Kitty Chat

I had a lady come over to visit me from Caisse Allocations Famille to assess my 'continued entitlement'. CAF had written me a letter before her arrival asking me to make sure I had all the paperwork together for her visit: the last few months of bills/factures, all of our passports, my titre de sejour, HLM contract, my divorce paperwork. She was very charming and kind, very helpful, explaining everything in slow steady French and it actually did help to have everything out for her ready to look at, such as my EDF bill…

"667 € ??? " Yes, but that's for the last two winter months it was so cold, this last one is not so bad, it’s only 85€. "Oui, bien sûr, mais… 667 € ???" I explained, “This HLM is not bien isolé, I'm afraid. The windows are double-glazed, true, but concrete floors covered in linoleum and walls en béton makes for a very cold flat… I had to keep the electric heaters on this winter just to keep it warm enough for the children. I think Giselle upstairs is warmer.” "Of course she is... you are very kindly heating her flat for her. You must complain, this is ridiculous…" I gave her a look, “I should complain to the HLM?” and she laughed. "Yes, nothing will come of it but you must still complain, it will be good practice."

She seemed fine with everything else until she got to my Divorce paperwork. "My reading English is not good perhaps but I understand from this that your husband wants you to pay him maintenance? You, une mère isolé? You who are without a job and have two children to take care of toute seule, here in France?" She looked at me with complete disbelief. Hmm, yes, I am having a problem getting my head around this as well, actually. I shrugged, “Oui, toute a fait, that is what he wants, plus extra money from time to time as well.” "And just where does he think this money will come from? Does he not comprehend your situation? I cannot believe he would ask you for money if he did.” I managed a wry smile, “Ahhh, but you were never married to him…” She picked up the Divorce papers again and shook her head, “This is even more ridiculous than your EDF Facture." Well, yes, I had to agree with that and it made me chuckle. "You realise, I hope, the tribunal will never consent to this, even an Anglais Court will see it is an incredible claim and will throw it out." I can only hope. She took the papers with her to photocopy, shaking her head the whole time.

Dealing with a cheerful Functionnaire with a sense of humour! How fun! What a rarity! Especially now that my French has improved to the point to allow me to understand a joke! Tell you what… this fact has really brightened my day!

Eek! Exclamation points!

How best to discuss a tragedy? Some might say, “Better not to discuss it at all.” Others will say, “No matter how you approach it, it will be seen as gossiping, as ‘Internet Rubbernecking’, can we see blood? Are the victims bleeding? Anyone crying?”

Well discuss it I must for two reasons. Firstly, if you are not from the French culture, you would not know how to behave, what the protocol was, what the respectful thing was to do in a situation like this… you have to be told. And believe me, French convention is sometimes so completely different from both English and American custom and practice, without being told, you would have no clue. Secondly, this event deeply and profoundly affected me.

I suppose we will never know exactly what happened, even the people present have no idea how it occurred. It was a normal Wednesday, just three days ago. The kids were playing in the pool with the Lilos, splashing about; their parents were sitting and chatting, enjoying the lovely afternoon. It had been a pleasant day and Séverine was only stopping long enough to pick up her older daughter from the pool party, she only sat down long enough to have a glass of coke with her younger daughter, little 17 month-old Sidney, playing at her feet. Sidney was just right there playing right in front of her. Three adults watching the children in the pool, just enjoying the day, really. But then, hold on, where was Sidney? She was right here, playing on the decking. Kids! Have you seen Sidney? Everyone out of the pool! Where is she? Oh my God! The gate is open! Has she wandered down to the river? They rushed down to see, to try to find her, everyone panicking. No, she was not in the river. She was actually still in the pool. She had fallen in; the Lilos had hidden her… They did everything they could to revive her. Twenty minutes of CPR until the paramedics showed up… but it was too late.

This is a double tragedy as it affects at least two families, the owners of the pool and the parents of the child who has died. It also affects the wider community; it affects our Commune of Cléguérec because, as alone as we may feel from time to time, we are still part of a family of friends and a family of parents of children. We have our children in the two schools together, they eat at the cantine each lunchtime together, even if there is a fundamental difference between the École Privée St. Joseph and the École Publique, we are still all members of the same Commune. We are still parents. Any child’s death will affect us.

I heard about this from my daughters as I picked them up from school on Thursday. I didn’t understand and brushed it off as some story or other. It was only yesterday, Friday, as both girls were insistent that something had happened, that I asked at the school for more information, then for clarification from Ruby when I stopped in her shop on the way home. Yes, it did occur, it was not a story. But which child? The younger sister of Gladys, a classmate of both Ruby’s youngest daughter and my youngest daughter. The girl with red hair. God, please not the little girl who had the same colour hair as mine… the child with the charming smile, the beautiful big, bright eyes… It was she? …yes, I knew her…

So what do you do? In the UK, it would be customary to send a card and/or flowers of sympathy and condolence. Possibly go along to the funeral if you were close friends or family. That is also the tradition here but with one additional ritual that you must do if you knew the child, the parents or the family. Actually, this applies if you only know the parents from the school gates.

You must go to the Chapel of Rest, to the Funérarium and view the body.

Going to view the body, if you were not a member of the immediate family or a close family friend, would be thought of as an intrusion on the family’s own grieving in the UK. Not here, here it is different. You would be remembered for NOT showing up. Ruby had checked on the etiquette of what to in a situation such as this with a French friend of hers and Marie-Francis was utterly insistent. You MUST go view the body.

