In a grand finale of stereotypical generalised negativity, the French school year draws to a close and the lovely long French holidays begin.
I read that the 'educational team' at R's school had much pleasure in working with his class which was "joyfully and cheerfully lacking in concentration' although the class 'made some effort' it nonetheless 'lacked regular progression, the learning was shallow, the work 'too scolarly' and the class must make 'great and serious effort' next year. All this confuses me as 'the class' doesn't really mean anything, and it will not even exist next year, as they insist of mixing up the classes every year, under the 'divide and rule' policy. I asked JC what 'scolarly' was and he said giving the answers expected of you. How extraordinary; they have trained children to give the answers expected of them, and punished them with degrading marks and summarising their work with the chilling words 'you did not do what I told you to do' and they are consequently obedient in the absolute, totally lacking in imagination and originality, and take care never to think for themselves - and now it seems all this was simply in order to complain about the end result of their own system! I tell you it's beyond me. English children thrive on enthousiasm, encouragement and praise, but French children need none of that, and instead truck along with anything on a scale from tepid indifference to a barrage of insults.
R's teacher, Mrs Essex-Facelift made a special end of term effort to 'summarise' (humiliate) each pupil in front of his/her peers, eg
'Well you can wipe the smile of your face, you won't even be able to pass your exams with your 5 out of 20 in maths and your 8 out of twenty in French, you'll have to do a professional bac'.
For R however, there is good news! There seems to be a system in place where pupils are judged and categorised (I've never been furnished with the details, it seems to be something everyone knows except me). Most pupils are 'white', which I take to mean are hiding in a sort of white fog, unnoticed for their good or bad qualities, and deeply grateful not to be one level lower in the dark hell region of 'in difficulty' which offers no hope and from which there is no escape. This year R has apparently emerged from the fog and entered the realm of 'encouragement', although the accolade was VERY grudgingly given by Mrs Essex-Facelift, and I quote "Adequate work but no more than that, he is working regularly but his work lacks care and attention to detail and he must try harder next year'. I believe there are more elivated titles above 'encouragement', terminating in the unheard of 'congratulations', which entitles you to a school prize. (The class 'intello' ((intellectual)) got 50 Euros every year until this year when a policy change meant he received a maths book, which did not go down well and has made him into a classic candidate for 'breaking bad' but I'm not at liberty to discuss that). However, some teachers even wrote 'bravo' on R's report, the highest (and most meaningless) of school praise, and his final summary, which seems to have been doled out by some sort of committee is;
"Some efforts have paid off it must be followed up by seeking more precision and rigour in written work. The term is globally satisfactory, ENCOURAGEMENT. May pass into 3rd class'.
You will note that the word 'ENCOURAGEMENT' is a kind of score/label, but is not actually delivered, however, for a Frenchy, all this is high praise and we are all very pleased (relieved).
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Friday, June 27, 2014
Noyer
Il
n'est pas possible que notre noyer soit en vie.
Il a
été coupé, commençant par le haut, chaque rameaux, chaque branche,
et chaque branche de son tronc.
Quand
le bûcheron est arrivé au moignon du tronc, j'ai demandé à ce bûcheron expérimenté; si nous laissons un bout de tronc n'est-il pas possible que l'arbre
repousse ?
AH
NON IMPOSSIBLE réponds le bûcheron expérimenté (il parle toujours
a haute voix) IL EST MORT, ON APPELLE CA UN MASSACRE...
(a ce
moment je devais quitter la scène en larmes).
Notre
ami A a eu le courage de visiter le tombeau un mois plus tard, en
décembre. Il m'a dit que le tronc saignait toujours de sève.
'Il
est toujours en vie?'
'Je
pense que la sève des racines ne sait pas encore que le haut est
coupé' il me réponds.
A ce
point je devais à nouveau quitter la scène en larmes.
Le
moignon du tronc a saigné tout l'hiver.
En
printemps, j'ai pris des morceaux de noyer et je les arrosais le
longue de notre chemin, et j'ai peint des fleures sur chaque branche
coupée, et sur le doit indexe d'un morceau, j'ai placé une pomme
d'or.
