To Market, To Market...Parisian Style

It is Sunday morning.
On Sunday morning in Paris you might, or you might not go to Mass, depending on your personal persuasion.
However, you will, most definitely, go to the market.
And why wouldn't you?
After all, food must be put on the table, on Sunday of all days.

The French do, of course, go to the market on other days of the week, it's not just a weekend treat.
The market is central to life in most European countries.

And naturally, when in Rome...or Paris...
Needless to say, markets was pretty high on our mutual list of 'Essential Paris'
Like most people, we are addicts. We spent hours wandering around in a daze.

Although I must confess, I didn't buy much food in the market.
I know, I know - 'What an eejit!' I hear you cry. 'How could you not?'

The trouble is, I never know where to begin.
We'd have ended up loading our baskets at every stall and staggering home with enough food to feed a small country.

I mean, where do you start?
Shall we just pig out on a multitudinous variety of breads for the day?

Or seafood.

Make seafood sandwiches? 

Seafood salads? 

But then, what about the charcuterie?

Or maybe it would be simpler to buy dinner ready made, and just choose some veg to go with it?
Or salad?

Or fruit?
Perhaps we should just stick to fruit today?

After all, cherries are my absolute, absolute favourite, and at home they each have names and are necessarily sold individually.

Decisions, decisions.
Why not have a few more nibbles while we make up our minds?

I expect other people are more decisive than I am. They'd head straight for their favourite stall and wham-bam, purchase made, lunch in the bag.
I'm not good at that kind of thing.
And anyway, it's not long before I'm pretty full from too much sampling.

My excuse is that I haven't been brought up the French way.
The French head to the market, view everything slightly cynically; poke, prod and finally shrug with Gallic finesse, point to something with a 'Well, I suppose it's better than nothing' expression, and then walk off smug in the certain knowledge that they have the best possible meal tucked in their basket. 

How very civilised the French are.

Scaling Mont Blanc

At the moment SuperModel is still finding the outside world a bit scary.

We have been making the most of our last few holiday days before the In-Charge is back at college, which has resulted in our introducing her to rather a lot of new places at once.
We took her to the woods the first day.
When asked if she had enjoyed the experience, she wasn't sure. She thought she might have done, but confessed she had spent a good bit of the walk worrying what the ultimate destination might prove to be.

Next, we took her to our favourite beach. She was very reluctant to enter the car in case we were moving her on again - this is her 4th location in as many weeks, after all - but she perked up considerably when we got there.
At the beach the In-Charge persuaded me to let her off the lead which I did - reluctantly. After just two days she certainly didn't know her name, but there was no one there, and the tide was right out, so the sand stretched invitingly from here to Manhattan. They raced and chased and she circled and returned, circled and returned, and then - just as I was starting to relax she took off and flew towards the distant sand dunes.

First day at the beach

Fortunately the In-Charge is much calmer than I am. He sent Model Dog after her, and when they were both standing in the distant marram grass looking from us to the high dunes behind them and back again, he blew his whistle. I think I held my breath as Model Dog streamed back across the sand towards us, but our new arrival followed after only a moment's hesitation. I put her back on the lead after that. Even if she hadn't had enough exercise, I'd had enough palpitations.

By our third outing, she was happier to get into the car. We took her to the headland and the two of them flew over the bumpy mounds in ecstasy. It was wonderful to watch.
Model Dog was over the moon to have someone to chase, someone to chase her. I was surprised to find that Model Dog, who is larger and heavier, is also faster, despite SuperModel's racing chassis. I wonder how long that will last?

Race time

On the way home we passed several groups walking the coast road in the afternoon sunshine, their pooches trotting happily along the grass verge. SuperModel barked viciously out of the back window at each and every one.
We aren't used to barking dogs. The hounds of our experience have been almost completely silent.
'What's she saying?' I asked the In-Charge.
'This is MY road, MY headland, MY car and MY family. GO AWAY! NOW!' he replied promptly.
Silly me.

This afternoon, our last day off, we decided to go back to the headland, but when we got there it was full of people, so instead we drove to the far end of the woods. It's a place we rarely go to, so it has the special feel of Christmas, or snow, or high days and holidays.

When we got to the end of the walk, I was so chilled out, I allowed the In-Charge to lead me onto the narrow path that carries on along the top of the steep, wooded bank. It is high, high above the river, very overgrown, very muddy and to my mind, akin to a goat ledge on the top of Mont Blanc.
Not for humans.
Not this human, anyway. I fall off stepladders if I go higher than the second rung.
Even worse, the other side of the track is dense with prickly hedgerow and barbed wire screening off tantalizing glimpses of blissfully flat, level, green fields. But fields containing sheep and horses and hares - all those things that an un-tried hound mustn't be let near.

