Coming of the Magi

We went to collect tiles from Senhor H who was in fine form as his wife was away making lunch. He gagged the boys with lollipops and furnished us with literature he has produced on World Improvements - in the meantime R&B went off for a gagged game of 'video surveillance hide and seek' which they devised using the equipment available.


Senhor H showed us a letter from the ex Mrs Sarkozy, who was clearly touched by her personal message from him. Senhor receives personal messages for politicians (and their wives) from the spiritual world.


Senhor H's wife phoned 3 times during the conversation to say lunch was ready. He is not allowed to talk to customers about his religious experiences, even customers who are interested. He will cop it when he gets home. He has offered to give J-C an olive-wood cross (blessed) which he made himself. J-C has been waiting for the Universe to indicate a replacement cross, since his last one was washed away on a beach, summer 2008.


Senhor H is the only person I know who has been to the same Drs surgery since the age of 19. As he is in his late 60s it can't be the same doctor, can it? But his current doctor has, it seems, access to all Senhor H's health documents since this time. His health, on all fronts, is officially documented as better now than at 19. The kidney stones passed without incident, he slight flattening of his prostate has rounded out, the blood pressure is down and the heart in fine shape. He no longer needs glasses. However, the dr has no idea why Senhor H is defying time, and Senhor H tells him nothing. Drs rarely get the whole story, and on the whole they know very little.

Eventually the children stated that they weren't staying another minute (unless they had another lollipop) and Senhor H worked out he wouldn't have time to eat and be back to re-open the shop if he didn't leave immediately, and we took our leave.

Church this week involved the Coming of the Magi. Last year some children put on the play of the 3 kings adoring Mary with meaningful gestures. This year the pasteur cunningly arranged for the Administration Committee put on the play, in order to raise our consciousness about such things. Our administrative consciousness was consequently raised rather more than our spiritual, especially as they had not had much time to practice. After we'd sung We Three Kings 15 times I was ready to die. In the end the Treasurer had to get up and rap on the door to get them out on stage, the violinist had collapsed and the audience was getting restless.


Then we shared the 'Galette du Roi' a lovely almond filled pastry tart thingy with a 'feve' (bean) ie little china figurine, the one who has it in his slice can be king and wear the gold cardboard crown. If he crunches up the little china figurine he gets to wear a different kind of crown after a visit to the dentist. Inexplicably, R managed to get a piece of tart, eat it and find a 'feve' inside it, before we had even gathered round and said the prayer - he claims he did not cheat. He is definitely a Capricorn and doesn't like wasting time. He insisted on wearing his crown upside down, I hope this is not satanic. B, with a wink, gave me a small slice - because he had seen the feve inside, so I was queen, although I've never seen a queen doing the washing up afterwards.


J-C borrowed one of Senhor H's World Improvement documents and was moved to write an 8 page reply. He was up until 2am after Senhor H rang to say he had a journalist coming round and wanted it back immediately. J-C says that even if you are undergoing a kundalini transformation it takes lifetimes to reach perfection, and Senhor H had forgotten to address renewable energy and agriculture. He delivers it to Senhor H tonight, we will see whether Senhor H is capable of listening to someone else's World Improvement ideas.


I must go, as the Jehova's Witnesses are coming to tea. They really are the most holy of people, you only have to catch a glimpse of them coming up the path and you are moved to proclaim the Lord. 'OH GOD the Jehova's Witnesses' you say.


They called originally at some impossible time, I forget which, we asked them to come back after Christmas, which they did, just as I was burning lunch. So I gave them our phone number and asked them to make an appointment. They didn't, this time I was painting the wardrobe - a lovely golden yellow of 4 layers of wood oil with a whitening paste - so this time they took an appointment and are coming at a convenient time. I am looking forward to a discussion. They are looking forward to transmitting whatever it is they have to transmit...we will have to see how it goes. I have made them a wheat-free spicey currant loaf.

Religious Overload

Cor blimey, what a day. The Jehova's witnesses were most touched by our warm welcome - who else would invite them in, and offer homemade fruitloaf?