En
Juin, notre ami M. Noyer arrive.
'Vous
voyez? Vous ne pouvez JAMAIS tuer un noyer, toujours il repousse'
et il a montré les petits arbres de noyer qui poussaient autours du
grand tronc mort. Quand le noyer était en vie, il n'y avait
jamais les petits autours.
Aujourd'hui,
je faisait du jardinage et j'ai eu l'occasion de rendre visite à notre noyer mort, et j'ai vu quatre branches qui sortent du tronc.
Ici
un nouveau noyer qui pousse entre les bras des grandes racines,
j'appelle cet arbre la cinquième branche, je me demande s'il viens
de la même racine.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Annie Sloan; DON'T PANIC!
YES, I have finally got hold of a tin of Annie Sloan paint Antibes Green (in a stock clearance from a Belgian outlet - with all the shipping packing and whatnot it still cost a fortune, but I really want to experience this paint).
I shut the door to the delivery guy, prized open the lid and started painting the side of a kitchen unit even though I was still in pyjamas. I'd been visualising this moment for so long, nothing was going to get in my way, such as eternal list of domestic tasks.
Here is my mood board Pimpernel place mats which I found in a charity shop.
I've taken against crusty dustiness, shadows and the recent past, including the colour of our 2 year old kitchen which I 'chose'. (However, the choice was limited, I wanted limed/whitened wood but was not available in France, although the same company did it in England (Howdens/Houdan) which was particularly painful). So I 'need' to enliven it by painting some wall units white and some floor units green.
Here is the first 'coat', don't panic
After 3 hours drying time, here is the 2nd coat which took off some of the first coat - I managed to cajole it into place a while later, continue not to panic - should have left it more than touch dry, and more than 3 hours.
The third coat, not panic so much as mild despair - it either reveals the wood effect below or goes on so thickly it drools, and there's no going back over it to correct, it breaks up the surface, rather like plastering.
Tested some wax, it took off the first, second and third coat, as did a gentle sanding.
Did a fourth coat and vowed not to touch until morning.
I love the wild green, it's raucous, yet somehow encourages all the other colours to bask in it's glow, and I wish I had open space for an item of feature furniture item in this colour. But in our house downstairs space is limited and possessions packed in, and it's pretty shady so the green glows in the dark, and and this green has made the whole open plan downstairs area look tatty by comparison. Unless I want to repaint everything including my husband, I must subdue it a little.
I already had some pigment powder, added a little ochre and blue to achieve colour required.
Mild despair has lifted, labour-of-love intensive project though.
With Great Self-Restraint, left it overnight again.
As I waited for the layers to dry, I used the leftover scrapings and brushloads to re-do a chair which was thrown out by the neighbours. Here the paint comes into its own, glooping over the mouldings and creating delicious textures and colour variations. I even risked waxing it without leaving it overnight, as I was desperate to see if my coloured yellow wax and blue wax would adjust the colour to perfection, which it did. (I had already painted the straw seat with left over emulsion).
The next day I started with a little Attitude adjustment; this is not painting a cupboard, this is creating a work of art. My dulling down had worked a little too well, and this new green was not sociable with the other colours in the room, and was even a little grumpy. I did some colour fine-tuning with layers of coloured wax; yellow to soften, then blue to green it up a bit, and finally, white with a touch of Antibes Green to 'lift' and lighten it again (all waxes I mixed myself, from some leftover wax from a basement tadelakt project years ago, the yellow and blue with powdered pigments, the 'white' with some white paint and Antibes green paint mixed in).
When I began to polish off the wax coats, I noticed that the paint, in a kind of 'shrink wrap' drying process had moulded into the wood grain of the veneer, and honoured it's lines. It was evolution of the original surface rather than eradication, gentle and sensitive transformation. It was reminding me of the faux marble I saw in the Vatican Museum in Rome. It's a sort of wood marbling...
Now I'm happy, and polishing it to a soft gloss is an honour and a pleasure. I can stare endlessly at the texture and colour variations which go to make up the whole surface.