This is why I found myself sitting, in a small, darkened room with Sidney, her family and other parents from the École Privée. The family take turns keeping a vigil with the body until the funeral. Sidney was lying on a small bed, dressed in pink pyjamas, covered up to her chest with a white satin and lace sheet. She could have been asleep except the covers did not rise and fall, there was no little snuffling movements, her thumb did not stray to her mouth but stayed modestly interlaced with her fingers on her chest. There were tall oil lamps either side of the bed, this was the only light, as I recall. I counted over 25 bouquets of flowers and flower arrangements placed around her bed; there were so many, I could not see them all.

This was very hard. I did not want to be here. I did not know these people in the room. I only knew this Séverine from the school gates; this is not my other, close friend Séverine. My only real link with this woman and this child is the colour of my hair, we had remarked on it before, laughing, as the Mother’s hair is dark. But this is the only link I have to this tragic family. Nevertheless, it was enough of a link to require me to show up and go through with this thing I had to do. My obligation as a member of the community.

I just sat there, in the room and cried. I cried for a little girl and her parents who I did not know well. I cried for my friends, the English family who had the pool in which she drowned. I cried for my own loss of a child. I cried because I knew that my children were safe and alive but this little girl was not. I cried because I am a parent. I cried because I am a Mum and tomorrow, Sunday, is Fête des Mères and this poor Mother will forever link her Mothering Sunday with her child’s death. I cried because I am human and weak and life is so fragile, the link we have between this existence and the unknown is so tenuous. I cried until I was certain I could not cry anymore.

Then I just felt numb. I stood up and Séverine met me halfway across the room, in front of Sidney and her little satin-covered bed. I gave her two kisses and then a hug and we held each other tight for a bit. I said I was so sorry I did not know Sidney better. I held up a lock of my hair, she smiled and touched my hair and said, “But you did know her from the school, you did know her.” I told her again that I wished I had known her better. I didn’t know what else to say. What can you say to a Mum in a situation like this? How could I, a stranger, a foreigner, possibly comfort her? I could barely find the words in English, let alone in French. She thanked me for coming; I thanked her for allowing me to partake as sharing the grief was not the custom in the UK. Then she stumbled out another thank you, this time in English, as awkwardness came between us.

Again, I said I was devastated for her. “Je suis sens figuré, je vous plains, et très, très désolé pour vous et votre famille.” She shrugged, as if to say, ‘Oh well’. I stopped her. “No. Please, understand. This is your child, it is not a light matter, this is serious, a serious event.” Her eyes said it all to me, so much grief lying there, grief that would fade as the years went on but never leave her and I understood completely. You never get over the loss of a child. Children are supposed to go into the future carrying our genes with them, taking a bit of us forward. Having to bury your own child is the worst event that can ever happen to you in your life. I hugged Séverine one last time and walked out into the bright afternoon, my eyes hidden behind my sunglasses as I found yet more tears to shed.

Today was the funeral but I could not attend as it took place in St. Aignan and I haven’t a car or transport. Besides, I was picking up Ruby’s girls from the Saturday half day school, along with my two. I had offered since Ruby and her husband wanted to attend the funeral. This may sound callous but having some of ‘Les Anglais’ there at the funeral is a good move politically for all of us expats. The girls had a picnic on the lawn of jambon beurre baguettes served with glasses of lemonade and I wrote this Blog as I sat at the table in front of my big window watching them as they played, running and laughing, fighting over whose turn it was on the bikes. When Ruby came to pick the girls up, she said the worst part about the funeral, besides the small, petite, white coffin, was the little pair of red baby’s shoes placed on the top. She saw that and lost it. Similar, I think, to how I felt when I saw the card addressed simply to “Mummy” placed with the flowers on Princess Diana’s coffin. I didn’t cry during that whole, long drawn-out televised event until then, until I saw that very personal, human touch. That one thing then made what had happened real to me.

This was a hard Blog to write as it is a sensitive, delicate and personal subject but I felt the information it contained needed to be seen by at least a few people. It was hard as well because as I feel so raw after what has occurred, this Blog has been a reaction to this and I am hoping my writing doesn’t sound fey, twee or contrived; this should just be an expression of facts as I see them and an expression of how I feel. Writing this has been really helpful to me, it has helped me work through my grief and come to terms with more issues than Sidney’s death. Her death, in itself, has been a major event, but writing this Blog has also caused me to look at my own loss, something I haven’t felt willing to do.

I have decided to wait to post this until after Sunday and the French Fête des Mères as I did not want to put a damper on anyone’s Mothering Sunday with this particular Blog. It’s depressing reading and if you have gotten this far, well, I would like to thank you. I pray that no one will ever have the need to use this information but I know with a certain sadness that some of you will. Life is a circle without a beginning; we are all together in the circle of life. It’s true. It is not just a Disney song or a line from Lost Horizon. I suppose I could even say for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Since we have this ecstasy of life, we must also have the sorrow of death.

So while we are here, with what time we have left, let us dance. Let us hold our children and our partners close and love them with all that we have. Let us tell those we hold dear how much they mean to us. Let us smile at each other with love in our eyes and know we are loved in return. Please. Do it now… before you let another minute pass. Before it is too late.

