Emma's Spare Tyre Tummy Award Goes Gourmet in France

Canard - The first bite is with the eyes. Then you taste with your heart and enjoy with your soul. 

The French have many words to express culinary excellence. They have cordon bleu chefs and haute cuisine. My favourite term is La Gourmandise which kinda expresses a perfection of pleasure. It takes into account the ambiance and the sheer joy of tasting a wonderful meal. 

Monk fish - too good to eat, so you savour slowly

A few days ago I had lunch in the village of Taillebourg which lies alongside the beautiful Charente river. This was not the first time I had visited "L'Auberge des Glycines". You can check out my previous post here.

Between us we tasted duck, sea bass, filets de rouget, monk fish, souffle with grand marnier and on and on. We had a pichet of the house Bordeaux red which was as full and smooth as anything I've tasted anywhere.

An experience of beauty

Clearly the guys who run this place take pride in their work. It seems to me that they have a passion to provide an experience of beauty. They sure do succeed. 

Inside there's chocolate and caramel.....

My warmest thanks to "L'Auberge des Glycines". They top the list of Emma's Spare Tyre Tummy Awards.

P.S. They have the cutest boxer dog!

Je suis français, but you can call me Winston.

Elsewhere in life, we are now in Movember. I'm gearing up the machine to draw attention to myself - this time for a good cause as a 'Mo Sista'. The local press have just been on the phone. Oooh - let's hope we sell truck loads of the Movember anthology 'Let's Hear it For the Boys'.

Emma thinx: Take the male out of Female and you find the iron lady

Chinese Lantern

And here I am in France. The great cycle race ended in Paris on Sunday and like so many cycling fans and half the population of France a void has opened before me.  

This year has been one of the most remarkable ever. The two main favourites crashed out in the early stages. The eventual winner was Vincenzo Nibali, a somewhat enigmatic Italian. His top position on the Parisian podium was completely eclipsed by the greater victories of two French riders in second and third places. A French commentator interviewing the champion asked: "Well done for your win of course, but you have to concede you had the strongest team. I imagine you are very proud to have ridden with so many fabulous French riders..."

The diplomatic champion acknowledged their triumph. The studio anchor man told the Nation "We are not chauvinists! We are patriots!"

Chinese Lantern Ji Cheng

For now French cycling is on a high. I'm hoping more young folk will be pulling on their Lycra, shaving their legs and turning away from the cigarettes. Also, Chapeau to the guys who won second and third places -Jean Christophe Peraud and Thibault Pinot. To me they all are heroes and champions particularly the Chinese rider Ji Cheng who was the last guy home. Although technically the red lantern at the back of the field, he was a visible player, often in breakaways. He was a marvel and a credit to China. From my pinnacle of fame as a romantic novelist clinging on in invisibility at the back of the book-bashing peleton, I salute you. 

In my day job as an audio editor and producer I have also been immersed in the Tour de France. I have just completed an audiobook narrated by Oscar Sparrow entitled The Tour de France - The Inside Story. Written by Les Woodland, a consummate writer of the polished professional journalistic school, it reflects his own passion for cycling and shares the inside track on those great men who gave birth to the Tour and those who then sustained its legend. It is a fascinating nine-hour account filled with human flavour, foibles and falibility. We did a video clip to show our own way of working on such a project. It's a great read and an even better listen.

If you want to get a free download of this insight into cycling (worth $19.95/£14.95), whether you're a fan or not, in exchange for an honest review, leave a message below and I'll send you your own code for Audible...

Emma Thinx: The French do have a a word for chauvinism

Winter Postcard From Saint Savinien Sur Charente

Thank you, thank you - I am alive and I can see.

I'm home in France. My dear dear Charente Maritime - I love you. You are always here waiting for me. The neighbours kiss me. Your beauty washes down through stone into river and sky. I am so lucky in my life to be here with eyes to see and a mind to abandon to you. Truly I am in awe of this place. It is a watercolour picture of the heart with a smile of church bells.

Winter sun , your fine pen of stark beauty draws a summer in my heart

To infinity and beyond those French films of avenues and kisses.

I am pausing today from the ding dong of Shannon's Law and  blog tours. I took my camera for a walk to try to fix the atmospheric light of this winter's day. Spring is nibbling at the edges now.The bare trees still expose that truth of  Nature's skeleton. As any of my readers will know, I never hold back in talking openly about love and its worldly hit-man, sex. In a way, Winter is the truth of enduring love. It is the true uncompromising hardcore when all the dressing up, tease, promise and make-up is done.  If I'm being OTT Emma let me know. Here are a few shots I wanted to share.

Beauty on this scale is emotional. I'm not one of those posh Wordsworth guys who can express the intellectual power of Nature's beauty. Even so, I'm a human bean planted in this soil to grow.

Emma thinx:  Life grows. You are life. Life is you.

Paris! Je t'aime!

Don't lose your head for heights.