They had come with a mission to carry out their mini training course which starts off asking who causes suffering in the world and ends up, after careful questioning, with the reply 'Satan', thereby dispensing with the possibility that a loving God would take a loved one's life for a sunbeam. But we knew that already. So we moved swiftly along and covered many things. Their Bibles were out and their index fingers were working overtime. I rushed upstairs for Hildegard of Bingen's vision of the fall of Lucifer and my collection of toy devil pictures, and J-C got out his 'Bible Explained' which had been peed on by the cat (I thought we had thrown it away). The JWs were looking a little nervous by this time. Not because I told them the cat had peed on the Bible, of course. And they weren't so keen on the possibility of reincarnation when the subject came up as a result of their questioning on why it was that the whole of mankind was still suffering as a result of Adam's mistake. As most people in France are Catholics nor Not Interested, I don't think we really fitted their expectations or training course. After two hours of exciting spiritual debate, I said

'Well, I haven't come round to your house to talk to you about your church, so why have you come? What are your goals? Are you happy with this session?'

They were! They liked sharpening their faith, iron against iron (it's in Proverbs apparently). Well, I think it was much the same for us.

Just after they had left we remembered Senhor H and his World Improvement paper which we had promised to return, in fact, he was keeping his Tile Shop Cathedral open for us. J-C dashed off. I mused about at home, when I suddenly wondered if he was alright, and phoned him.

'Have you been abducted by aliens?' I said

'Yes' said J-C, sounding a bit bothered, 'I'm on my way'.

Poor old J-C he has many talents, but he is socially challenged. Having been locked into the Tile Shop Cathedral after hours and been told a long succession of Senhor H's Special Reserve stories, from his problems with the local police, to his cousin's families ghost experiences which were solved only after intervention from one African witch doctor and 2 separate Catholic exorcists, to his wife's near death experience, from which she was brought back by the force of will and loud voice of Senhor H himself, J-C fell into a sort of confused swoon (he had been up until 2am writing his replies and done 2 hours of Jehova's Witnesses remember). At this point he sent out a desperate thought message to me asking me to phone him. I suppose it is because he is socially challenged that he did not manage to extricate himself by more conventional means. At the precise moment he sent out his rescue plea, I phoned him.

Anway, after all that we had a bath and an early night. J-C dreamed he was racing along in motorbike with me riding pillion behind, trying to overtake a motorbike in front, and with another joining us by a side road, when suddenly the terrain became icy and pot-holed, and we had to dismount. Make of this what you will. The next day J-C dug out the compost heap to get earthed and then we made serious progress on our wardrobe conversion with integral computer desk, not to mention helping B with his presentation on the brown bear, and R with his conjugations.

Knight's tales

'...and we'd like the guests to come disguised as knights!' the chilling words rang out from the telephone.

Children's parties are a large part of my job description. I have already made the special trip to buy the present (3 days warning) and made all sorts of complicated transport arrangements, but this means I had less than 12 hours to come up with a knight's costume.

A quick rummage through the dressing up box revealed a king's tabard which would do as chainmail. This came from a costume I made R for his 7th birthday, it has long been disgarded and crushed, but here he is on his coronation day. Luckily when my best friend moved she left me a breastplate and a broken helmet, and I added to this a wooden sword and shield which we bought in Charente last summer. As I tried to fit the very long and very strong wooden sword into R's schoolbag I did offer a passing prayer that no internal organs would be damaged.

Happily for R most of the guests, from artistic and theatrical families, also had wooden shields and swords and they spent the whole afternoon in royal battle, with enough theatrical flair to ensure that no serious injuries resulted. R returned vainglorious with his chainmail rent in two and a battle-scarred shield. He told me that once the sword was knocked out of his hand he found he was still able to advance, HAR HAR, using the shield as a battering ram...another supergood party he assures me.

Perfect Bowl of Hot Chocolate

Shortly after I met J-C he went to St Louis to do his military service. St Louis borders on Bale or Basel, (can't work out how to do accents on this blog) and is in the Les Vosges region, which I love. One day we went walking in the Les Vosges mountains, and travel-weary we came down to a temperate valley where a little farm advertised itself as a Ferme Auberge. This means a farm which serves food and sometimes offers a bed for the night depending on the farm. It was about four in the afternoon. We stooped to enter a dark oak-furnished room, and a shadowy farmer figure came out and asked us what we wanted. J-C had the presence of mind to order a bowl of hot chocolate. This bowl of hot chocolate still rings out in my memory. It spoke perfectly to the tiredness and cooling sweat. Never before had a hot chocolate been so delicious.

