in the face of their fire bombs and vociferous resistance. Will we witness yet another climbdown this time?
Sarkozy talks tough but has alienated so many people, it's hard to make a judgement. The Left in France remains weakened by its electoral defeat and has failed to produce a coherent narrative. There is a sense of something important taking shape on the streets of France but no one appears quite able to define it. One of the wittier slogans sported in Paris, and there were many, said, 'Carla, we're like you. We've been screwed by Sarko too.' I am constantly amazed with the vitriol that so many French friends, who certainly never were Socialists, display towards the man that they voted for. I am inclined to think that they got the government they deserved. I am minded of my 1979 badge which said, 'Don't blame me, I voted Labour!'
There is a sense of betrayal, that somehow Sarkozy should have looked after their interests but has failed them. The revelations that his presidential campaign was boosted by illegal donations from L'Oreal heir, Lillian Bettencourt, who has also been accused of tax evasion, has left a nasty taste in their mouths. His failure to make any headway in reforming crippling employment taxes and archaic working practices has disillusioned many of his middle class supporters. One revelation over the last weeks has been that staff working for EDF and GDF have an average retirement age of 55.4 years, whilst those working for SNCF retire at 52.5 years. Those with battered private pensions can only but look on, goggle eyed, with envy.
Additionally, it has to be said, the awful spectacle of France expelling its Roma migrants in such a callous and contemptible sop to the Far Right, has denigrated France's status as a civilised nation at the heart of Europe. I have yet to hear a French friend utter anything but words of outrage at Sarkozy's appalling action in their name. Sarkozy, in his ego mania, has alienated both the Left and the Right and he has no place to go. With the next presidential election due in 2012, he will be forced to listen to his critics from all sides. Perception is everything in politics, and nowhere more so than in France.
The sense of unfairness is palpable and, with yet another demonstration planned for tomorrow, the mood may not remain as jovial as it has been up until now. It is possible that the deaths in Athens may have provided a cautionary lesson. We have not seen any barricades burning yet, and maybe we won't. But, then again, once 'la jeunesse dans la rue' decide to exercise their power, who knows where it will all lead? Sarkozy cannot afford to fail but to what lengths will he go to try to succeed? He is no Mrs Thatcher, despite his early pronouncements on economic reform, and I suspect that he knows it. As the stakes get higher each day, and with the whole of Europe watching, he knows that where France leads, others may follow.
I sense a seed change throughout Europe that hasn't been fully articulated yet. People everywhere feel that the price they have to pay for the reckless actions of others is too high. They didn't ask for this. They certainly didn't ask to have their pensions and benefits savagely cut back, nor that their children and grandchildren would be saddled with crippling debts. It has been dumped on them from a great height by the very people who are benefitting from the crisis. The bonuses due to be paid out by the banks to high performing employees have been made on the back of government lending and fiscal stimulus. It is grossly unfair. We all think so. Perhaps I will get my trainers and jogging pants on and join them after all!
Monday 18 October 2010
Friday 8 October 2010
The Things That They Loved
I have only just got round to reading the entries in our visitor's book, and I am so thrilled by Lindsey's entry that I just had to reproduce most of it verbatim on my blog! We take so much of our peripatetic life here in the Ariege for granted, so it's a real joy to have other people remind us of those little things that are an integral part of day to day life.
So, with apologies for presenting Lindsey's elegant prose with a list, here goes......
"We are overcome.........by the house and this beautiful part of France. We particularly adored:-
the bats
the back steps from the kitchen
the livestock [cows and sheep]
the knives
the sheets
the gorgeous decor and bits and pieces and connections
the woodwork and locks
the pool and trampoline
the cosmos
cornflowers
lavender
linum
gladioli and canna flowers
the fritillarias
small blue tits
swallow tails
the source [our little waterfall]
the swallows
hoot of the owls
the redstart
nuthatch
jays
lime trees
French CD's
the pottery near Mas d'Azil
Montsegur
the outdoor games
the veg, herbs and tomatoes by the front door
having French neighbours
...................and just being here."