I think the word ambiance is French. If it isn't I claim it by its Gallic sounding-ness. Nowhere has more ambiance than Paris. In fact there is so much ambiance in Paris that the very word conjures up an existentialist smoke filled café on any pavement near you wherever you are. 

Just the other day I was there seeing one of my progeny who is spending a year there. Could I be envious? Perish the thought!

I pointed my camera at a couple of tourist traps and found myself even more trapped in the essence of the place. Tourism makes the tangential view the only possible escape from la carte postale. The featured pix are from around le Sacré Coeur area of Paris. Trouble not, I'm not about to bore you with my montage. 

I love short stories and the whole art of keeping things concise. Readers of my verbiage may be groaning in disbelief to know this!
Here is a short and very clever documentary film made in Paris by some fabulous young film makers. The words are French but the truth is universal. All I can say is that my own diet will start again on Tuesday. Maybe next week. Enjoy les religieuses. 

Emma thinx: If all the world's a stage, who wrote my bloody script?

Turn, Turn, Turn.

Age in an ocean of youth

Writing has never been about the number of words.  The song title “Turn, Turn,Turn.” is only three words but it was this addition that Pete Seeger applied to the biblical words of Ecclesiastes and made the song something of  a philosophical icon of the last century

I can never see sunflowers without this song running through my head when I am here in France. The French word “tournesol” carries the notion of turning to the sun. We have fields of thousands of joyful shining faces that turn and turn and turn to their guiding sun.  Of course, they have their season, and the season turns.

Close to my home there is a field of such flowers. In the middle is a rigid old tree, long dead. My  pagan heart has been pondering this scene. The vibrant brash beauty forms a sea around this old rock. The picture at its most obvious level is of youth and death set in the context of time and season. Even so, the dead tree speaks as loudly as the clamouring crowd at its feet. Once it was a seed. Now it is an orator as the crowd turns its face to follow its message across the perfect blue sky each day closer to autumn and harvest.

In a similar mood I found myself in the 12^th Century Romanesque church of Saint Savinien a few nights ago. The occasion was a concert performed by the Mukachevo boys choir. This group of young men from Ukraine visited our little village in France as part of a programme operated by “Eurochestries”. Broadly the idea is to spread the culture and music of “Euro” peoples to each other and to give opportunity to young folk to express their talents and see foreign lands. And there in the middle of this ocean of youth was a fossilised Romantic novelist applauding my little heart out to these wonderful young guys. They opened with JS Bach (Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring) and ended with ABBA (Thank-you For The Music). 

Watch the videos and catch the re-writing of the lyric for the soloists in the ABBA song. They didn't have any “girls with golden hair” but they pulled through like super troupers.

And there it is - my wonderful life here in France. Turning tournesols reach for the sun. Young men stretch their voices upwards with the joy and talent of youth. And my eyes, ears, hands and life - here to see, hear, love and write.

The principal contents of this post were featured on my Venture Galleries Authors Collection blog

Emma Thinx: Youth is a box of chocolates. Age is fat, sugar and doctors. Wisdom is eating the pralines.

Mon Ami Le Pigeon Voyageur

What else is there to share with friends than the moment? Anything longer is contrived.

Homing pigeon - you can just see the leg ring on the right.

This evening in my French garden a lost homing pigeon has arrived and is perching on a beam in the barn. I guess by his accent he is English. Every few minutes he takes off and circles the town before being drawn back by some invisible magnet as sticky as the human soul to the beam in my barn. He/she is lost and miles from home. Maybe in the dawn the bird will find the way or maybe it will die, confused and alone. 


This life is a concoction of unseen beauty and unacknowledged suffering. Fly little bird. Please find your way home.




Emma thinx: Home - what the homeless have not. 

The Chosen

Short story including free audio book

My body aches. Yesterday I was a surf bunny. Today I feel like a sandblasted rodent casserole. Of course, I am home in France. Already a few glasses of smooth Bordeaux wine have loosened my tensions and this wicked world seems a long way away. The sun drenched brochure busting beaches of the Ile d' Oleron are too close to ignore. Yesterday I set out with my body board and came back with a boarded up body. Something has happened in the last 25 years - but at least a lot more of me floats nicely.

Surf bunny

This preamble on my luxurious hedonism brings me to the real subject of this blog. We all have dreams of the good life one day. Wealth, worldly success and status could be ours one day. For many folk of my latter end boomer generation, there were levers there to be pulled. Most of my contemporaries obtained jobs and careers with quite modest educational qualifications. Company pensions were generous and you could expect to bring up kids in a decent dwelling. Things are far tougher now - just reflect for a minute on the long term impact of  50%  youth unemployment in Greece and Spain. My own life has been fairly much working class - but there was work and an income to be gained.  