I have been trying to replicate this experience for 15 years but never again had occasion to stumble across a ferme auberge serving quite that chocolate. Yesterday I suddenly realised I have to do it myself, and I am proud to announced I've done it. Here's how:

Take some full-cream fresh Normandy farm milk and wait ages and ages until it boils, making a creaming bubbling froth on the top. While waiting take good quality cocoa put 2 tsps into a large cup or small bowl, and spend ages stirring it into a little cold milk until the surface tension releases. Add whole brown sugar to taste. Remove skin from milk and pour into bowl lovingly from a great height, aerating it and revelling in the bubbling steaming creaminess. Wait ages for it to cool. Enjoy.

When I was small my mother used to take me to Strathgade Farm at Potten End to buy milk fresh from the cow. They poured it into a machine and I watched it in the head-height plastic vat where it was cooled and stirred. I was allowed to order a strawberry milkshake made with it. In France you can still buy milk like that. My market sells unpasturised milk fresh from the cow. I know it's a risk, but being a French driver or pedestrian is a bigger one, and it doesn't stop me going out. I know the farm and I trust the suppliers. Which is more than you can say for the people who bought carefully regulated and highly treated baby milk with melamine in it.

Isn't this beautiful? What is it? It's another way of seeing unpasturised milk. It is a photograph of 'sensitive crystallisation', the effect of unpasturised milk on copper chloride. The basic idea is that there are crystallisation patterns which indicate the true quality of food -as it relates to us humans in need of proper nourishment. The site below is the best explanation I can find of the background, theory and experiments. I wish other people on the net, particularly those associated with wine, would read this before making their comments. I'm going to have more to say about this subject, please ask me questions. I'm probably going to have to start with Sir Jagadis Chandra Bose, Hooray for Sir Jagadis Chandra Bose, a noble scientist, I love him!

http://science.goetheanum.org/fileadmin/nws/text-downloads/flyerBWeng.pdf

http://www.goetheanum.com/

New Year Snapshot

I took R&B to Germany on New Years Eve, to stay with our friends who live in Gelsenkirchen. The journey went well apart from NO TEA in the Thalys train bar, although the Belgian barman was very pleasant and polite and quite made me want to emigrate from Paris to Brussels. Then R made several trips to the ‘cabinet’ (he claims the facilities were poor) announced he had diarrhoea and fell asleep over the arm of the seat. R never sleeps during the day unless he is very ill. OH NO LE GASTRO, this special French variant of a tummy bug, endemic throughout France for every high day and holiday, I have rarely made a foreign trip without one, notably last Christmas when Le Gastro just as we hit the traffic jam on the M25 caused by the ferry strike, but we won’t go into that.

Made quick calculation: friends have one toilet – between 7. Have missed last train back to Paris so can’t go home – friends do not want to catch Le Gastro. Mummy does not want to spend 3 days cleaning up sick from outside the toilet because someone else was in the toilet. Mummy does not want to catch Le Gastro and have it on the train home. Ditto B.

B listened carefully to my woeful calculations, took note of my dramatic despairing body poses, patiently witnessed the shouts and accusations about French viruses, endured the stream of swear words. Then he said:

‘He can’t have a gastro. He will not have one. Nobody will have one. I have said a prayer that nobody else catches it and he will get better as soon as possible’.

B was right.

Jenny had twinkled up the flat with everything possible kitch and lovely, at least 17 tea lights, and we had a fondue for supper.

The children, buoyant with youthful verve, had no problem waiting up for New Year, while we adults lay stiffly on the sofa trying to keep our eyelids from falling shut. Luckily the German New Year is very reviving, as it is the only time that sensible Germans roam the streets with fistfuls of fireworks, breaking every Health and Safety law in the land.

A few minutes before midnight a few premature bangers exploded, and on the dot of midnight there was a sudden rousing riot of noise and light; rockets punched the sky from every direction every church bell rang like the clappers, from big growly bells and mourning moaning bells to rickety dinging bells. The entire sky was filled with whoops and whizzes and dizzy dashes of light, near and far, far and wide. We scrambled from north to south balcony and back again, trying to take it all in. Below us in the street, shadowy figures with access to an unending supply of serious heavy explosives kept up a constant stream of action, rockets collided with tall buildings and set off in new directions, smouldering remains clattered to the pavement in droves, fountains ejaculated, and green and red balls were tossed to the four winds, all in utter abandon. It went on for an hour. Welcome, welcome, 2009!