How fun. Sitting at Tranquility and translating some advertising for Hilary, the girls outside playing with balloons as it was Hilary’s birthday and they were running up to people passing by and asking, “Would you like a piece of Birthday Cake?” in both French and English when I heard an unmistakable LA accent drift in from the open door. My head snapped up faster than if someone had mentioned Nordie’s Outlet was having a sale. (Oh dear, old memories and habits die hard! Nordstrom’s Outlet near Fashion Valley in San Diego. Now I’m jonesin’… They have a fantastic selection of bras… Oh Kitty, get over it…)
Anyway, in walked David and Judy from Silverlake, California (well, near Silverlake…) along with Eric who is an old friend of theirs and a Sport’s Journalist with Ouest-France. Cool! Can you check my translation and see if it’s ok? (Yes, I am cheeky…)

It was great to speak to someone who knows what the ‘Blue Whale’ is (Pacific Design Center) and has an idea of not only where North Kings Road is… but also what it was like to live there. I got all nostalgic for a bit, thinking about lazy Sunday mornings, grinding freshly roasted coffee beans and making a big pot of coffee. Slicing open Valencia oranges from the back garden to squeeze fresh juice before sequestering the window seat under the huge front kitchen window for the rest of the morning, with the Los Angeles Times spread out across the big table. Pushing up the heavy wooden casement windows and sitting as a breeze wafted a sultry summer morning through the wire-mesh mosquito screen. Or sitting listening to the staccato sound as a rare rain pattered down on the porch roof. I loved that house, even though I was only there for a brief time, just before I went to England the first time.

I will always remember fondly the time I spent in L.A. I also would never choose to go back there to live. Visit, yes… I would love to go take up my old barstool at Barney’s Beanery, go get a Fatburger at 3am, stand in Rita Hayworth’s footprints in front of Mann’s, see Opera at the Chandler or a musical at the Shubert. In an instant, I can think of a thousand things to do in L.A.! I know the little restaurants, the neighbourhoods, Chinatown, Alvera Street, Big and Little Santa Monica, Beverly Hills. I can picture my Dad’s house up in the Hollywood Hills where he lived when he performed at the Canteen Club during and after the War. The windy, windy roads you had to drive to get there. Oh! Venice Beach and John Bucchino’s house, listening to him play the piano for Michael and me… that memory cuts straight to my soul. Watching the Pacific swallow up the sun from the sand at Redondo as the afternoon drew to a close and the night had just begun. The sultry swish-swish of hakamas and bare feet on canvas at the Dojo. I remember Encino and Sherman Oaks and Hamburger Hamlet and the Record Plant. I remember Burbank and the studios. The show I worked at the Colony Theatre. Flashes of so many years spent in and near LA come flooding back to me. This is silly, but I have just made myself cry with these keen memories. Memories of a me that was so young, so naïve…

Los Angeles, city of the Fallen Angels… this is another place that I will go back to one day. Just… no time soon. I want to go back with a special someone, to walk the streets, to show the sights, to experience the LA that I know so well. Perhaps this will never come about… on the other hand, I can always take a 15cm holiday and just imagine it in my mind… save a bundle of cash as well and no problems with reservations!

I wrote this big, old, long, moan-y posting for today. Then figured, who the hell wants to hear someone moaning on about their personal problems? Truth in advertising, Kitty, this is supposed to be about your dealings with the French Authorities, not about your 'lack-of-a-love-life'. Why are you whinging on about your intimate issues? Don't people have enough problems themselves? Stuff it. So I have gone in and changed most of today's posting. Actually… just about all of it.

I guess this all started because I had gone back into Kittychat and read my last few 'Happy-Chappy' positive Motivational Blogs from the last week or so and thought, 'Geez, Kitty, what a load of old toss.' See, I was looking at these 'The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow' postings from the viewpoint of a god-awful, stressful, terrible and depressing day. So I wrote this Blog about how crap life can be… then thought better of it because, no matter how crap life is… it is ALWAYS better than the alternative.

The point that I am trying to make is, we can't always have good days, we won't always have bad days. It's a mixture of the two. It's some of this and some of that. It's never black and white, it's shades of grey, its Technicolor as well. Sometimes it is even Dorothy walking through her Kansas farmhouse door into the Land of Oz. Please understand I am not 'Little Mary Sunshine', neither am I 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm' nor am I even 'Miss Polly Purebred'. The sun does not always shine out of my arse. I am imperfect, I am flawed and, in all actuality and truthfulness, I am just me: human, female, fragile, with all the problems, insecurities and struggles of any other human on the planet in this same type of situation. You could say 'I am Unique… like everyone else…' (Thank you, Simone…)

I got a great e-mail from my friend Sharon (It's Heaven in Devon) with lots of ruminating quotes to think about and ponder over (and to make into future Blogs.) One of them is this… (It is so important it is in bold and gets its own paragraph… ready?)

A person will forget what you say, a person will forget what you do… but a person will never forget how you make them feel.

Why did that make me burst out crying? (PMT second time this month? I think not…) It made me cry because it immediately brought to my mind people that I have hurt in the past. Some hurts have been intentional, admittedly, and that causes me great shame. (Guilt - the gift that keeps on giving…) Some hurts have been completely unintentional and that causes a knife through my soul. How can you go back and apologise, take back the hurt that has occurred? You can't. You have to live with it and know that the injured party will live with it as well… for the rest of their lives.

On the other hand, looking at from a positive viewpoint, the way you make a person feel can profoundly affect their life in an advantageous manner as well. Lets take Aldonza as a for instance. (I am doing this from memory so if the lyrics are off, don't pull me up on it!)