One of the paradoxical comedy clichés of our time is the aspirational no-hoper. The hapless home mechanics and D.I.Y. enthusiasts provide a wealth of sit-com fodder. The little guy who dreams of getting to be Mr BIG, the ugly guy who tries to date Miss World are far more than comic stereotypes. There are thousands and thousands of them. I think I might be one in my own little way. A while ago I was waiting for a party at a horse race meeting and I was chatting to a few other drivers about the lives they had led. A chatty Londoner explained to me that although he was a humble figure, he had once been wealthy and that it was only a matter of time until he was up there again. He told me a bizarre love story. I don't think he guessed that I would write it down as "The Chosen". 


I love short stories. As a kid I used to listen to them on the radio. Typically a story would last for 15 minutes. To me, this is how the narrative must have been before literacy. Folk would tell a story of a real event or a handed down traditional tale. The listeners would stretch their imaginations to visualise the characters. My idea of a magic mammoth may not be yours! (As a child I hated picture books that stole my own images).  I have always written short stories and I believe in them as a pure form of the tale. The possibility of adding audio now gives authors the chance to go back to the true roots of fiction - the out loud story. The novel is a new experiment by comparison. The continuing success of "Sub Prime" with audio has encouraged me to add a free audio track to "The Chosen". So great is my belief in the audio story that I release stories as "singles" in the way that the old 45 records were sold. If you look at the way that music is purchased on iTunes it is clear that punters are keen to pay a few pence for just a single track from an album rather than buy the whole deal. Stephen Woodfin's blog provides an interesting discussion on this topic.

Oscar Sparrow

"The Chosen" is narrated by my best mate,  the poet Oscar Sparrow. (He is used to reading in front of people and not getting paid). The story was written specifically for audio with the emphasis on dialogue between two characters. In order to differentiate between them I gave them very different accents. Since I do not like strong accents in written text, I have used plain English for the characters. The audio is accented and essentially is a different form of the story. If you get it, please let me know how it works for you.


Links for The Chosen:
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk
Amazon.fr
Amazon.de




Emma thinx: Length matters, keep it in your shorts.

Postcard from Saint Savinien Sur Charente

Postcard from Saint Savinien

Just as I was thinking that I could live with the idea of being properly English, I arrived back at my home in France. I feel unpatriotic - like one of those reviled rebels who do not stand up for the National Anthem. I want you all to know that I do stand for the anthem. I also stand up for the Star Spangled Banner (I have family in the USA) and for La Marseillaise because I love France and it is a great song. I know I should be in England for the jubilee - but here is my home and I can only come when I can get away from the bus.

And now for the big big question. I have French guests for dinner on Wednesday and I want to serve something very English. I am tempted to go for Sausage Toad - otherwise known as Toad In The Hole. It is delicious of course, but I cannot think of it without flashing back to factory canteen self service queues. Toad, beans n'chips fed Britain when we were Great and still made our own clothes pegs. I do smile at the idea of enormous fuel guzzling ships carrying huge containers from around the world filled with plastic clothes pegs. There must be some mistake. I'm sure that somewhere all this waste, greed and exploitation results from some simple mistake.

Going back to the meal, I am always a bit worried when cooking for French folk. At the breast it is common for infants to ask if goat's milk is available with a little more ground pepper s'il vous plait. They are born as gourmets. The other problem is a translation .."Crapaud Dans Le Trou" does not quite do it somehow. All the same I'm gonna go for it. I'll put the recipe on Pinterest.

Rebekah Booked

Being home in France I have entirely lost the will to talk about anything momentous. Back in the UK all manner of show trials are shaping up and the entire police force is now working on Rebekah Brooks and the affairs of Mogul Murdoch. These folk are an unapproachable  social class to me but I do feel sorry for her. When we get a bit closer to the self righteous legal carnival I will wade in with some Blistering Sistering. All I will say for now is that when my lawn mower and bike were stolen last year, a police officer phoned to ask me if I knew who had done it. Since I did not, the case was closed. Hundreds and hundreds of cops are trying to nail one woman who might or might not have known about some celebrity phone hacking. It will cost millions - and who will pay? OK - you have guessed - you tax paying powerless non celebrity suckers. I do want to say that if you watched the Whitney Houston clip above and know her tragic story, - just remember that the "gutter press" attacked again and again the drug barons and hacked their phones while the police were sitting on their on hands. 


Rebekah Brooks would wince at being called comrade....But Comrade/Sister Brooks - we do know that this a show trial and for what it's worth I am on your side as a woman and as a dispossessed News Of The World reader.

Don't rush

Bridge over untroubled water

Big sky postcard day to take home

Venice - eat your heart out

Step This way

Roof and River

All I really want to do is share with you some images of my lovely town of Saint Savinien sur Charente in France. In this case public money has been spent on guys who know how to cut stone to create beauty. France is still a land of tradition and respect for the artisan.  The local mayor, Monsieur Jean-Claude Godinot is something of a visionary and has set about building works to make the place a joy to the eyes. A clumsy 1960's concrete "Brutalist" old folks home blocked a view of the church. In the UK we would have had 10 committees, 4 bishops, a professional atheist, a protest group, a pro group, an undecided liberal/green coalition and two public enquiries. Here, we have one man, several earth moving machines and a vision. All the old folk were re-housed properly by the way. In less than a week, the view was restored. If you want a holiday or a break in France you should put this place on your list. Take a look at the photos of ce village de pierre et de l'eau.

