Street Party

French social life takes place in June, and consequently June is very stressful because French people find social life stressful, and because of the late light nights, and the impossible volume of events to cram into four short weeks, for example:

• Barbecues which they start heating up at 9.30pm, followed by a long night of the all-pervading smell of charred food and the sound of people talking loudly

• Brocantes and vide-greniers - we pay the Marie (local authority) 10 Euros for right to gather together in the streets, erect small tables and sell our rubbish for ridiculously low prices and buy even more rubbish in return for equally ridiculously low prices
• School fetes and shows, exams, end of term presents for teachers, farewell parties and birthday parties because at last it is warm enough to go outside even if you were born in January
• Weddings
• Music and other outdoor festivals
• Last minute rush for medical appointments before the medical practitioners leave for the South of France
• Street parties - the only chance in the year to meet your neighbours in friendly circumstances

Last night was the night of our street party. This involves:

• Setting up a barbecue in the street in order to char enough flesh for an army (allow wait of at least one hour for your kebab)
• Speakers the size of a minivan to vibrate you while you wait in the smokey queue
• Vast hordes of people with fags dangling from their lower jaw, all of whom seem to know each other and are possibly related.
• Cheap plonk served by male neighbours in strange straw hats

However, there is a brighter side: for the children. The street is closed off officially, and for once the beastly cars are kept at bay long enough for the children to parade the streets with trolleys, skateboards, scooters, bikes, footballs bats and flying objects which are supposed to be hit by the bats. Not only that, after about 9.30, when everyone has drunk too much cheap plonk and the kebab is nowhere near cooked, the children can do pretty much what they like for the rest of the gloriously late night.
On the day of our party, JC and I had been into Paris for a talk on Life and Death, which I can only describe as a Near Death Experience (NDE) - at least one quarter of the audience was asleep, three of them on the front row. After a brief struggle I abandoned all hope, lined myself up behind the head of the person in front so the speaker couldn't see me, and surrendered myself to the world of dreams. For this pleasure, we had to hire a babysitter. Women amongst us will know that this means tidying up the house a bit before the babysitter arrives. After 3 hours of struggle to remove only the most embarassing objects, stains and fluffballs, I was, as usual, red faced, sweaty unbrushed and ill-dressed when the babysitter arrived. I JC meanwhile was in Paris, perusing the book shops. I removed my rubber gloves to shake hands.
The babysitter was a reluctant 15 year old, much vexed by his mother's insistence that he do something useful and jolly well get babysitting, as he had much better things to do, in particular a rendez-vous with Eleanor at 7.30pm. His mother had 'interpreted' the finish time of the babysitting, which I had stated quite clearly as 8.30pm, as 7pm: the only way for her to maneouvre him out of the front door presumably. Some bad feeling ensued. I was even more late and had to I jog to the station.
So, by the time the street party commenced, well after my bedtime, I was not in the best of humours. At 10.45 pm JC and I had managed to hunt down and undercook 2 pork steaks, especially unwelcome as JC is a vegetarian, and a jacket potato. We talked to one neighbour who said the previous owner of our house was his friend as he sympathised with Leftist politics. We slagged off the previous owner of house for all the things we have subsequently discovered are wrong with it, the lack of basic maintenance for 20 years and the exorbitant price demanded. We posed for a group photo which we will never see, and were at last able to head home, thankfully not far away.
I awoke with a start at the stroke of midnight.
'Where are the children?'
'B is home, but R I don't know'.
Horrible groaning noises - followed by an argument about whose fault it was we had not set clear boundaries and who would go out to look for him, I lost.
At 12.13 am I bumbled out into the street in my nighty and was greeted by a surreal sight: a group of children of all ages, some barely out of nappies, circulating under the streetlamp like midges.
'Time to come in now' I shouted at R
'Daddy said I could come home when I want' shouted back R, defiantly, visibly irritated. I reminded myself he is eight years old.
'He said you had to come back at midnight or you will turn into a pumpkin ie extra homework tomorrow if you don't get inside RIGHT NOW'.
A reluctant, hang-dog R leaves the party early. The others continue to circulate.
I will never understand French social life. But the funny thing is, you wake up the next morning feeling you have had a really good time.