Candy Floss

After the brocante, we set off for the the music festival, our suburb's contribution to the Paris Music Festival. Our neighbour, who is a local councillor, let it be known that there was free candyfloss for the children, so we had to go. I do understand the motivation, the glamorous American word 'candy' and the almost spiritual appeal of the pink cloud.

I was a little unnerved to see couples with children walking in the opposite direction of the event, and to see a lot of 16 year old girls wearing - well, wearing what I used to wear in the 1980s when I was 16, going in the direction of the event.

I entertained V, the neighbour's 12 year old son, with tales of how, in the 1980s, we had to lie in the bath to shrink-fit our jeans, and as they didn't have elastic in those days, we were unable to sit down. V stared at my middle aged sausage legs, clearly unable to believe.

'So, you couldn't take them off then?' he ventured.

'Of course not - you had to wear them to bed. Of course, you could only get into bed by standing at the end and dropping like a felled tree...'

It is my duty to undermine the credibility of 'les slims' as they are known here, the beastly things are a health hazard and very unkind to middle aged women - indeed to anyone over the age of 16.

200 yards from the event I heard one old lady say to another,

'Well, it's bearable from THIS distance' and then I knew for sure it was not going to be my scene.

Sure enough, on arrival, there was one of those bands of youths bashing out - well, bashing out the sort of thing that we used to have to endure in the 1980s.

Using sign language we queued for the candyfloss.

V disappeared with a crowd of dubious characters with black sticking up hair.

R drifted to the back of the crowd and became mesmerised - I had to drag him away. When we got far enough away from the band he could be heard muttering

'Can I have another candyfloss?'

'This music is rubbish' said B, 'It doesn't make any sense'

V's mum found V and told him he had to go home with me. V was relieved, even he

did not like the music, although he was wearing what is, from my perspective, an ugly cheap looking 1980s hooded top and tight jeans which dangle a bit under the bum and bind your thighs together, and gives the impression of being the sort of trendy youth who would.

The boys walked on ahead. I was thrilled to find a beer can with a blue ring-pull. I spent some time twisting and pulling it off without damaging it. I rushed inside,

'Look, B' I said excitedly, handing over my find.

'Ah' said B, 'Well, thank you Mummy, but I'm not really collecting them any more, much - er at all'.

Ring-pull currency has crashed, value on the stock market, NIL.

Brocante

Some examples of our many spoils:

6 pretty coloured glasses for 50 cents (Me)








2 small gold frames for 50 cents (Me)
2 coloured bowls and mismatched square saucers 1 euro (Me)
2 cat bowls for 50 cents (R)
Green padlock 50 cents (R)
Electronic key finding device for finding R when he wanders off 5 euros (B)
2 magic tricks cost 20 euros new, 3 euros each, (B)
Coffee machine 5 euros (JC)
2 Mr Bean videos 50 cents (JC)
Britta filter kettle with 4 filters 15 euros (me)
Brown Betty teapot and cosy 2 euros (me)

Yes, managed to replace Bodum coffee maker I broke 3 euros (me)
Carded wool bead hand crafted necklace 50 cents (me)
Ethnic beads 50 cents (me)

Summer jewels

What to do with handfuls of summer fruits, including the tired strawberries which aren't perfect enough for the strawberries and cream but not of course actually mouldy:

Gently simmer fruit together with enough sugar to make a syrup and make it taste good.

Take 6 ramekins which you have collected from eating too many commercially produced cream puddings, and line bottom of each with fruit

Either fill with sweetened plain yoghurt or even better, fill up with high-class vanilla custard - we call it 'flan' over here. V. Good also with skinless orange segments, soft brown sugar and lemon custard. You can make your own custard, shop stuff has extra gelling agents for a more professional skinless surface, but can always sprinkle with raspberries or sugar.

500mls milk

one dessertspoon of sugar,

vanilla essence or finely grated lemon rind,

one heaped dessertspoon of cornflour

Mix cornflour with a little of the milk, add sugar to the rest and to the boil and whisk in, keep whisking until thickening (if doesn't look thick enough, mix more cornflour as above and whisk in). Pour into ramekins

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.