Emma thinx: Let not the weight of Law extinguish the light of Justice.

Kiss-met Hardy.

I have that first Wednesday insecure feeling. Looking back on previous insecure posts I see that I have rambled on about broken love affairs whilst trees fell around my ears. Just imagine - I thought I knew something about insecurity. Until a few days ago I knew nothing. That was when I could stand up and support myself on two legs. That was before the Red Cross issued me with a wheelchair and crutches. 
Being a believer in determinism I have to accept that since my birth and the first design concepts of the Brittany ferry "Bretagne", I had been hurtling towards a moment of destiny. Ahead of us lay a starry night, our traditional Earth moving kiss on the deck as Angleterre slipped away to the north and a hairy Frenchman in orange overalls spraying water with a hose. As we crossed the heli-pad my leg folded under me with an agonising pop. As I lay felled by the French like Admiral Nelson at Trafalgar, I began to wonder how the crew of the rescue helicopter would be able to reach me on the treacherous gloss painted skid pan deck. I guess they carry a good supply of crutches. I knew that my Easter at home in France was not to be. Gilles cajoled and dragged me to the cabin and we summoned the nurse. She found the solitary ship's ice pack. 


On arrival in France my leg resembled a black blue and green mottled snake that had swallowed a football. Our home lay 300 miles to the south and I could not bend my leg. We decided to keep me on ice in the cabin (they pickled Nelson in Brandy - but I did not think that Brittany Ferries would supply a barrel) and go back to the UK where we live a few minutes from the port. As a Brit I can get medical attention in the UK without complication and a long stay in a hospital miles from any home lacked appeal.

If you really want to feel insecure - plonk yourself in a wheelchair as a captive patient. The following afternoon as we approached the shores of Britain, Gilles decided to take me out for a spin. Watching paralympic sport on TV had obviously inspired him into some kinda wheelchair sprint fantasy accompanied by Formula One racing car noises. He'll make someone a lovely husband when he grows up. He does the same tricks with supermarket trolleys. You do realise just how tough it is for folks in wheelchairs. All manner of lumps and gulleys become hazards. With my leg straight out in front of me like a lance I felt like a jousting knight on a runaway horse. At the self service restaurant a chef tapped rather impatiently on his steel pots of vegetables demanding to know which I wanted. I would have told him but my eyes were about level with the tray track. "Does she like beans?" he asked Gilles. 


About halfway across the English Channel the UK coastguard carried out a helicopter rescue exercise. Gilles wanted to offer me to the Captain  as an authentic casualty. The red and white whirly-bird 
hovered above the ship while a guy dangled with a stretcher above the deck. Luckily he kept himself clipped on to his rope. 


Eventually I was trundled back to the car deck and levered into the car. Some 23 hours after we had boarded the ferry we got off again at exactly the same point. I must say that all of the crew of the Brittany ferry Bretagne were kind and helpful - but I'm not so sure about the orange guy with the hose. 


As for the future - well it looks a bit insecure on one leg. Much talk of quadriceps tendons and cartilage looks certain.  


Emma thinx: If you're hoping the Earth will move, find firm ground.

Passage to Taillebourg

There's something so exciting about discovery. Imagine having the chance to find the source of the Nile or even America. Of course there were Africans and Native Indians who used to wander about such places on their way to work every day. I guess they didn't know that anyone wanted to know about where they were. Nowadays, in the car at least I have Sat Naff. Huge satellites orbit the Earth some 12,000 miles away and they know where the source of everything is. Nevertheless today I got out my bike and set out to discover my own personal equivalent of the Northwest Passage. My aims were slightly more modest and amounted to finding a route from St Savinien to Taillebourg, not using the normal road. It was almost like stepping back into history as I encountered the little hamlet of Coulogné-Sur-Charente. I only have a couple of full days left here in France before I head back north for the madness of it all in the traffic with my bus. As I sit in the queues and bad tempered road ragers blare horns and shake fists I will re-live my moments of slightly woodsmoked  air and the whizz of my bike as I opened the South East passage of my own little world. If you are looking for a holiday in Europe and you don't want the tourist trample come to Charente Maritime.


I do wish the Brits would stop belly-aching about Europe. OK - there are problems but all this "We want the trade and the advantages but we don't want to join in" is getting tedious. I do not want to go on about politics but if you look at the World Atlas you will see Great Britain (The Disunited Kingdom) a few miles to the north of France. That's where we are guys. Prime minister Cameron is sitting on a very sharp fence that threatens to slice right into his leadership regions. John Major called the anti European faction "The Bastards". Oddly enough that was more or less what the French called William the Conqueror. 


If you are in France Leclerc supermarkets have some great prices for whole sides of French pork. They are also well priced for Boeuf Bourginon and other casserole beef  cuts. 