View from the goat path

It was - if not exactly fine and dandy - at least survivable, until we came to the end of the chamois trail.
Then, happily, I spotted our escape route back to the real world. 'Oh look, there are steps down to the river.' I said brightly.
Ho ho.
There were some rough steps. All three of them.
However, going on seemed better than turning back, so we continued down the fisherman's path, clambering through brambles, holly bushes and fallen wood until we reached the water.
Safe at last, I thought, visions of tea and Christmas cake flitting temptingly through my head, but about a hundred yards further on, the In-Charge, nobly leading the way, announced that we had come to the end of anything that could remotely be called passable.
'Is the river very deep here?' I asked hopefully. Paddling had never seemed so appealing. Even in walking boots and January-cold water.
'Yes,' he said, peering in. He sounded uncompromising.

We ended up scaling the North Face.
My gorgeous son in New Zealand likes mountain climbing. Totally mad, but what can you do?

I, on the other hand, prefer my mountains on post cards.

The North Face

I am deeply un-athletic.
My sister gyms and runs, my brother cycles to Paris and back, Wonder-brother rushes about renovating houses.
I eat too much and waddle forth for leisurely walks with the dogs.

There was nothing leisurely about that particular walk. Model Dog set off, unfazed, heroically coming back to my side whenever she thought I'd been stationary for too long. 'It's all right for you,' I told her, somewhat resentfully. 'You can just leap and scrabble and dig in your claws and propel yourself vertically into the air over vast tracts of impassable undergrowth.'
I, on the other hand, ascended somewhat less elegantly, scrambling upwards on knees, toes, hands and chin, tummy moulded to the dripping incline, using my elbows, teeth and fingernails to hang on to anything more deeply rooted than moss. Bracken, which I've never given much thought to, has risen in my estimation, and after frantically chanting 'Don't look down, don't look down!' the whole way up, I see how mantras have become so popular.

All in all, it was not a pretty sight.

The In-Charge hauled me up the worst bits in true movie-hero style (my arm has nearly settled back into its socket, thank you). He kindly pointed out various hand and footholds, but they were mostly out of my reach, and all nestled in the slippery, oily mud slyly concealed beneath the fragile plants clinging to the vertical slope.
Not having either a goat or a monkey as a grandparent, I can't say it was one of my happier sorties into the woods.
Our new baby didn't seem full of the joys either. She hovered uncertainly behind me, deftly following my lumbering ascent, her stilettos doing a better job than my sturdy walking boots and scrabbling fingers.

What are we DOING here?

Three times I thought the ledge above my head was the longed-for chamois trail, only to find it was just another ledge. And then, as with fading resolve I launched myself at the final ascent, SuperModel surged upwards, leapt onto the path, and disappeared through an infinitesimal gap in the hedge to the forbidden pastures beyond.
Oh woe. Oh calamity. Oh impetus like no other.
I levitated the last five yards.
We called. I shouted. Finally I hollered and ran - yes, ran - along the goat path trying to find a break in the brambles so that I could even see her. She was having a fine time, chasing perceived or imaginary scents to and fro across the field and paying no attention to us whatsoever. Mercifully there was no livestock in sight, and being a man of movie-hero propensities, the In-Charge had already managed to lever himself through the brambles and over the wire. I gave Model Dog a hearty shove in the same direction and did the only thing I could do. Call our errant SuperModel and watch.

The In Charge strolled in a leisurely way to mid-field and then squatted down, called Model Dog in and started making an extravagant fuss of her. In less than a minute SuperModel had paused, circled and then taken the bait, sidling in to be cuddled as well. A moment later he'd slipped her lead on, picked her up and lifted her over the fence.


When we finally got home, I'd largely recovered from my urgent need for a medicinal brandy, but we were all so wet and dirty it seemed as good a time as any to give SuperModel a bath.
She endured it with good grace and was very pleased with herself as we towelled her dry in the warm kitchen afterwards. She bounced around looking like a coy coat hanger covered in blonde fluff, but after shaking several times and licking herself all over, she curled up in her bed and went out like a light, an old T shirt for a duvet.

Tired but oh so happy. Or is it, happy but oh so tired?

Four days into her new adventure, I think she has definitely clicked 'Like'.
We certainly have.