Conclusions; this paint is challenging and capricious, requires all my senses and intelligence to respond to it and make it work, but replies to my deepest longings and is utterly rewarding, I would like to surround myself with the whole range - but how?
I shut the door to the delivery guy, prized open the lid and started painting the side of a kitchen unit even though I was still in pyjamas. I'd been visualising this moment for so long, nothing was going to get in my way, such as eternal list of domestic tasks.
Here is my mood board Pimpernel place mats which I found in a charity shop.
I've taken against crusty dustiness, shadows and the recent past, including the colour of our 2 year old kitchen which I 'chose'. (However, the choice was limited, I wanted limed/whitened wood but was not available in France, although the same company did it in England (Howdens/Houdan) which was particularly painful). So I 'need' to enliven it by painting some wall units white and some floor units green.
Here is the first 'coat', don't panic
After 3 hours drying time, here is the 2nd coat which took off some of the first coat - I managed to cajole it into place a while later, continue not to panic - should have left it more than touch dry, and more than 3 hours.
The third coat, not panic so much as mild despair - it either reveals the wood effect below or goes on so thickly it drools, and there's no going back over it to correct, it breaks up the surface, rather like plastering.
Tested some wax, it took off the first, second and third coat, as did a gentle sanding.
Did a fourth coat and vowed not to touch until morning.
I love the wild green, it's raucous, yet somehow encourages all the other colours to bask in it's glow, and I wish I had open space for an item of feature furniture item in this colour. But in our house downstairs space is limited and possessions packed in, and it's pretty shady so the green glows in the dark, and and this green has made the whole open plan downstairs area look tatty by comparison. Unless I want to repaint everything including my husband, I must subdue it a little.
I already had some pigment powder, added a little ochre and blue to achieve colour required.
Mild despair has lifted, labour-of-love intensive project though.
With Great Self-Restraint, left it overnight again.
As I waited for the layers to dry, I used the leftover scrapings and brushloads to re-do a chair which was thrown out by the neighbours. Here the paint comes into its own, glooping over the mouldings and creating delicious textures and colour variations. I even risked waxing it without leaving it overnight, as I was desperate to see if my coloured yellow wax and blue wax would adjust the colour to perfection, which it did. (I had already painted the straw seat with left over emulsion).
The next day I started with a little Attitude adjustment; this is not painting a cupboard, this is creating a work of art. My dulling down had worked a little too well, and this new green was not sociable with the other colours in the room, and was even a little grumpy. I did some colour fine-tuning with layers of coloured wax; yellow to soften, then blue to green it up a bit, and finally, white with a touch of Antibes Green to 'lift' and lighten it again (all waxes I mixed myself, from some leftover wax from a basement tadelakt project years ago, the yellow and blue with powdered pigments, the 'white' with some white paint and Antibes green paint mixed in).
When I began to polish off the wax coats, I noticed that the paint, in a kind of 'shrink wrap' drying process had moulded into the wood grain of the veneer, and honoured it's lines. It was evolution of the original surface rather than eradication, gentle and sensitive transformation. It was reminding me of the faux marble I saw in the Vatican Museum in Rome. It's a sort of wood marbling...
Now I'm happy, and polishing it to a soft gloss is an honour and a pleasure. I can stare endlessly at the texture and colour variations which go to make up the whole surface.
Conclusions; this paint is challenging and capricious, requires all my senses and intelligence to respond to it and make it work, but replies to my deepest longings and is utterly rewarding, I would like to surround myself with the whole range - but how?
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Nuclear Drill at R's School
As far as I am aware the advice in the event of nuclear attack is: take shelter under desk and kiss your ass goodbye, but maybe I'm out of date.
We did have a nuclear attack preparation at my school in the 1970s, but even then the teachers exposed it for what it was by simple addition of logic to facts. Mrs Williams and Mr Abbott, once they had given lip-service to the obligatory bits, drew out their guitars and gave us a hard-strumming rendition of the anti nuclear protest song 'Before we had the War', which was much more sensible. God I loved the 70s.