Emma thinx: United we stand, but only because there are no seats.

Kissing in the moonlight

Do you ever wonder what you would go through to get to what you wanted? I seem to remember a game show on Japanese TV where you could win prizes by eating maggots or being drowned. If you Yanks haven't seen this stuff check  out Endurance here. This type of entertainment came to mind as I endured a night crossing on a Brittany Ferry between Portsmouth (UK) and St Malo (France). I cannot seriously fault the staff of Brittany Ferries. They are hard working and courteous. However, these night crossings are an ordeal. Because our vehicle had a roof box we were loaded last and so when we got to the restaurant there was a huge queue. Since many of the would-be diners were French, the word queue did not apply. Probably best to imagine the French Revolution and the mobs at the barricades. Since it was half term, loads of English were also on board and I'm guessing that the ship was at full capacity. We attempted to storm the self service barricades for about half an hour but gave up and headed for the posh restaurant. No tables of course. We headed for the bar. We grabbed a table and dear old Gilles went off and got pizza from a kinda cafe place. He was back in half an hour. And do you know what? Not a single guy asked me if I was on my own/would like a drink/fancied a shag. There's nothing more pleasing to me than being fancied and offended.  I was a bit miffed to be frank but that's how life is these days for the pre-menopausal bus driver. We gobbled the food and a singer did a Tom Jones, Englebert, Sammy Davis, Tony Bennett, Sinatra, Bobby Darin  medley. It was all a bit D.I.Y. so I suppose you could call it the Flat Pack. The guy was good and we all had a good old sing-along. Just imagine having to entertain folks on these ferries. The audience don't want to be there and they're more worried about little Wayne having run off and jumping overboard than your rendition of "Born Free". To all the staff and entertainers of Brittany Ferries "Chapeau". (I take my hat off to you). I'm not cross really, but these boats at peak times are just unable to cope at any acceptable level of comfort. And you pay premium fares!


After the pizza, the Flat Pack and the beer we strolled to the outer deck. There was darkness, not as an absence of light, but as a presence and a offer of anonymity. The white wake of the ship spread out in that bridal train fashion behind us. Ahead of us lay our home and I saw my man under the stars against the backdrop of the ocean. And then we kissed. Two creatures of flesh in a moment that took in the randomness of the moment and the pure pleasure of another body. If you were a passenger on that boat and saw completely inappropriate snogging by two old folk I hope it didn't spoil your evening. 


Emma thinx: If you wanna get to heaven - go out and kiss under it.

French Leave

I wanted you all to be the first to know. I'm going home for the week.The photo is of one of my views. Can you believe it? I just can't tell you how lovely St. Savinien is. Away from the urban madness I will live properly again. I'm just so lucky. It's half term in the UK so I'm free from the bus. Gilles works for an Anglo/French company and he's convinced them that the corporate thrust needs to be applied over there for a few days. Poor old geezer should retire really but I don't think they do retirement any more. Soon there will be a mass army of unemployed young people who's only work will be as coffin bearers as all the old folk work themselves to death at all the jobs the young should be learning and taking on. I might write a book about it called "For whom the bell doles". For the benefit of non natives the word "dole" means unemployment pay. Ooh I'm a cynical old cow.


Quiet day on the bus. At the tower block, intercom mom told me that her lad was "not really up to it today." I asked if he had been kind to her. "Ee's been a right little darlin' Emma," she said with a genuine smile in her voice. Somewhere in the concrete sky above me was a little warm sense of love. Ah - made me feel quite motherly smotherly. 

Gotta get stuff in the car and calm myself. Much will be forgotten I'm sure. This time tomorrow I'll be home, gabbling to friends in French, wondering about dinner.....and the possibility of cassoulet du lapin. I love my man and this is the only proof he ever asks. Can a woman deny her man a nice bit of hot furry game?


Emma thinx: Don't just sit there. - Boo something. Be a fan not a spectator.

Brown Eyes To Turn France Red.

I wait at the end of a block of lock up garages. The usual lad is not there. Above us is a concrete village in the sky of about 8 storeys. I watch a woman of close to my own age dragging herself on crutches down some steps towards me. She hauls herself breathlessly up to my window. I notice she has two lip rings. 

"Ee's not comin' today - ee's got an 'eadache. I would 'ave phoned but me credit's gone," she says.

I thank her and reverse the bus as she struggles back up the concrete steps to the sky village. The radio plays "It's all about tonight" by a young electro-warblesse called Pixie Lott. The pumped out pop culture kinda overlays the grey inarticulate desperation of so many lives. This is the way we are - a proletariat of tinsel, piercings  and tattoos, climbing the stairs of manipulated individualism towards a nirvana of that lottery win, that Friday night out, that romance like what they does in them trash books.