Tomorrow she is booked in for her first visit to the dreaded Needle-Lady to be vaccinated and chipped.
Let's hope that doesn't make her change her mind!

Nightingales

I was in hospital this week.

(You don’t even want to know. Let’s just stick with the plain, simple, ubiquitous hospital term: ‘procedure’.)

Actually, I was going to say, I was unlucky enough to be in hospital this week, but – you know what? I wasn’t unlucky. Something got checked out, ticked off and dealt with, instead of hanging in the balance, causing worry or causing problems. And everything was OK – so in fact, I was lucky.

Not having any nice pictures of hospitals, I thought you'd like a stormy, January sea

 

What wasn’t quite so lucky was having a general anaesthetic.

I don’t know about you, but I must knock out so easy! They could practically save themselves the drugs, spare me the dreaded cannula and use a rubber mallet instead.

I never wake up!

Last year, when I had to go in for an operation (or are they just ‘procedures’ as well?) they had to keep me for an extra day because I couldn’t be trusted on my own two feet for so long afterwards. Sad really. Obviously nothing between the ears to soak up all those chemicals.

Maybe I didn’t smoke enough dope at college to harden the old head up a bit.

That’s probably it. I never took to that slightly dizzy, out-of-control feeling.

I never enjoyed sliding down the passage in my socks when I was a kid, either.

(Someone once told me that’s what water-skiing is like, so I never tried it.)

Still no hospitals, but lots of sea...

Anyway – as always I digress.

So I spent a blurry afternoon on the Day Ward in Sligo Hospital, pondering the really profound issues of life – like why the curtains round my bed had turned pink, when I could have sworn they started out blue.

It’s a great way to focus your mind, anaesthetic.

I wonder if that’s how Edward de Bono started? (Although technically, curtains are more perpendicular than lateral.)

The thing that really struck me, lying there, shivering and helpless, was just how nice nurses are, and how lucky we are to have them, pretty well on tap, all the way through our lives.

Let’s face it, most of us look upon our first nurse within moments of being born, and many of us look upon them as we die, and by and large, they’re taking up the slack on our behalf regularly in between as well.

I know it is a job of work, for which they are paid (if you call shirt-buttons pay, that is) but truly, how many of you would readily deal with someone else’s blood, guts, phlegm, vomit, urine and faeces, not to mention body odours?

Well, OK, every parent – or at least, every mother.

And a good few wives. (Or should that be a few, good wives?)

Fair comment, anyway.

But there is a certain amount of having signed-on-the-bottom-line on that.

How many of us would do it, not just as a one-off ‘here’s my ticket to heaven!’ – but every day.

And smile.

And say encouraging things.

Convincingly!

I don’t think I’d last too long.

(And next time some pompous politician is deciding whether or not nurses deserve a pay-rise, maybe they should think of all that blood and guts, that piss and shit, that sick and snot, and debate how much they would need to be paid to deal with it, every day.)

It’s not even as if the average sick person is looking their best or giving anything in return.

Not nightingales, but seagulls

 Dread to think what I was looking like. Puffy-faced and bleary-eyed.

There were four or five nurses on the ward the other day, and they were all bloody marvellous (which is a household expression here, and must be uttered in suitably rallying accents.) They really helped me feel better – by smiling a lot for starters, and by stuffing some weird vacuum cleaner-type-hose-thing under the blankets to pump glorious hot air at me when I couldn’t stop shivering, by soothing, and helping me stagger out of bed, by bringing tea and toast and saying things like 'take your time' - right down to insisting that I be taken to my waiting car in a wheel chair when, eventually, I went home.

I believe only the nurses who are trained at St Thomas’s Hospital in London are entitled to be called Nightingales. The name comes, of course, from Florence Nightingale, who started the first ever secular school of nursing there. I shared a house with two Tommy's girls when I was at uni, and they wore starched white caps and were perfect role-models for all nurses everywhere.

Apart from them, the only other nightingales I know are the small brown birds that you’d never really notice until, under cover of darkness, when no one is looking, they start to sing.

And then they give it everything, and their gift transforms the darkness.

I think all nurses deserve to be called nightingales.

And I think we should all stop now and again, just to appreciate them.

At last, a nightingale.                    Photo borrowed from Chris Thomas, British Bird Photography 

Thank you, dear Readers, for so many lovely comments left recently. And thank you very much for the Candle Lighter Blog Award! I am very touched to receive it.

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SOS  

I still haven't sorted out my blog problems, so if you have technical wizardry at your fingertips, I'd love to hear from you!