Protest

I'm going to break a rule about not using my blog for political comment, but something strange is happening in France.  France has a reputation for protesting, 'the French like to râler', I've been told many times.  They are even proud of their ability to take to the streets at the drop of a hat.  It was in France that I had my first ever whiff of tear gas, as students protested outside the Chamber of Commerce.  I was inside teaching English to business men, and the building was guarded by riot police.  Exciting times, and I have lived in Nigeria.
But now that the Euro is under threat; our governments use our money to save the banks, and unelected technocrats replace our politicans, it's left to the Americans to occupy Wall Street and the British to occupy the City.  The French are surprisingly quiet.  I can't explain why, and I don't understand.  My students mock the British for being so meek and standing in line.
Meanwhile, I've created two petitions in response to the British governments e-petition initiative.  Who knows if they will do any good, but at least I don't feel like I'm doing nothing.  I urge you to sign them if your a Brit.

The first is against the scandal of Vulture Funds: http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/23302

The second is against Child Labour in the Malawian tobacco fields: http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/23304

Thanks in advance, maybe through the pen we can make this world a better place.

Rodents

The problem with old houses in the countryside, particularly old houses left empty for any length of time, is that squatters move in. Our house was no exception. First, and most visibly, it was the spiders. We spent days cleaning away the webs and spraying. I know, spiders are our friends but my wife and mother-in-law are terrified of them. I tried to explain they were a sign of a healthy house and keep the flies down. But I think the electric heater bursting into flames helped to convince me they were probably right. It was full of old webs and dried spider carcases. Anyway I was right about the flies, we are now plagued by them.

Next it was lizards. These had made their home around the window frames and in the ventilation holes. They over-wintered here and then basked in the sunshine on our south facing walls. Luckily for them, my wife likes lizards so they didn’t risk annihilation. Unluckily for them, in their groggy, post winter state they did risk being trapped in rapidly shut windows. After finding squashed tail ends or entire corpses we learnt to close the windows slowly, allowing potential victims to escape. One evening, while reading the paper, I heard a frantic scratching, which I traced to a large lizard hanging by its tail from the patio doors. He was released and scuttled under the skirting board. The lizards occasionally find themselves in the house but usually find their way out, preferring the sun-baked garden.

No, our real enemy for the first year was the mice. The first indication of their presence was the droppings, discovered behind the built in cooker. I assumed the droppings were old and the mice had left, that was until the nightly scratching in the attic began. I must admit to being less than courageous at two am in a cold attic, wearing only my boxer shorts. For some reason, despite women’s liberation, it is always me who is sent to investigate strange noises in the night. Despite my forays it was my wife who saw the first visual evidence of a mouse.

Our house had a slightly quirky feature when we moved in. The toilet was a closet in the kitchen. As we ate in the kitchen, this made dinner parties rather awkward. Either you crossed your legs, or everyone made loud, polite conversation while you visited the loo. One night I was woken from my slumber by a shriek from the toilet. I went to investigate and found my wife cowering against the wall, a mouse had run between her feet as she sat. As I laughed, I realised that the mice would have to go.

Now, I am a pacifist and dislike harming god’s creatures. Which is why I deliver snails from my garden to my neighbour’s rather than stamping on them. The burnt hedgehog was a mistake and, despite my wife’s amusement, I was mortified. But that’s another story. Anyway because of these principals it had to be humane traps. Little cages, whose doors slam shut behind the mouse, then you can liberate your furry friend into the wild, where it belongs.

To begin with things went well, I caught a few mice. Each morning, I would go up to the loft, collect the trap, with its terrified mouse, and pop it in the boot of my car. I am not stupid, if I released a mouse near my house it would be back like a shot. My drive to work takes about forty- five minutes, and each time I caught a mouse I would stop about half way, near a suitable field, and release my prisoner. What could be more humane, a mouse released alive into nature. That was until a slow mouse was chopped in half by the rapidly closing door on my so-called humane trap. Not so human after all and pretty gory. I had discovered some frozen corpses during the winter months when I forgot to check my traps.

Despite having released three or four mice we were still woken by nightly scratching. I had lifted the floorboards in the loft and discovered the insulation riddled with passages and nests. There were mouse droppings everywhere and some even dropped through gaps in our wooden ceiling onto the bed. It was time for firmer action. I remembered my Grandma’s mousetraps which neatly beheaded the mice, swift and painless. The traps worked a treat until the fatal night we heard an ominous tapping in the roof. I climbed out of bed and went up to the loft. There, like something out of a grotesque horror film, was a mouse lurching around the loft with a trap firmly clamped to its head. Obviously this one had been quicker than is unfortunate cousin, but not quick enough and the trap had slammed down on part of his head. He was not quite dead, but I doubted he could survive this injury. I grabbed a broom and put the mouse out of its misery. As I descended the stairs I wondered if it had been such a good idea to buy the house.

I finally bowed to the inevitable and followed the advice of my neighbours, poison it was. Since putting down the sweet smelling packets we have not been disturbed, no doubt tonight I will be woken by the scrabbling of my furry friends. I won the first battle but not the war.

After school clubs

The strange after school ballet is well sychronised now.  Outside the local gymnasium or music school there is a constant coming and going of cars, as parents shuttle their children from judo to trumpet classes and other such activities.  In France music and art are not part of the primary school curriculum.  I remember having pottery and music classes at school.  Here parents are forced to register their children in after -school classes if they want them to partake in these activities.  It is this that gives rise to the late afternoon circus of cars rushing back and forth.  Part of the fault for this lies with the four -day week, there is no time to include art subjects in four days.  Wednesday is perhaps the busiest day of the week for parents.  Many mothers don't work Wednesdays as they have to ferry their kids about.  There is talk of school on Wednesdays but so far the teaching unions are  holding out.  So if your planning to bring up children in France steel yourself to become a taxi driver for your children and their friends.

Lost in France

This site is interested in your expat experience.  No payment involved unfortunately.

http://www.lost-in-france.com/real-france/interviews/1513-living-in-the-french-alps