Well, that cheered you all up didn't it. My home seems far away this week as I watch the fallen leaves begin to swirl more and more in the Autumn gusts. In France the socialists slug it out to see who will challenge Sarko for the presidency. The departure of DSK from the picture threw everything into disorder. Last night I watched Martine Aubry speaking on the French News. From the distance of the UK I find myself warming to her. She may or may not have had a few problems in the past (it is a job to tell when there are so many dirty tricks). But, if she has had a few issues then she knows about struggle and humanity. She answers questions patiently and has an air of being a neighbour to whom you could chat. She also has kind eyes. Martine - I would vote for you if I had a vote. As it is I'll just tell Gilles to vote for you. The poor old boy slogs up and down to London directing his branch of the corporate world. He wants to go home. I'm gonna cook him some moules tonight. A couple of weeks ago he saw a rabbit running across the sports field. He glanced at me with a grin. I know what he was thinking. Oh yes I do!

Everyday is a school day. This morning I learned about a style of architecture called "Brutalism". Essentially it means that 60's concrete slab style. When I was young it was thought to be modern and artistic. There's a big debate over whether or not to demolish Preston Bus Station. There's some folk who want to keep it as a monument. I can see both sides to this. Speaking as a bus driver it looks as if there is plenty of shunt room. Take a look at the picture and let me know. Comments from fellow bus drivers very welcome.

Emma thinx: Room to manoeuvre - get your guy to tidy the lounge.

Deep Fat and Sexy

The boy done good! Mark Cavendish won the World road race cycling championship with a fantastic sprint. He is always the first to acknowledge his team who pull him in their collective slipstreams to the finish. I wonder how they feel having exhausted themselves to see one man take the plaudits. Very often I hear of people who have climbed Everest. In the old days you used to get a knighthood or at least some imperial gong. Sadly there are now so many Everestians that you might get a column filler photo slot in your local free newspaper and a free pack of budget sausages from a smiling local shopkeeper. Anyway, my point is that there are hundreds of porters and sherpas who seem to do most of the work. Sherpa Tenzing who climbed with SIR Edmund Hilary was himself named by time Magazine as one of the most influential men of the 20th Century. Since then I'm afraid the poor old guides and labourers have fallen back into the shadows. In the case of the cycling I think all those rouleurs who bash out the miles protecting their sprinters should be known as sherpas. In fact I hereby declare the Emma Calin Sherpa knighthood is awarded to the Sherpas: Wiggins, Froome, Stannard, Thomas, Cummings, Hunt and Millar. They are entitled to a free copy of "Knockout" and of course may use the title for the rest of their lives. Arise Sherpas.

How do you feel about deep fat fryers? Do you think that they are an abomination? Do you have one in your kitchen? Are they the last true demarcation of social class? I have 2 view points: 1) They produce delicious food. 2) They should not be allowed in the house.

Last night I cooked dinner for friends. We opened with Breton Duck pâté with asparagus and figs. We moved on to Moules et Frites - that classic dish of France. (Well, Northern France and Belgium). Now, Frites require a deep fat fryer and so it was that Gilles returned from ASDA (That's Walmart for the rest of the world) with a DFF. (I told him not to say the word in case the neighbourhood watch committee found out what we had. Arriving in the lorry was bad enough). He also got some Maris Piper potatoes which we finely sliced. The whole evening got a bit Gallic with aperos going on far too late. Then under cover of darkness Gilles went to the garage and operated the shameful machine. Les frites were delicieuses. The mussels were huge - about twice the flesh of the French ones although the shells were the same size. Oh by the way we decided to try a local British wine. Now, our French wine in Saintonge is reckoned to be a bit plain. The British stuff was plain awful. It was expensive, snobby and sour. Never again.

Emma thinx: You are what you tweet.

I'm shoving it.

So we cruised up towards the coast.The names of towns had lived their growing signposts of fame, then slipped away behind like rejected talent show hopefuls: Poitiers, Tours, Le Mans. It's really quite alarming to realise that there actually is a weather line at the River Loire. The temperature steadily reduced by about 8 degrees Centigrade as we neared the coast. About a mile from the port there is a Mcdonalds and I could tell that Gilles was getting a bit excited. You see I have the zeal of the convert and see myself as une Francaise , une maitresse de moules, une femme de fromage. All in all too posh to nosh. Not so my Gallic gourmet -"Zay ave zee Big Tasty." He told me. The place was crowded. (The French are lovin'it - but don't tell anyone). We queued behind 4 chavs - baseball hats backwards, bits of bling, a few tattoos. Somewhere in their lives would be a hot hatch with an exaggerated exhaust pipe. I wanted coffee with my Big Tasty meal. "Impossible!" Snapped the serveuse. 
"Pourquoi?
"It is not part of the Big Tasty menu." Mumbled the rude child in an exasperated tone. She was the kind of person who would be rejected by Somali pirates. I ordered 2 Big tasty meals and a separate coffee. I could tell she despised my tactical manoeuvre. We munched - or rather licked and absorbed our soggy baps. I felt like an amoeba slithering my body around the outside of some unspeakable nutrient mass. Gilles pretended to be enjoying himself but I know that deep down he is a flame grilled whopper guy. 