My sentiments entirely.
Another entry from Gordon says, so simply, "Chateau de Bardies exemplifies the grace and beauty of imperfection" - like it's chatelaine, too, I'm sure!
So, with apologies for presenting Lindsey's elegant prose with a list, here goes......
"We are overcome.........by the house and this beautiful part of France. We particularly adored:-
the bats
the back steps from the kitchen
the livestock [cows and sheep]
the knives
the sheets
the gorgeous decor and bits and pieces and connections
the woodwork and locks
the pool and trampoline
the cosmos
cornflowers
lavender
linum
gladioli and canna flowers
the fritillarias
small blue tits
swallow tails
the source [our little waterfall]
the swallows
hoot of the owls
the redstart
nuthatch
jays
lime trees
French CD's
the pottery near Mas d'Azil
Montsegur
the outdoor games
the veg, herbs and tomatoes by the front door
having French neighbours
...................and just being here."
My sentiments entirely.
Another entry from Gordon says, so simply, "Chateau de Bardies exemplifies the grace and beauty of imperfection" - like it's chatelaine, too, I'm sure!
Thursday 7 October 2010
A Perfect Day
Today was one of those mystical, magical days that we savour and remember before the first chilly north winds herald the arrival of winter. I always tell people new to the Ariege that the best time of year to see it in its full glory is in September and October. It can still be glorious after Toussaint but by then the weather is more unpredictable. As I try to figure out the exact words to describe the shades of blue and green that dazzled my senses all day, I am lost for words.
The closest I can get is to say one word. Vincent. His late landscapes, many of them painted after his breakdown, illustrate better than any pretentious writing the sheer, unadulterated beauty of 'La France Profonde'. My soul has been restored, which is more than can be said for poor Vincent. As a starry, starry night falls, I give thanks for the joy of days like today. It is a little too chilly to lie on a blanket under the stars tonight, but their sparkling presence makes me feel, as ever, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. I wish I knew more about them - although I am reliably informed that there is now an i-phone app that will 'read' the stars in your location for you. I must remember to download it before the weather changes.
Perhaps I am a little more reflective than usual, due to the sad loss, within less than a month of each other, of two dear friends. They will be sorely missed by all of us, and especially their children. None of us truly appreciates what we have until it is taken from us. Life and death are as inevitable as night and day. As the last of the summer flowers in the new border battle with the elements, I greedily think of next year's seed crop. It is sad to see them looking so desolate, pale imitations of their former resplendent glory, but I know that in their death, there is new life to come. Who knows where John and Bill are now, but I like to think of them sailing or playing cricket in some heavenly galaxy beyond our stars.
Anyway, back to my perfect day. I awoke at 6.20am and, as it was still dark, I padded downstairs to make a cup of tea to drink as I finished my current book - 'House Music', the wonderful diaries of Oona King, elected to Parliament in 1997 for Bethnal Green and Bow, and only the second black woman in the House of Commons. Having once harboured a half-baked fantasy of standing for Parliament myself, I can only think what a lucky escape I had. It's hell on earth for a woman, with days ending long after midnight, not to mention the sexism that inevitably pervades an institution dominated by white men in suits. Her diaries are heartfelt, honest and totally candid and they made me cry when she writes of her failed fifth IVF attempt. It more than touched a nerve for me because I've been there too. Her book should be compulsory reading for all aspiring female election candidates.
I then dozed to the 'Today' programme on BBC iplayer, after I had watched the sun come up over the misty valley below my bedroom window. I still cannot quite grasp the freedom that technology brings. You can be anywhere in the world and provided you can access broadband, BBC Radio 4 will be with you. A friend indeed. I know that I have written of this before but I just wish that the older generation could be lured away from their technophobia and opened up to the limitless possibilities for communicating with family and friends and accessing information that is just a mouse click away.