In Cervantes' 'Don Quixote de la Mancha' or the theatre version, 'The Man of La Mancha', Don Quixote treats the whore Aldonza with kindness and respect… for the first time in her life. He calls her Dulcinea and sings a beautiful love song to her,

'I have dreamed thee too long, never seen thee or touched thee, but known thee with all of my heart, half a prayer, half a song, thou hast always been with me, though we have been always apart.
Dulcinea ... Dulcinea ... I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea, and thy name is like a prayer an angel whispers ... Dulcinea ... Dulcinea!
If I reach out to thee, do not tremble and shrink from the touch of my hand on thy hair. Let my fingers but see
Thou art warm and alive, and no phantom to fade in the air.'

Aldonza does not understand him and sings, 'Why do you do the things you do? Why do you do these things? Why do you battle at walls that won't break? Why do you give when it's natural to take? No one can live in the world that you build and what do you want of me? Doesn't he know, he'll be laughed at, wherever he goes… and why I'm not laughing myself… I don't know.'

As Quixote keeps treating her like a lady, even though he is scoffed at and rebuffed, and Aldonza is made fun of; Aldonza begins, slowly and eventually, to take respect in herself and shuns the attention, and money, of the men, her usual clients. The men won't have this and rape her. She then confronts Don Quixote with herself, beaten, bruised and filthy after the rape and tries to make him see how she really is,

'For a lady has modest and maidenly airs and a virtue I somehow suspect that I lack. It's hard to remember these maidenly airs in a stable laid flat on your back. Won't you look at me, look at me, God, won't you look at me! Look at the kitchen slut reeking of sweat. Born on a dung heap to die on a dung heap, a strumpet men use and forget. If you feel that you see me not quite at my virginal best, cross my palm with a coin and I'll willingly show you the rest.'
Quixote protests, "Never deny thou art Dulcinea!" Aldonza continues, 'Take the clouds from your eyes and see me as I really am! You have shown me the sky, but what good is the sky to a creature who'll never do better than crawl? Of all the cruel devils who've badgered and battered me, YOU are the cruelest of all. Can't you see what your gentle insanities do to me - Rob me of anger and give me despair? Blows and abuse I can take and give back again; tenderness I cannot bear. So don't reach out to me when your sweet Dulcinea you call. I'm nothing! I'm no one! I'm only Aldonza , THE WHORE!

'Quixote replies, 'Now and forever, you are my Lady Dulcinea!' Quixote had absolute faith in the inner Dulcinea inside the battered Aldonza… he could see her as she could be, not as she was. In the end, she takes on this personality… 'My name is Dulcinea.'

The manner in which Quixote treated the whore Aldonza was different, far different from anything she had ever encountered. He made her feel worthy of respect and admiration, made her feel that her life had a higher value than she was according it. He made her feel like a Lady. This turned her into the Lady Dulcinea in her mind and therefore also in her outward character and persona.

However, how many people have you met who have the same opinion of themselves as Aldonza did? They don't realise their 'true' potential. They have never, perhaps, looked inside to find out their own uniqueness, their own special gifts. They have never challenged themselves to find out or they have never met anyone to cause them to look within and discover themselves. Yes, I think that is what is most likely, they have just never met the right person, the right catalyst… yet.

I really like the saying that my English Lit teacher gave me way, way, back in High School.

'Loving someone means seeing them as God intended them to be.'

To me, that saying means accepting someone just as they are and looking inside for that special bit that we all contain. Some say that love is blind, well, I can agree, perhaps. On the other hand, maybe it is not blindness at all… maybe it is actually this: that by loving someone, it means you actually have a superior perceptive eye; that you can see in the person you love, that 'specialness' that is theirs and theirs alone? Conceivably, as Quixote with Aldonza, you are the only one who can… and the only one who ever will.

There is a Dulcinea in each of us. I pray that each of you will find your own Don Quixote to discover it.

You know, I used to get lots of nice text messages from friends on my Orange account. Now it's more often stuff like 'Viagra! Wholesale prices!' Uh-huh… well, I have never needed Viagra in the past, thank you, certainly never in a quantity of a gross (can you imagine?)… But I'll be sure to call this Premium rate phone number to order some… if the need ever arises… or, >>cough-cough<< doesn't as the case may be.

Just as soon as I get all that cash from that Nigerian Bank swindle… Do people actually fall for these outlandish scams? No, I am not interested in buying Micro$oft soft-in-the-head-ware at 'All new!!! Rock-Bottom Prices!!!!' The exclamation points alone are enough to put me off, if nothing else. How did they get my phone number? Or is it my e-mail, as my Orange mobile account buzzes me when I get either a text on the mobile or e-mail on the orange.fr account. I keep my mobile phone in the front pocket of my jeans and it always makes me jump just about out of my skin when it goes off, no matter how many times I have received a text in the past.

Silly, really, but good exercise.

I have now reached that delectable stage that happens in all of my successful diet/weight-loss regimes. I am no longer obsessing about what I am putting in my mouth and instead eating only when I am hungry. So, not often. In fact, it’s more a sense of how little did I manage with today?

In case anyone believes for a moment I am going the way of Karen Carpenter, may I heartily assure you that I am a good 6-8 stones away from that point in time… I enjoy the sensual pleasure of eating too much to become anorexic. Plus, I am too good of a cook. And after having Morning Sickness with all three of my children, I cannot for a instant understand the fascination of bulimia. Heh you chubby girls! Why not just exercise and put proper nutrients in the old gob?