We pulled away. In the distance were the lights of the port. Now -have you ever seen a horse galloping in the lead towards the last fence of the Grand National. Suddenly the animal looks at the fence and says "Nah!- I've had enough." Yes- the car saw those lights and stopped - more or less dead. She did not want to leave France. She could read my pain. The thought of driving on the left had stopped her heart. Gilles started to make unrepeatable remarks about having given le garagiste 1,600 Euros. All that cholesterol and anger at his age could be dangerous. We needed some exercise. The push was only about a mile. We huffed and puffed up to the check in and just about let it roll up to the cabin. I was worried that they might not let us in pushing the car. No one noticed. We were directed to follow a Monsieur red vest. We shrugged and looked helpless. We had our boarding cards. We could ask for Asylum.


There were many shrugs, smiles and "C'est la vie"sentiments. A large lorry appeared driven by a cheerful docker. We explained the story of the newly repaired car. The guy shrugged. "In Charentes they only think of beaches and the sun...this is no surprise."
He towed us on board. He shook our hands. As France slipped away behind us we made for the bar. The beer was French, the tricolore trailed out stiffly behind the ship. I was still a little bit at home.


Emma thinx: Disappointed? But deep down you were right weren't you. 

Cometh the hour, cometh the spam.

Yesterday the car came back. In the end no oily rag was brandished. Instead 1,600Euros worth of electronic modules were changed. This morning we have been loading up. Most importantly the tandem is coming back with us. Luckily we have a house sitter to look after the old place. I have been tempted to do a kinda wistful poetic wander around the town to fill my memory tanks. At the end of the day you can torment yourself with sentimental wishes and could have beens. You have to cut all that crap and get on with it. I have weeded my flower bed and tucked in the last tendrils of the vines. I often think about all the folk who get sent off to wars or lose their homes in disasters. Most of the stuff we whine about is pathetic isn't it.


I keep catching all manner of gloom on the radio about double dip recession and stagnant economies. The answer it seems is more cut- backs coupled with more spending. Then if we re-structure our European and American economies to encourage domestic manufacturing we can sell our goods to the globalised dispossessed and poor who will no longer have jobs or money. Ah! but we could give them the money. LET THEM EAT CREDIT. Now, why didn't I think of that? To be honest comrades I feel a real sense of alarm amongst our leaders. The shadow of mass unemployment and mobs with little to lose have them peeking out from behind their curtains and pinning medals on their guards. The winter sweeps across us now. I believe we could see a very interesting Spring. The credit rating gurus have increased the cost of Italian borrowing and once again the disembowelled shark jack-knifes in reflex to swallow its own guts. So far our leaders think that the answer to shark attack is to send for better sharks. The answer my lords is to drain the sea.


And so these are my thoughts as I set out on my next little life adventure. I am neither politician nor economist - I write soppy fiction in a kinda purple bubble bath in cold water style. My time in France has shown me the sincerity with which Europeans pursue the ideal of unity. The forming of a federalised American state was by no means certain - it could have gone several ways. Their page was less written. Cometh the hour cometh the man is very different to cometh the decades cometh the men. Leaders - the Romantic novelist battalions are watching you. The tired old stuff won't do.


Emma thinx: Travel broadens the mind: and often your beam.

Blue Collar Scholar.

Well, it had to happen. I'm on the way back to the UK at least until Christmas. Gilles has to work in London for a while. (That's where I grabbed him in the first place). There is also the very distinct possibility that I will be getting a job. It's about time! I had enough savings to keep myself propped up during the summer and more or less dedicated myself to writing....and maybe a bit of hedonistic pure idleness. Being able to write in tranquillity without all the jingle jangle has been wonderful. The fruits of these labours should surface over the next couple of months. In the mean time I hope to take the kind of job suited to a Romantic novelist, poet and philosopher. Yes, you've guessed it - I'm gonna be a bus driver. Well, not a really real one. My friend Geoffrey Phillips who did the narration on "Sub Prime" works for a school bus operator and there is vacancy for ME. You may wonder why I have a bus driver's license? Well, I'll leave that question hanging just to excite you. But all this proves exactly what I said yesterday. All those top jobs and inside information never come out to the masses. So, even a minimum wage, no contract, casual job gets sorted out under the radar because you know someone. I am a pluto-rat and a self seeker. I am ashamed. In the case of a bus driving job this is known as Depotism. 

But, I'm putting my shoulders back and breathing that pure air of the proletariat. The British climate is often horrid. I am anticipating cold wet darkness. I will be one of my own people, sharing their struggle, mashing my potatoes into their gravy, voting on X factor, building the barricades, frying my fish fingers, preparing Findus savoury pancakes. The serious issue here is that once again I will be able to comment on the national politics. In France I have always kept quiet because it is not my country and not my place to opine. I have loved my home in Charente Maritime and soon enough I will be back. Maybe the next book will be mega and I can once again think of writing full time. For now I just have a couple of issues on which to concentrate. Remember to drive on the left. Recover my proper accent! 