However, R has been recalled on Wednesday afternoon for a 'What to do in the event of a Nuclear Attack' session, where the class will learn to tape up the windows and take shelter under the desk. The class teacher Mrs Essex-Facelift has let it be known that she is Not Happy about this as she is not being paid for the extra hours. Good to know we can rely on the French teaching profession in an emergency.
R hopes that once the windows are safely taped up they will be able to play cards and board games, but suspects Mrs Essex-Facelift will vent her spleen by making them WORK.
When R came home after the nuclear drill he was in a sweat and could only mutter 'torture, torture' so I had to drag this out of him.
The Headmistress Mrs Scruton opened the proceedings by shouting
"NUCLEAR ATTACK NUCLEAR ATTACK'
over the tannoy, which was broadcast in every classroom, Big Brother style. Then she shouted something like:
'ASSUME HIGH SECURITY POSITION' but no-one was sure as her voice had become distorted beyond recognition by the excessive shouting and poor quality of the PA system.
At this point a mysterious man in black entered the classroom, opened his black attache case and withdrew one bottle of water, a handful of plastic cups, a pair of scissors and some rolls of sticky tape.
'Who was he?' I asked, aghast
'Um, 'chief of zone B' or something...nobody knows.' (his identity will have to remain mysterious).
Mrs Essex-Facelift was in a bad mood about it all but this did not stop her making sure the job was done in every absurd detail. Every window, keyhole and air vent was taped up. Clothes from Lost Property were employed to cover the internal door.
'Did you recognise any of your lost clothes?' I said excitedly.
'No' replied R, with an air of detachment.
'I have another question. How do you know you will have sufficient sticky tape should the terrible day arrive?' I asked, but R could only continue with the story.
It then became very hot indeed in the classroom, and of course airless. When someone complained there was only one bottle of water between 30, Mrs Essex-Facelift shouted 'I HAVE TO STAND UP AND TEACH YOU FOR TWO HOURS AND DO YOU EVER SEE ME DRINKING?' and she set about banning pupils from fanning themselves and wiping water on their faces and other survival initiatives. 'AND STOP FIDGETING, YOU'RE WASTING OXYGEN' she added.
R later found out that the other classes had an appropriate number of bottles of water and plastic cups but Mrs Essex-Facelift had apparently decided to make the nuclear survival process just that little bit more challenging. I think she would benefit from some counselling. They shared out the water, one cup between four.
'What about the spread of infectious diseases?' I asked.
Bets were on that Mrs Essex-Facelift would force the class to do extra French, but she appeared to have been banned from doing this by the Minister of Education (or perhaps in this case the Minister of Defence) so she had to resort to forcing them to watch Alfred Hitchcock 'The Birds', a puzzling choice. R complained that it was an 'old film from the 70s' and 'very badly done' with 'random birds and blood everywhere.'. (Yes we did have the discussion about the old days when there were no computers simulations etc). After one hour and a half of suffocating heat, oxygen deprivation and bird terror, the pupils were released, their physical and mental health shattered.
I asked R if he had learned anything about nuclear explosions, or if he knew why they were taping up the windows but he did not reply.
We did have a nuclear attack preparation at my school in the 1970s, but even then the teachers exposed it for what it was by simple addition of logic to facts. Mrs Williams and Mr Abbott, once they had given lip-service to the obligatory bits, drew out their guitars and gave us a hard-strumming rendition of the anti nuclear protest song 'Before we had the War', which was much more sensible. God I loved the 70s.
However, R has been recalled on Wednesday afternoon for a 'What to do in the event of a Nuclear Attack' session, where the class will learn to tape up the windows and take shelter under the desk. The class teacher Mrs Essex-Facelift has let it be known that she is Not Happy about this as she is not being paid for the extra hours. Good to know we can rely on the French teaching profession in an emergency.
R hopes that once the windows are safely taped up they will be able to play cards and board games, but suspects Mrs Essex-Facelift will vent her spleen by making them WORK.