Minus husband and children, with the excuse of a bender of a cough and cold though, I marvelled, yet again, at Neil MacGregor's wonderful series on Radio 4 every morning at 9.45am, 'A History of the World in a Hundred Objects'. It will go into the annals of legendary BBC cultural series, alongside Kenneth Clark's 'Civilisation' and Jacob Bronowski's 'The Ascent of Man'. Today's object was an Aboriginal bark shield, brought back from Botany Bay in 1770 with the arrival of Captain Cook's ship. It made me think of our time living in Sydney in the early eighties, when I first became aware of Aboriginal history and their notion of 'The Dreamtime'. We could learn so much from their culture about respect for the fragility of our world, but we plough on regardless, plundering resources for the great engine of capitalism.
After a bath filled with fresh lavender blossoms from the garden, with the windows wide open and a view of our hills in front of me, I indulged myself further with breakfast on the terrace. Fig bread with fig jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso topped up with hot milk, is about as decadent as it gets. It felt like midsummer, but without the family and guests to look after. Heaven. Only the faded blooms in the terrace pots and the newly harvested lavender bushes give the game away.
With lots of urgent jobs to do before winter, like a kid playing truant from school, I made the conscious decision to head down to the pool [now, sadly, closed for winter because the nights are too cold]. With no one to cook for, and no one to worry about, I stayed there for most of the day. I didn't even have to worry about wearing a swimsuit. I even managed half an hour's yoga practice in the late afternoon sunshine, which would have been a very strange sight for someone with a satellite image. Naked middle-aged flesh is not the least attractive but viewed in 'up dog' or 'down dog' yoga positions, it borders on the perversely pornographic.
Afterwards, I raided our two fig trees and made some jam [well, more of a compote really, because figs are sweet enough already]. Then, because I'd made the jam, I thought I'd better make some wholemeal bread to go with it, which I did, courtesy of Richard Bertinet's marvellous book on contemporary bread making, 'Dough'. Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, it is a Miles Davis moment and I am dead chuffed. It always strikes me that bread is the very essence of life, something to marvel at and celebrate at every opportunity, and that making it connects us to a life force so much bigger than ourselves. It is no coincidence that 'Eucharist' is such a celebration.
I made a chicken stock for tomorrow's pumpkin risotto, from last night's roast chicken, some chicken soup with the remaining breast meat, and chicken in sherry and tarragon with the legs for my dinner, watering the garden in between. The woodburner is made up but unneeded. I've even planned my menu for the weekend, as Peter arrives tomorrow and we have guests for dinner. The rush will begin again in the morning and today's brief respite from the maelstrom that is everyday life will be but a distant memory once again. As I finish this, I shall head off to my bed with a cup of Green and Black's hot chocolate, Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' and Radio 4 ringing out from my laptop. Then, as I turn out my bedside light and turn off my electric blanket, with the stars outside twinkling through half open shutters, I shall give thanks for a perfect day.
The closest I can get is to say one word. Vincent. His late landscapes, many of them painted after his breakdown, illustrate better than any pretentious writing the sheer, unadulterated beauty of 'La France Profonde'. My soul has been restored, which is more than can be said for poor Vincent. As a starry, starry night falls, I give thanks for the joy of days like today. It is a little too chilly to lie on a blanket under the stars tonight, but their sparkling presence makes me feel, as ever, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. I wish I knew more about them - although I am reliably informed that there is now an i-phone app that will 'read' the stars in your location for you. I must remember to download it before the weather changes.
Perhaps I am a little more reflective than usual, due to the sad loss, within less than a month of each other, of two dear friends. They will be sorely missed by all of us, and especially their children. None of us truly appreciates what we have until it is taken from us. Life and death are as inevitable as night and day. As the last of the summer flowers in the new border battle with the elements, I greedily think of next year's seed crop. It is sad to see them looking so desolate, pale imitations of their former resplendent glory, but I know that in their death, there is new life to come. Who knows where John and Bill are now, but I like to think of them sailing or playing cricket in some heavenly galaxy beyond our stars.