So again… Musculation. I know I need to do it, I know I HAVE to do it. I now have some bodacious music to exercise to. It’s just across the street. I can use the money I was going to buy a brassiere with and instead get a year’s membership… and a key. (Can you believe they trust you enough to just give you a key to the place? After going to a Gold’s Gym and that ilk in So Cal, this ‘weight-room’ and the frank honesty that is expected and given just amazes me and cracks me up… You know, I love rural France… it’s so darn quaint…)

If you are going to hang around here and read this Blog from time to time, then you might as well do some work as well... what do you think? Self-exploration can be fun. Let's look at today's task.

Consider this...
If a man, who had been blind since birth, was to wake up one day, open his eyes and suddenly be able to see for the first time in his life... how do you think he would feel?

To be able to reach out and not only touch, but see the face of his dear wife as she smiled at him through joyful tears, see his children's faces as they laughed and danced around him, see the wispy, white clouds parading across the blue of the sky and startlingly, his own refection in a mirror. If he could then walk around and experience his home, his garden, place the scents of the flowers with their gaudy colours... watch the waves as they crashed onto the shore, see the magical ephemera of a rainbow, watch the stars come out as day changed into night and then the sudden flash as the surprise of a falling star sparkled briefly before disappearing.

This man most likely would never want to close his eyes to sleep, but if he did, and when he awoke, he found himself blind again... how should he then feel?

Should he curse at God for robbing him of the brief but cherished gift of sight?
Should he wish he had never had the tease of a day of sight because what you don't know, you can't miss?
Or should he praise God for the brief time he was granted to see, to experience fully a different world, a world of colour, shape and form, a world so unlike anything he had ever considered?

What do you think? Honestly now, think about it before responding…

I think your response will have a lot to do with how you view life.

I can only talk about myself, how I view life from the advantage point of my experiences. Many people could view the events that have happened to me in my life as dreadful things, incidents that have left emotional weeping scars… but I don’t choose to view my past, my inner self and my formative experiences this way. Why? Because everything that has happened to me up to now, has shaped how I am today. And I like myself. So if I had not had the benefit, and I DO mean benefit of those experiences, I would be a different person. I would not be as multi-layered, not as interesting, not the ‘me’ that I am. I like being this ‘me’, I am pleased with the me I am and the me I am becoming and developing into.

Because Life is a process, a journey… (Oooooh… everyone think ‘déjà vu…’)

I need to thank all those people in my life who have presented me with a slammed door in one way or another because it forced me to go find another, more suitable, entrance. (Especially the person who set me on this road to self-discovery; as without that particular slammed door, I would still be the emotionally fragile petal I was back in February.) I would go into all the rest of them here, but the list is sufficient for it’s own Blog… so to all of you, and you know who you are, my heartfelt gratitude for helping to make me what I am right this minute. Thank you. Yes… really, honestly… thank you! Even the bloody French Administrative Functionnaires… (Funny, but my French Spell-Check just suggested fungiformes instead of Functionnaires… how amusing!)…

It is not the life we are given… it is what we do with it that matters most. Erm

If you don’t like the direction your life is headed, I believe you can do one of three things:
1) Choose to ignore it and continue on living it as you are. This can lead to all kinds of problems and one day you just might snap… as I did.
2) Choose to change your life. This isn’t always feasible, but sometimes even a small change can improve matters greatly.
3) Choose to change how you perceive your life.
This last one is in many ways the hardest but also ultimately, the most powerful.

If you can change your view of your life into a optimistic outlook, and take the ‘problems’ and ‘denials’ that are thrown at you and maybe call them ‘challenges’ and ‘opportunities’, that is a first step. If you can tell yourself that you are being given the chance to test your mettle, strengthen yourself and as metal is tempered by fire, believe that you are allowing yourself the opportunity to temper your soul, well, you are even further along. Then if you can change your way of thinking to reflect the positive and deflect the negative… it follows that you have not only changed your point of view, you have indeed changed your life.

This will not always be easy. For instance, when you have received another final demand, your overdraft is out of control, the job situation seems futile, there is too much month left at the end of the money or perhaps you are just gripped with killer PMT, you have reached the end of your rope, and the damn thing seems greased… remember this:

The only constant… is change. This moment in time is just that, a moment, it will be history before you can even mark it’s passing.

I am sure everyone has heard of the analogy of ‘the glass filled with a 50% volume of fluid’ and how people always will view it as being either half-empty or half-full. That the Psychological opinion of how you view this simple thing will decide whether your mind set is fundamentally optimistic or pessimistic. However, may I please pose the question, “Why is it the glass that matters?” The glass itself is simply a container for the contents, just as your body is simply a container for your spirit, mind and soul.

What is inside your glass? That is the important bit, never the glass itself.
The focus must be on what is on the inside, because if the inside is well and in good health, the outside will take care of itself…

May I suggest you make your glass fit the contents it is holding?