I was fed and allowed to talk non-stop for 2 days, a definition of heaven. I particularly enjoyed the town centres free of cars, rustling with shoppers talking in low voices. I bought a board game where you push a candle round the forest trying to catch gnomes hiding in the shadows. The children enjoyed absolutely everything and never slept before midnight or after 8am.

We visited Cologne Cathedral on the way back, they have a new stained glass window made up from little squares of over 4,900 colours. Chris said it was the optician’s window. I loved it. The journey back was fantastic, for a ridiculously low sum we were able to upgrade to Extra Comfort Class where trilingual hosts and hostesses satisfied our every whim – principally a miniature can of fizzy drink every ten minutes and 2 perfectly proportioned meals with seconds and extra bread all free. We didn’t realise that the meals were included and had ingested a large lunch of bretzel and sandwhiches, but we ate the further 2 meals anyway, with seconds. The seats were wide with electronically controlled semi-reclining position and the ‘cabinet’ facilities were judged far superior by R.

I took R&B to Germany on New Years Eve, to stay with our friends who live in Gelsenkirchen. The journey went well apart from NO TEA in the Thalys train bar, although the Belgian barman was very pleasant and polite and quite made me want to emigrate from Paris to Brussels. Then R made several trips to the ‘cabinet’ (he claims the facilities were poor) announced he had diarrhoea and fell asleep over the arm of the seat. R never sleeps during the day unless he is very ill. OH NO LE GASTRO, this special French variant of a tummy bug, endemic throughout France for every high day and holiday, I have rarely made a foreign trip without one, notably last Christmas when Le Gastro just as we hit the traffic jam on the M25 caused by the ferry strike, but we won’t go into that.

Made quick calculation: friends have one toilet – between 7. Have missed last train back to Paris so can’t go home – friends do not want to catch Le Gastro. Mummy does not want to spend 3 days cleaning up sick from outside the toilet because someone else was in the toilet. Mummy does not want to catch Le Gastro and have it on the train home. Ditto B.

B listened carefully to my woeful calculations, took note of my dramatic despairing body poses, patiently witnessed the shouts and accusations about French viruses, endured the stream of swear words. Then he said:

‘He can’t have a gastro. He will not have one. Nobody will have one. I have said a prayer that nobody else catches it and he will get better as soon as possible’.

B was right.

Jenny had twinkled up the flat with everything possible kitch and lovely, at least 17 tea lights, and we had a fondue for supper.

The children, buoyant with youthful verve, had no problem waiting up for New Year, while we adults lay stiffly on the sofa trying to keep our eyelids from falling shut. Luckily the German New Year is very reviving, as it is the only time that sensible Germans roam the streets with fistfuls of fireworks, breaking every Health and Safety law in the land.

A few minutes before midnight a few premature bangers exploded, and on the dot of midnight there was a sudden rousing riot of noise and light; rockets punched the sky from every direction every church bell rang like the clappers, from big growly bells and mourning moaning bells to rickety dinging bells. The entire sky was filled with whoops and whizzes and dizzy dashes of light, near and far, far and wide. We scrambled from north to south balcony and back again, trying to take it all in. Below us in the street, shadowy figures with access to an unending supply of serious heavy explosives kept up a constant stream of action, rockets collided with tall buildings and set off in new directions, smouldering remains clattered to the pavement in droves, fountains ejaculated, and green and red balls were tossed to the four winds, all in utter abandon. It went on for an hour. Welcome, welcome, 2009!

I was fed and allowed to talk non-stop for 2 days, a definition of heaven. I particularly enjoyed the town centres free of cars, rustling with shoppers talking in low voices. I bought a board game where you push a candle round the forest trying to catch gnomes hiding in the shadows. The children enjoyed absolutely everything and never slept before midnight or after 8am.

We visited Cologne Cathedral on the way back, they have a new stained glass window made up from over 11,000 little squares (see Goethe Institute for the best article on this window http://www.goethe.de/kue/arc/dos/dos/bug/en2577503.htm

Chris said it was the optician’s window. I loved it.