Emma thinx: One door closes. A trap door opens.

Mia Culpa

As I write I am waiting for the 8 o'clock news on TF1 which will be read by my old unwitting French teacher Claire Chazal. The Nation awaits her interview with the ex IMF chief, Dominic Strauss-Kahn, now safely home from the dangers of New York. I actually wonder what kind of interview it will be since Claire is an old mate of Mrs DSK, the blue eyed ex news presenter who taught me French on channel 2. (Family photo above). Essentially, politics, celebrity, money and power cluster around one another in France just as they do everywhere else. The greats are often the offspring of the greats and the deals, the top jobs and the inside trades are fixed long before the crumbs are thrown to the masses. Of course we all live in a Meritocracy - it's just that it is an hereditary meritocracy. As soon as I've seen the show I'm gonna get straight on here and give you the view from La Rue....


And here is the flavour. OK - he was weak and was morally at fault. He regrets all and his regret will last for ever. He has let down his family and the people of France. There was no violence or coercion and his accuser has told many lies. The judges have cleared him absolutely. When he was arrested he was afraid. He felt himself gripped in the jaws of a machine and humiliated. Maybe there was a plot? Maybe he fell into a trap? He does not know and cannot comment now. As for the accusations of a French lady novelist (NOT ME) that he attempted to have her it is all lies....Yes, he had power as IMF chief (one twitch of his pen could send thousands of you and I to the soup kitchens and the gutter), he never exercised power in the context of personal relations.


So - that's the sexy bit. Then the guy came out of corner. He will not stand for president. (Oh no- because I just decided to give it a miss myself). Who will be the socialist alternative now?


Then it got serious so pin your ears back. If Europe and the USA do not get their acts together, in 25 years we will be an economic wasteland. Remember, before a young lady crossed his path in a New York hotel this guy was so mega that one word like that would have crashed the markets. He's still got a brain (and a thingy) so we should listen. This guy is a so much a capitalist that his computer only has upper case.


So, that is the blog - bit dull because it's not just about ME. Looks like I'm entering a period of challenge and opportunity after tomorrow.....it's kinda like getting a job! Had to happen one day.


Emma thinx: No regrets? Don't worry - there's still time to catch up.

Shed No Tears.

I'm sitting in my bedroom. If I were to move to my left I would have a view from the window. Only discipline keeps me looking at the pink wall. (Well - what other colour would it be?) All writers need somewhere to work. This simple fact comes to mind with the news that a public appeal has been launched to save Roald Dahl's writing shed. Now, I guess his name will be familiar to you......but let me make a confession. Until I was about 25 I had never heard of him. As a child I read books completely at random. My parents did not read books and never read bed-time stories to us load of brats.(Can't say that I blame them. They worked night and day to pay the rent.) Most of what we read in school was the Bible and I don't think Roald wrote that in his shed. It was when my own kids were young that I became aware of his work - and that was because of the film "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" which was on TV at Christmas for about 20 years. Anyway - they want half a million pounds to organise the moving of the shed to a proper museum. Not sure how much I'll be giving to be quite frank.


Thinking of books that I read as a kid reminded me of my own very very special appeal to the people of the world. The first book I read was "Missing from Home" by Geoffrey Trease. It was a very socialist book about posh kids accidentally coming across the poor. It was in a pile of books given to me by a very kind lady called Mrs Lovelock. Now my life story is of a poor kid accidentally coming across the rich. Perhaps I read the book backwards. I was a pretty dumb kid. However, I must say that this book planted those old commie seeds in my brain and now they are in there like those weeds that strangle everything in my herb garden. Well - all that oregano and basil sound a bit bourgeois to me. I would say that this book seriously changed my view of life. If anyone knows where there is a copy PLEASE PLEASE let me know. My treasured copy got kinda divorced and lost in the decree absolute of time.


This weekend marks "Les Journées Européennes Du Patrimoinie". This means that palaces, monuments and chateaux will be open free of charge to the public. The idea is to give everyone a view of our heritage and also to involve them in the notion of its conservation and continuance. There are queues everywhere! There is no doubt that our leaders want to involve us all in the Eurodeal - that notion of the single state, doing away with the idea of war and the economic beggaring of your neighbour. If they do pull it off - to unite Europe fiscally and politically with an educated population fully employed with an equality of wealth and opportunity, it will be one of the greatest achievements of all time. I urge all the leaders of Europe who are reading this blog (and I know you do!) to be conscious of this. Over recent years a "place in history" has required war. Over these next few weeks my leaders - it will require the end to war or you will never be forgiven. If you can hold the show together and retain an agenda for people and not just for the so called markets, you will be THE GUYS. Can you even dream of failure? All the rest of us can do is press our faces into ugliness against the window you have shown us!


Emma thinx: History: Keep out! Work in progress.