I was in Vannes Tuesday last, picking up cash from the Trésor Publique (Yeah! So THAT is what a 50€ note looks like…) After figuring out how much I needed to pay essential bills, factures, bounced cheques… I realised I had about 45€ left over… wow! I could go shopping! So stopped into MonoPrix to pick up some antibacterial hand soap (3 for 2! Avec une berlingot gratuit! Yes!) …then thought as I perused the sizable soap selection, how sad… I go shopping and all I can think of is antibacterial hand soap… By the way, in case you have never heard of it, MonoPrix is a bit like GEMCO or K-Mart, but smaller and French. They have food items in a separate grocery store, then the requisite shampoos, soaps, cleansers, make-up, accessories, baby's things, women's clothing, lingerie… hmmm… lingerie… I wandered by the fancy, lacy knickers and bras…… then casually strolled back by…… then decided, Oh go on Kitty! So, I actually walked over, picked up a pair of very fancy lacy knickers and looked at them. Hmm, 6.50€ not a bad price really, considering how snazzy they were, comparable with the UK at least. These are definitely 'Hot Date' knickers. Hmmm… It would be fun to have just one pair in my wardrobe. I suppose I could just take them out and look at them from time to time… Maybe I should try a pair on… maybe I should even try on a matching lacy knickers and bra ensemble! Oh Kitty! You are a caution!

One thing about losing weight is that you lose weight everywhere. And I do mean EVERYWHERE. So my cup no longer runneth over, so to speak. However, it sounds better in French than it does in English. Whoa, 100F. That's the old, roomy size… lets take a stab at a 95 D, 95C, 100D… Check it out! Wonder Bras! I filled my little basket with an assortment of bras and knickers sets, found that you did not need an armed guard to try things on, (so, one difference from K-Mart) and proceeded to disrobe in the glaring florescent light of the changing booth.

This is what Purgatory will be like. A long, ill-lit hallway lined with three-way mirrors that you must walk down, naked. That will be Purgatory.

Hell, on the other hand, will be different. Hell will be just you and the size 6 shop assistant in the changing booth… (where do they get these girls? Anorexics-R-Us?) There will be 'Magic of the Pan-Flute' Muzak playing in the background. The shop assistant will stand and watch you from the corner, snapping her gum and filing her manicured nails as you struggle into bikini after endless bikini. The three-way mirror will reflect back, in Fun-House fashion, your lumpy, cellulite-ridden hips and thighs, your pasty untanned, stubble-covered legs. Every bathing suit will be, not only the wrong colour, but slightly too small. You will have bad wind and it will be humid, sticky and close in the changing booth. You will notice your roots need touching up. So will the shop assistant. Right about then, you will also realise your antiperspirant/deodorant has failed. And… so does the shop assistant…
That will be hell. Kind of makes you want to go straight to confession right now, doesn't it?

So… standing and looking at myself (and glad that I am a fairly good Christian,) all I can think is, "Boy, better get this raise cut and proofed." My stomach looks like a pile of bread dough; poking my belly, I decide it feels the same as well. I think again about joining Musculation and then decide to try on a pair of the pretty, lacy knickers. After brief consideration, I choose the largest pair I have brought in. Well, this is a humbling experience. They go on me but could not even begin to be said to fit, not even by a commission-starved sales clerk. Ahhhhhh… no, I think not. Think we will just stick with the good old M&S 'Bridget Jones' cover-all-your-sins-knickers that I sport on a daily basis. We will leave the knickers shopping until after I lose a bit more weight, and recover some essential Changing Booth dignity and sang-froid.

So… let's move onto the brassieres. Jeans, belt and shoes back on, I don't feel quite so exposed. Well! I now can see why they call it a Wonder Bra!. I resemble the Grand Canyon… is that a yodel I just heard? Va-va-voom!! However, when you try to move in the fool thing, it's really uncomfortable. I notice from the accompanying literature, there are several styles in the Wonder Bra collection; maybe I need one of the other designs and a different cup-size as well. Hold on… removable push-up pads? Removable life-like silicon pads in several different cup-sizes enhance the décolleté and warm to the body temperature making them virtually undetectable from the natural breast. Good grief, really? Beats rolled-up Argyles, I suppose. Virtually undetectable until you take the thing off, I am guessing. Hard to fake a D-cup size naked with an A-cup bust line. Nevertheless, I make a mental note to try on the full range of these bras next time I am at a Contessa in the UK.

See, a decent women's undergarment shop, that what is lacking in Brittany, dare I say all of France, outside of Paris? I miss going into Contessa in the UK to buy my bras, they measure you each time and seem to know instinctively exactly what style and design will fit you best.

OK. Try on some of the other brands, including one that feels just like a frilly, soft, white wetsuit, if you can imagine that… and decide to stick with my Playtex Cross-Your-Heart bra. Maybe mince French women are genetically a different shape from podgy Americans. Certainly, they are much thinner than their fleshy cousines are, from across the big water.

As I am leaving, I notice they actually do have Playtex Coeur-Crossé soutien-gorges. Well, I am too drained from the three-way mirror experience and just can't be arsed to go back in and try one on. So, I pay for my antibacterial hand soap and treat myself to a grand café crème… instead of the bra. Oh well, better luck next time.

Say… there's always Victoria's Secret on the Internet…

My Mum always gave me interesting Birthday presents. I always knew she had put a lot of thought into it, even though, at the time, I didn't always appreciate it.

For instance, for my 'Sweet Sixteen' birthday, she set up a 'Day of Beauty' at the Indian Wells Hotel. I got my very first 'Lymphatic Draining' (fancy name for a massage), my first full-body massage using appropriate scented oils (we call it aromatherapy now), I got a facial, I had my long hair shampooed and conditioned and then sitting wrapped up in a warm, fluffy bathrobe, I had my very first manicure and pedicure. Then we had lunch there as well, sitting among the rather beautiful people in the palm-frond filled conservatory, listening to calming music, and a sparkling fountain bubbling away in a corner as we ate our Crab Louis salads. I felt just like a happy, pampered Princess. Which was, of course, her motivation for doing it.