The journey back was fantastic, for a ridiculously low sum we were able to upgrade to Extra Comfort Class where trilingual hosts and hostesses satisfied our every whim – principally a miniature can of fizzy drink every ten minutes and 2 perfectly proportioned meals with seconds and extra bread all free. We didn’t realise that the meals were included and had ingested a large lunch of bretzel and sandwhiches, but we ate the further 2 meals anyway, with seconds. The seats were wide with electronically controlled semi-reclining position and the ‘cabinet’ facilities were judged by R as far superior to those of ordinary class.

Decline in Standards

Beginning of term
Freshly washed and neatly ironed clothes set out night before
Home-made bread served for breakfast by smiling mother.
Home-made organic healthy snack wrapped in greasproof paper and placed in school bags the night before.


Mid-term
Children sleep in week-old pants and drag on clothes thrown down the night before.
Children forage in fridge for something for breakfast
Children find mechanically produced snack rich in saturated palm oil and put far too much of it in their bags.

End of term
Children wake up Mummy 10 minutes before it is time to leave (dark morning alarm clock rings unremarked). God knows what they are wearing. Mummy drags coat and hat over pyjamas and unbrushed hair. All stop off at bakery in front of school for a croissant and arrive at school as the bell rings, utterly dishevelled, eyes gummed with sleep, crumbs down front.

Ironing Update

I am pleased to announce that Ironing Mountain (full Himalayan Range) has been surmounted, at last, after weeks of labour. My baskets of ironing pending are EMPTY. The reason why they are empty is I have stopped doing the washing, yes I have stopped. The washing spews from three linen baskets, resembling the town of Pompey just after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius...

B has just entered. He tells me that if you break a magnet in half you cannot press the two halves together again, as they repel one another. Is this true? He concludes from this that every single atom must be pushing against the other. Today, I feel like this magnet.

Head Heart and Hands

The things that we made, by R&B

Special Christmas Broadcast

Christmas preparations

L came round to help R&B decorate the Christmas tree. They displayed impressive teamwork and group creative decision-making. They turned the spiral staircase into a 'stairway to heaven' with draped bead garlands and strings of stars, and ran two light garlands up the central post, with baubles reflecting the lights, ooh it were lovely. The cats took one look at it and said ‘I'm going to ‘av that, I am, it's mine…’ They gnawed at the multicoloured lights, they batted the baubles to the floor, they knocked the angel off his perch by climbing to the upper floor and reaching down to the top of the tree with their claws. No-one really minded. R cooed delightedly over decorations from Christmases past and found 'the one that I made when I was 3’, 3 being any age in his own pre-history. He arranged little wooden personages in family groups. They found the little elf with a candle and put him in a prominent position leading the way onto the stairs. B organised the stable scene, with the infant Jesus firmly wedged between a standing Jesus and Mary, and refused J-C's offer to have him more to the fore as in traditional stable scenes. L spread 30 baubles over the table in a decorative and highly impractical manner. Add to this a disco lightball, a multicoloured smoking water fountain, a dozen tea lights in places which would worry Health and Safety people and a CD of carols and you have the picture.

My day in parallel: Made 2 rounds of mince pies, golden chicken and vegetable broth with real stock from bones, made chicken sandwiches, Lebanese nut tarts, a birthday cake for B with butter cream, made pancakes for breakfast, did shopping, drove to a friend’s house in a neighbouring town, collected large Xmas tree and installed ready for decoration, roasted 2 half price organic chickens, cleaned lower floor of house, emptied all bins, made gingerbread dough to make into biscuits for B to take into school the following day.

We made the wreath from a base of old man's beard - we wove the strands (relieved of their leaves and beards) into a circle, and threaded in suburban shrub trimmings and various forgotten thrown away broken Christmas decorations, pine cones decorated with acrylic gold paint, and plent of eco-friendly glitter glue.

Christmas Eve
I had to go away unexpectedly just before Christmas. I arrived home just after my in-laws, late on the 23rd, leaving one day (Christmas Eve) to prepare for Christmas. Did not panic. R sought an interview with me first thing Christmas Eve morning, sobbing mildly.

‘I haven’t got a present for Daddy…’ sob sniff.

‘Don’t worry, I have bought one for Daddy which is from you ’ I said.

‘No, I want to choose one. I have 2 euros and 55 cents’.