When R came home after the nuclear drill he was in a sweat and could only mutter 'torture, torture' so I had to drag this out of him.
The Headmistress Mrs Scruton opened the proceedings by shouting
"NUCLEAR ATTACK NUCLEAR ATTACK'
over the tannoy, which was broadcast in every classroom, Big Brother style. Then she shouted something like:
'ASSUME HIGH SECURITY POSITION' but no-one was sure as her voice had become distorted beyond recognition by the excessive shouting and poor quality of the PA system.
At this point a mysterious man in black entered the classroom, opened his black attache case and withdrew one bottle of water, a handful of plastic cups, a pair of scissors and some rolls of sticky tape.
'Who was he?' I asked, aghast
'Um, 'chief of zone B' or something...nobody knows.' (his identity will have to remain mysterious).
Mrs Essex-Facelift was in a bad mood about it all but this did not stop her making sure the job was done in every absurd detail. Every window, keyhole and air vent was taped up. Clothes from Lost Property were employed to cover the internal door.
'Did you recognise any of your lost clothes?' I said excitedly.
'No' replied R, with an air of detachment.
'I have another question. How do you know you will have sufficient sticky tape should the terrible day arrive?' I asked, but R could only continue with the story.
It then became very hot indeed in the classroom, and of course airless. When someone complained there was only one bottle of water between 30, Mrs Essex-Facelift shouted 'I HAVE TO STAND UP AND TEACH YOU FOR TWO HOURS AND DO YOU EVER SEE ME DRINKING?' and she set about banning pupils from fanning themselves and wiping water on their faces and other survival initiatives. 'AND STOP FIDGETING, YOU'RE WASTING OXYGEN' she added.
R later found out that the other classes had an appropriate number of bottles of water and plastic cups but Mrs Essex-Facelift had apparently decided to make the nuclear survival process just that little bit more challenging. I think she would benefit from some counselling. They shared out the water, one cup between four.
'What about the spread of infectious diseases?' I asked.
Bets were on that Mrs Essex-Facelift would force the class to do extra French, but she appeared to have been banned from doing this by the Minister of Education (or perhaps in this case the Minister of Defence) so she had to resort to forcing them to watch Alfred Hitchcock 'The Birds', a puzzling choice. R complained that it was an 'old film from the 70s' and 'very badly done' with 'random birds and blood everywhere.'. (Yes we did have the discussion about the old days when there were no computers simulations etc). After one hour and a half of suffocating heat, oxygen deprivation and bird terror, the pupils were released, their physical and mental health shattered.
I asked R if he had learned anything about nuclear explosions, or if he knew why they were taping up the windows but he did not reply.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Woodland Garden in June
Here is what has happened so far to the structure built in April, the only maintenace was one short weeding session. I'm overwhelmed by the show put on by our dry shade tolerant iris foetidissima. Is it the loving attention? (more likely our exceptionally mild winter, which they appreciate apparently).
It's name (trans; the most stinky one) comes from the fact that it's leaves when crushed are stinking man (but I've never gone searching for what I don't need to know). It's colours (cream and pale veined lilac) are not exactly striking, but I think the overall effect has subtle charm, and anyway if you've got dry shade you are grateful for anything you can get.
The clumps of leaves have looked good winter and spring, and I'm hoping for a good crop of scarlet berries in the autumn; I'm cautious about this as we are experiencing Paris Monsoon season , something which pleases our friends the snails. Yesterday I observed one large snail on every flower. JC threw them over the neighbour's wall. When I questioned the morality of this he said: it will help him mow his lawn - and in any case there's no food over there so they head straight back to our garden - but at least the climb over the wall will slow them down. (I'm wondering if JC isn't a secret adept of chronic uneighbourliness?)
It's name (trans; the most stinky one) comes from the fact that it's leaves when crushed are stinking man (but I've never gone searching for what I don't need to know). It's colours (cream and pale veined lilac) are not exactly striking, but I think the overall effect has subtle charm, and anyway if you've got dry shade you are grateful for anything you can get.