Another time, when we lived in Covina, she served Artichokes for my Birthday dinner. I think I was about nine or so. They must have come from Castroville, California, the Artichoke Capital of the World. (Did you know Marilyn Monroe was the very first Artichoke Queen at Castroville? No?? How have you lived without this nugget of useless information?) I loved them and am still besotted with artichokes done any style: braised, marinated, steamed, stuffed; they are one of my favourite treats.

For my 15th birthday, my Mother gave me my first cookbook. French Cooking. I read it cover to cover and worked my way through many of the recipes. I still know many by heart, Coq au Vin, Bœuf Bourguignon, French stick, Chocolate Mousse. Mum loved the fact I liked the cookbook so much. It gave me a good grounding in French method. Little did either of us know that I would be living here in France now.

My Mother always called me on my birthday, no matter where I was in the world, always at 5.45 am, her time. "Good morning, Birthday Girl. Guess what I was doing this time (fill in the age blank) years ago?" I don't know Mom, Quilting? Making Strawberry Jam? Watching Jane Wyman in 'Johnny Belinda'? Voting a Democratic ticket? Awaiting news of Sputnik? What Mom? Then she would laugh, "Bringing into the world the most beautiful little girl." Awww…. Bless.

My Mum put so much reflection into my Birthdays because she really, really loved me and I know she would be so proud of me now if she were around to see me today. So this recipe is for you, my dear Mommy, one of the recipes I have made over and over all these many years, one of the recipes from the cookbook you gave me with love, with deliberation and with an eerie precognition.
I love you.

Grand Marnier Chocolate Mousse
Serves 8-10 (Or just four if you want to pig-out)

You need to use the absolute best chocolate for this that you can find. We are talking major high chocolate solids, I use 80% or higher. I would say it needs to be at least 74% cocoa solids, it's worth it. Don't bother otherwise. 'Lion Mark' eggs, such as are found in the UK, are inoculated against salmonella. If you are not sure of your eggs, don't serve this to pregnant women, children or the elderly. Or source pasteurised egg yolk. As for me, I don't worry about it. But just so you know...

A friend of mine has said she doesn't like to use raw eggs and wouldn't make this recipe because of it. Well, just for you Ruby, I will experiment making this where you 'cook' the yolks using the hot chocolate and also use a cooked Italian meringue or meringue powder. I have done it in the past but never wrote it down, but I do know it's possible. But you will have to eat the results… poor you!

250 gm (9 oz) Best quality, high cocoa solids, plain chocolate (That's 2 ½ French tablets)
15 gm (1/2 oz) unsalted (sweet) butter
150 ml (5 oz) water
1 Tablespoon (15 ml) Grand Marnier
4 very large eggs, separated

Ramekins or cocktail glasses

Break up the chocolate into small pieces and put the chocolate, butter and water into a bowl over hot water (Bain Marie.) Stir gently until the chocolate is melted and the mixture is completely smooth. Remove the bowl from the Bain Marie and allow to cool. Stir in the Grand Marnier then add the yolks to the mixture, mixing well.

Whisk the egg whites until they form soft peaks then fold them in. Then using an electric mixer or a sturdy wooden spoon beat the mixture for 5 minutes or until it becomes silky, glossy and thickens. Spoon the mousse into the ramekins or cocktail glasses. Allow to chill 5-6 hours or overnight. Decorate with a dollop of thick, heavy cream and a dusting of grated chocolate.

Variations:
You can do a Mocha mousse by substituting espresso coffee for the water and crème de cocoa or Kahlua for the Grand Marnier. Float a layer of double cream over the top that has been slightly sweetened with either the crème de cocoa or the Kahlua. Dust with cocoa powder. Decorate with chocolate-coated coffee beans, if you can find them.

For a plainer chocolate mousse, use rum or brandy instead of the Grand Marnier. You can also fold in some slightly whipped double cream before you fill the serving dishes to make a Milk Chocolate-type mousse. If you don't mix it in entirely, and use glass-serving dishes, you get an attractive marbled effect. Sometimes I fold in finely chopped toasted pecans and/or chopped plain chocolate as well.

Have fun! For one formal dinner party I did, I filled flat-bottomed ice-cream cones with the brandy mousse which had been lightened with whipped cream and then put a generous dollop of sweetened brandy whipped cream on top. Next I sprinkled the cones with chocolate jimmies (sprinkles) and served them with a cup of coffee. Everyone looked at me with a weird expression, (Can you imagine the little minx would serve ice cream cones at a dinner party… I mean, have you ever?) That is until they tasted the 'ice-cream'. It got rave reviews! And we all had a good laugh... Ah-ha! gotcha!

No... This has nothing to do with how my three children were delivered into the world (after the second one, I requested Velcro or pop-snaps to be put in...) this is the recipe for Caesar Salad.

Caesar Salad originated in good 'ol TJ... or Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico to you not from So Cal. Alessandro Caesar Cardini, the restaurant owner of Caesar's Palace created it on 4 July, 1924 for some Hollywood types down from LA, as legend goes. The original recipe never used anchovies, just 6 drops of Worcestershire sauce, but I like this recipe better. Cardini's daughter still markets the original recipe dressing and that makes an excellent salad, especially with sliced hot grilled chicken scattered on top. But try this version as well.