'Well, what do you think he would like?' I said, fighting off the inevitable feelings of panic.

'Something from God or Jesus Christ'

'Mmm, well, I'm only going to the market, I'm not sure they have a stand...'

In the end we compromised by visiting ‘A Fleur de Bio’ which is next to the market, and buying a pure olive oil savon de Marseille soap-on-a-rope in the shape of a bee. R wrote 'Dear Papa, I hope you like your bee' on the gift tag.

While I was at the market I met someone I know (this usually happens, and I know hardly anyone). I was recounting R's present from God/Jesus Christ tale, and the man on the organic veg stall, with whom I have a good rapping relationship, he comes from Morocco, made a particular point of asking if we were a religious family...and we had a jolly good rap about religion. He is a muslim, gentle, quiet, devoted and non-extremist. He made me promise I would not force religion on my children and tell them what to believe and I agreed. A good spirit of Christmas was had by one and all and many heartfelt bisous (French social kisses) and embraces exchanged. I didn't of course leap over the veg stall and embrace the salesman as that would have been undignified and inappropriate, but I did embrace the person I know and her sister-in-law, whom I have never met.

I spent the day in unmemorable but utterly absorbing preparations, finished wrapping presents at 1am.

Christmas Day

B told me that he woke at 2am, 4am and finally 5am. His first words to me were

‘We missed it!'.

‘Missed what?’ I said, dazed, confused and a little tired, it was 7am.

'Jesus Christ's birthday, it was at midnight!'

R&B pogoed up and down and R shot me several times with his wooden pop gun and B said he was very pleased with his modelling kit.

B gave Papa a set of remote control plugs. This is to stop him having to listen to me moaning and groaning every time I have to bend in two and crawl under the furniture to turn off the plugs. B gave me a beautiful ring fashioned out of stone.

B made everyone postcard holders out of a small block of wood, with one slot for upright cards and one for lean-back angle display.

R gave me 3 of his wooden animals which I like very much, I will give them back in the New Year.

The inlaws bought us a computerised picture frame and we bought them one. Obviously a good idea.

B spent the entire day in a state of heightened ecstasy as he had an i-pod for his birthday and a set of speakers for Christmas, excellent sound, I am quite jealous and will be using while he is at school.

R had a dynamo radio-torch, 2 more knights for his scenario, and a bottle of hair gel which he was very thrilled with, and used to slick down his hair in a sort of Harold Lloyd style.

JC gave me a shawl, so beautiful it is beyond description.

I gave JC some Weleda shaving gel and after shave balm, and a cherry wood bowl for his collection of home grown nuts.

My mother-in-law and I competed in the kitchen. I roasted the chicken which was served with prune and apricot stuffing, roast butternut squash and quince jelly. My mother-in-law pot roasted the guinea fowl with the prunes d’Agen served with her special recipe of sauteed green beans which takes 2 hours to prepare. Everyone ate both dishes with relish and declared both excellent beyond compare.

My mother-in-law made an excellent cake, which rose above all expectations.

R pointed out that Christmas Day is also our cats birthday, as they appeared in our lives on this very day, Christmas Day one year ago, on our doorstep, starving, wild, homeless, destitute, searching room at our inn, what could we do?

Lime, Lemon in her usual startle position, Photos by B, and the cake.

Faces

‘Most Interesting’ say the psychoanalysts, raising sardonic eyebrows, ‘Clearly a case of Projection…’

I’ve quite given myself the willies looking deep into the Pet Shop Toys’ eyes; how can eyes be at once vacuous and menacing? Am I imagining things? Am I seeing a reflection of my own peculiar nature? I decided to experiment. J-C had helpfully left a copy of ‘The Gold of the Pharaohs’ by Henri Stierlin on my desk. Many people do find Egyptian esotericism scary. I had a peer at the face on the front cover, which was of the Pharaoh Amenemipet as it happens. The experience was quite lovely! I called in my able assistant, B.

‘Look at this face and tell me what you feel’

‘It looks a bit sad…’ said B carelessly.


‘Ok. That’s the outside. Now, look deep into the eyes…’

B obliged for some seconds. He turned to me, his face reflecting the gold, a half smile playing on his lips to rival that of Mona Lisa, and he said, ‘He is a smiley jolly man’.