The clumps of leaves have looked good winter and spring, and I'm hoping for a good crop of scarlet berries in the autumn; I'm cautious about this as we are experiencing Paris Monsoon season , something which pleases our friends the snails. Yesterday I observed one large snail on every flower. JC threw them over the neighbour's wall. When I questioned the morality of this he said: it will help him mow his lawn - and in any case there's no food over there so they head straight back to our garden - but at least the climb over the wall will slow them down. (I'm wondering if JC isn't a secret adept of chronic uneighbourliness?)
 |
| The structure holds in the 'tatty' season, with primula and violets which have gone over, the remains of herb robert flowers and a touch of wild strawberry and ground ivy |
 |
| Iris Foetidissima |
 |
| A small stone owl I fell in love with |
 |
| The pebbled areas still look good, campenula late flowering in the shade |
 |
| Yes we did get some cherries, the one straggling tree we saved did the work of many, 2 kilos, 4 pots of jam |
Storm Aftermath
After the storm, the moss is knocked from the roof, and plums, leaves, twigs and surprised snails are shaken from the trees, the geraniums are no more, trees are war torn and new inland waterways have formed. Here are the culprits. R&B braved the storm in short bursts to gather them, and B had the brilliant idea of storing some in the freezer.
 |
| The Giant Hailstones |
 |
| Leaf table cloth |
 |
| A surprised snail, previously lodging in a tree, finds himself on the ground |
 |
| Japanese Neflia damaged in the bombardment. |
 |
| The lake in the waterproof cover of swing seat |
STORM; Paris, June 2014
After a 35 degrees hot and humid day I noticed flashing lights in the evening sky. We all rushed up to the loft and gasped over the spectacular light show. It was as if the sky gods were in a battle, shooting lightning at one another without once touching the ground. Every dot-to-dot possibility was explored, in hues of pink peach and purple, and sometimes the sky lit up like day.
B and I went out into the street to try for some overhead shots.
The lightning continued to flash, but it was calm, and it seemed as though the storm would pass us by. B had packed up his tripod, and I was lingering awhile in the quiet night when I heard a noise, rather like a stone hitting some metal scaffolding, then a thud, then a blow to the van next to me.
I looked round for someone throwing stones, but there was no-one, just an ever increasing collection of thuds and whacks. There was almost no wind, so I reasoned it couldn't be flying debris in the path of the storm. I felt at any moment I would be hit by an unidentified flying object, so I made my way inside, and on the doorstep I saw a large white rock of ice, and I realised we were about to be pelted by giant hailstones.
I shouted at everyone to shut the windows and shutters and get the cats in. Then suddenly the sky became a squealing mass of furious fiends hurling rocks at our roof, windows and doors, a pounding bombardment with occasional foundation-rocking direct hits, surround sound so loud we could not hear ourselves shouting.
The cats called this Unnatural and went howling mad.
THE WILDEST AND MOST THRILLING STORM EVER EXPERIENCED, even by those of us approaching 50.
 |
| Sky gods shooting lightening at one another |
B and I went out into the street to try for some overhead shots.
The lightning continued to flash, but it was calm, and it seemed as though the storm would pass us by. B had packed up his tripod, and I was lingering awhile in the quiet night when I heard a noise, rather like a stone hitting some metal scaffolding, then a thud, then a blow to the van next to me.
I looked round for someone throwing stones, but there was no-one, just an ever increasing collection of thuds and whacks. There was almost no wind, so I reasoned it couldn't be flying debris in the path of the storm. I felt at any moment I would be hit by an unidentified flying object, so I made my way inside, and on the doorstep I saw a large white rock of ice, and I realised we were about to be pelted by giant hailstones.
I shouted at everyone to shut the windows and shutters and get the cats in. Then suddenly the sky became a squealing mass of furious fiends hurling rocks at our roof, windows and doors, a pounding bombardment with occasional foundation-rocking direct hits, surround sound so loud we could not hear ourselves shouting.
The cats called this Unnatural and went howling mad.
THE WILDEST AND MOST THRILLING STORM EVER EXPERIENCED, even by those of us approaching 50.
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