TJ is dead fun to visit, take the bus down from the border and walk around Avenida Revolución; everything comes off of that, really. Or take the car down in the morning and leave it to get re-upholstered with 'Tijuana Tuck and Roll' while you spend the day shopping like all of the Californians do... the shopping is brilliant and you will never get a better car upholstery job done anywhere on Earth. These guys take real pride in their work, they are all skilled upholstery artisans, and it's very competitive between the different shops.

Try to stop into a tortillerilla and get a half a kilo or so of freshly made corn tortillas, they are excellent still warm spread with sweet butter and sprinkled with sea salt and perhaps a squeeze of lime juice. Oh… and you must try jícama with lime juice and sprinkled with cayenne pepper. Jícama is like water chestnut, well, kind of, it's eaten raw as well, but is big, brown and round, bigger than a grapefruit and is excellent when peeled, cut into julienne and added to a salad. Really fresh tasting, try it, if you can find it.

I love eating the food off the street vendors stalls but you might not. So, besides the hotels and the bigger restaurants on Revolución, there are lots of little restaurants scattered about on the side streets. Let your nose guide you to one. Carne Asada, enchiladas, tamales, soft tacos, 'pulled beef', barbacoa... try something new. But let me tell you, they can keep Menudo, which is a spicy tripe soup, I never touch it unless I have a hangover and am in Mexico, so... actually not that often. Oh and cabrito is kid goat. It's nice barbecued.

Last time I was in TJ, was for a wedding reception shortly before my accident in '93. I haven't been back to Tijuana since, but I would love to go back... and I will, one day. Anyway, before the wedding, I was invited to TJ to this BIG engagement party, right? Maricella, the bride-to-be explained they had this extra-special dish they were serving at the party, nothing like it in America. They had decided to go to this particular restaurant for the party based on their reputation for this dish. Best place in TJ, I was informed, and both Mother-in-laws had amazingly agreed on the same restaurant, so isn't that a sign for a good marriage? OK, whatever you say, Maricella, honey. Well, I have had absolutely incredible meals in Guadalajara at a mucho posh 5-star hotel and I have also stood outside in San Ysidro at a taco stand and had brain, pancreas and only-god-knows-what-else tacos, so, how could this be either better or worse Mexican food wise?

So, starter was a composed salad, very spicy, followed by caldo de res soup... then... here comes the pièce de résistance. And placed in front of me, with a flourish, was a huge plate of....


Pork Scratching covered with Brown Gravy??????


I looked around to see if this was, in fact, a joke. But no, everyone was tucking in, making appropriate Spanish yum-yum noises and saying how good it was. Maricella looked over to see how I was enjoying it (as I was the only Anglo) and I gave her a smile and the thumbs up and tucked in as well. Then quickly decided Brain Tacos actually had more than a slight edge over this...

I politely declined seconds....

Caesar Salad
Serves 6

1 large head Romaine/Cos lettuce, trimmed and torn into bite-sized pieces
1/3 cup [75 g] freshly grated or shaved Parmesan cheese (I use Parmigiano Reggiano when possible)
1/2 baguette cut into 1/2" cubes (about 3 cups)
2 Tablespoons [30 ml] olive oil
Dressing:
2oz [50g] tin anchovies, drained and mashed up with a fork
2 large garlic cloves, chopped then smushed with the side of a knife to make a paste
2 egg yolks (you can coddle the eggs, if you wish)
2 Tablespoons [30 ml] fresh lemon juice
¼ teaspoon Colman's English Mustard powder
2 Tablespoons [30 ml] Hellmann's/ Best Foods mayonnaise
½ - 1 Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
½ - 1 Tablespoon Tabasco sauce
1/3 cup [75 ml] extra-virgin olive oil
2 Tablespoons [30 ml] water

Wash the lettuce leaves, shake-dry thoroughly (I use a salad spinner) lightly wrap in a tea towel and chill in the fridge as you make the croutons and dressing.

Make the croutons: Preheat oven to 350F/180C. In a large bowl toss the bread cubes sprinkled with the oil and salt to taste and spread on a jelly-roll pan/rimmed baking sheet. Bake croutons in the middle of the oven until golden, about 10-15 minutes. If lighting the oven depresses you, as it is the height of summer, you can also make the croutons in a wide frying pan. Use a bit of butter with the oil to aid the browning and stir about until they are the appropriate colour. Cooking should be fun and easy, I say.

Make dressing: Either in a blender, with a handheld stick blender (or if you are a glutton for bicep's punishment - a whisk,) whiz/blend together anchovies, garlic, lemon juice, mustard powder, mayonnaise, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce and salt until smooth. Then with blender on low speed or pulsing with the stick blender, slowly add the oil in a steady stream until emulsified. If using the whisk, beat like hell after each addition of oil. Add water and blend well. Taste and adjust seasoning. This dressing should be very highly flavoured.

(I use a liquid lecithin gel-cap, pricked and squeezed into any oil-based dressing I make, even vinaigrette, and it always stays emulsified and never breaks... this is a top tip! Saves on the biceps as well…)

You can either tear apart the lettuce into bite-sized pieces or leave whole. In a large salad bowl, toss together lettuce with one heaping Tablespoon of dressing per person, half the Parmesan, croutons and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Sprinkle the remaining Parmesan over each serving. Pass around the extra dressing for people to add individually if they wish. Any remaining dressing will keep in the fridge, covered, for several days.

Originally from Gourmet Magazine, possibly sometime in 1994, I think... with some variations added over the ensuing years.