Anyway, back to my perfect day. I awoke at 6.20am and, as it was still dark, I padded downstairs to make a cup of tea to drink as I finished my current book - 'House Music', the wonderful diaries of Oona King, elected to Parliament in 1997 for Bethnal Green and Bow, and only the second black woman in the House of Commons. Having once harboured a half-baked fantasy of standing for Parliament myself, I can only think what a lucky escape I had. It's hell on earth for a woman, with days ending long after midnight, not to mention the sexism that inevitably pervades an institution dominated by white men in suits. Her diaries are heartfelt, honest and totally candid and they made me cry when she writes of her failed fifth IVF attempt. It more than touched a nerve for me because I've been there too. Her book should be compulsory reading for all aspiring female election candidates.
I then dozed to the 'Today' programme on BBC iplayer, after I had watched the sun come up over the misty valley below my bedroom window. I still cannot quite grasp the freedom that technology brings. You can be anywhere in the world and provided you can access broadband, BBC Radio 4 will be with you. A friend indeed. I know that I have written of this before but I just wish that the older generation could be lured away from their technophobia and opened up to the limitless possibilities for communicating with family and friends and accessing information that is just a mouse click away.
Minus husband and children, with the excuse of a bender of a cough and cold though, I marvelled, yet again, at Neil MacGregor's wonderful series on Radio 4 every morning at 9.45am, 'A History of the World in a Hundred Objects'. It will go into the annals of legendary BBC cultural series, alongside Kenneth Clark's 'Civilisation' and Jacob Bronowski's 'The Ascent of Man'. Today's object was an Aboriginal bark shield, brought back from Botany Bay in 1770 with the arrival of Captain Cook's ship. It made me think of our time living in Sydney in the early eighties, when I first became aware of Aboriginal history and their notion of 'The Dreamtime'. We could learn so much from their culture about respect for the fragility of our world, but we plough on regardless, plundering resources for the great engine of capitalism.
After a bath filled with fresh lavender blossoms from the garden, with the windows wide open and a view of our hills in front of me, I indulged myself further with breakfast on the terrace. Fig bread with fig jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso topped up with hot milk, is about as decadent as it gets. It felt like midsummer, but without the family and guests to look after. Heaven. Only the faded blooms in the terrace pots and the newly harvested lavender bushes give the game away.
With lots of urgent jobs to do before winter, like a kid playing truant from school, I made the conscious decision to head down to the pool [now, sadly, closed for winter because the nights are too cold]. With no one to cook for, and no one to worry about, I stayed there for most of the day. I didn't even have to worry about wearing a swimsuit. I even managed half an hour's yoga practice in the late afternoon sunshine, which would have been a very strange sight for someone with a satellite image. Naked middle-aged flesh is not the least attractive but viewed in 'up dog' or 'down dog' yoga positions, it borders on the perversely pornographic.
Afterwards, I raided our two fig trees and made some jam [well, more of a compote really, because figs are sweet enough already]. Then, because I'd made the jam, I thought I'd better make some wholemeal bread to go with it, which I did, courtesy of Richard Bertinet's marvellous book on contemporary bread making, 'Dough'. Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, it is a Miles Davis moment and I am dead chuffed. It always strikes me that bread is the very essence of life, something to marvel at and celebrate at every opportunity, and that making it connects us to a life force so much bigger than ourselves. It is no coincidence that 'Eucharist' is such a celebration.
I made a chicken stock for tomorrow's pumpkin risotto, from last night's roast chicken, some chicken soup with the remaining breast meat, and chicken in sherry and tarragon with the legs for my dinner, watering the garden in between. The woodburner is made up but unneeded. I've even planned my menu for the weekend, as Peter arrives tomorrow and we have guests for dinner. The rush will begin again in the morning and today's brief respite from the maelstrom that is everyday life will be but a distant memory once again. As I finish this, I shall head off to my bed with a cup of Green and Black's hot chocolate, Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' and Radio 4 ringing out from my laptop. Then, as I turn out my bedside light and turn off my electric blanket, with the stars outside twinkling through half open shutters, I shall give thanks for a perfect day.
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