 |
French glamor postcards more than 100 years old .
|
What if the
pedestrian had stepped off the kerb two
seconds earlier? Eaten a second
croissant? Turned gauche instead of droit? To the Gods of
Destiny, humans are mere toys. They hurl us to the floor or throw us against
the wall at whim. They do what they want when they
want. Our only protection seems to be alcohol, which neatly explains French spiritual life.
GOOD FUCKING MANNERS
Judi likes me to dress
up when we go
to a restaurant. I arrive rigid with good manners, ill-fitting shoes and a humble respect
for my elders (who, I might add, are fast reducing in numbers).
I present in a jacket and Italian slacks but find
myself severely overdressed amongst football jackets, sneakers and hoodies.
Lucky my Amex card has just this minute expired.
MOUCHES FOLLOW UP
A correspondent has explained the
reason for the ineffectual quality of French flyspray. Apparently the French
Government formulates flyspray to only numb the flies. While they are
lying semi-conscious on the Louis XIV armoire a citizen can whack them with a
fly swatter, achieving a sense of mastery over nature. This is a French mental health initiative.
MIXED NUTS
The French exhibit a bewildering mixture of Zen-like
patience and hysterical outrage. One moment they shrug with Buddhist tranquillity, the next they can
verbally crucify a cringing Government functionary. Patience is everything, they will tell you, until it is time to demand justice.
With this level of cultural support French psychiatrists enjoy full employment.
HAIR TODAY
Small businesses are dying
throughout France but the Beauty Salon survives, despite looking a little
mummified. Country people are not
glamorous, so their disposable
Euro is targeted.
Teenage girls emerge with orange
and pink temples.
From the local barber’s, for instance, youths swagger into the
street with Paratroopers’ No.2 cuts, looking like their heads have been attacked by a blind man with a carving knife. The barber is suspected of using a
motor mower on busy days.
BIG BIRD AT
THE OPERA
Outside that magnificent Napoleonic wedding cake we call the Paris Opera, a group of men in
full evening regalia arrives in several
cabs. As they gather together they are garlanded with windblown
Autumn leaves the colour of
money. The gusting wind lifts
their hats, handkerchiefs, gloves and
lapel flowers like feathers from a muster of moulting penguins
Ahh, the final
postcard which lists the
wonderful things you’ve seen and done on the canals,
the blissfully good weather, the mountain of great food and the lake of
great wine you’ve consumed,French peoples’ kindness despite the way
you disembowelled their language…but you don’t write it because
at the very last minute a train strike forces
you to spend
the equivalent of the
Tasmanian budget to reach the airport.
