anotherbanana

Cookshop Picture, if you will, an upmarket cookshop in the nice bit of Brussels, the sort of place which sells twenty types of saucepans, fifty different types of knife, dozens of those strange, exotic devices which are, apparently, guaranteed to make you a five star chef just by picking them up. And seventy types of olive oil or vinegar made, it seems, from gold leaf and love, by big thighed Italians, and all those strange little foodie items in bottles and tins which simply do not exist in the normal world, all priced to make the eyes water. Gathered in a training kitchen area (itself in full view of passers-by on the pavement) are 12 eager students, one being myself, taken there by my healthy-eating conscious daughter in an attempt, perhaps, to move me on from the rather primitive and simplistic cooking which she has been obliged to swallow whenever I was in charge of the kitchen, or maybe to stop me always spoiling good food. But then, ten years of survival eating at boarding school, six at university and many years living alone are not perhaps the best way to have build quality cooking skills. And there was the chef, the demi-god, to allow us to sup on his pearls of wisdom, wearing a smart uniform and accompanied by an eager little assistant. The subject of the day was how to deal with vegetables and of much interest. Before us was a display of early spring, bio vegetables from Italy, France, Spain and North Africa - new garlic, slim, fresh leeks, smelling delightful, deep red beetroot potatoes, courgettes, radishes and others all as fresh as possible from the market that morning, plus beautiful gambas from the Indian Ocean, such a far cry from the rubbish served up in the supermarkets. So, introductions, ideas, decisions taken, and menu decided, by the chef himself, pinnies tied, hands washed, and we begin to peel and chop and slice. Which brings up the problem - me and blades! Quite simply, however hard I try, the blade will manage to cut me. Nothing has ever stopped this process, never, not no how. Sooo, preparation by peeling and slicing makes me n e r v o u s. And I have to peel and slice a large beetroot. Well, there is one advantage of this to we experienced cutters - the colour; simply put, if you cut yourself, it doesn't show! And I did, just a little graze, not with the knife but with the soddin mandolin. No guard, as there was none, just a fork. So, a little blood was spread amongst us, we few, we happy few.... cannibals. But then the chef said it was all about getting the maximum flavour into the dish, so I like to think I added that extra special je ne sais quoi to the boiled, sliced courgette and beetroot round a bed of potato made with olive and ergan oil and topped with steamed gambas fried quickly with garlic. Ah those secret ingredients which make a great dish. Bon appétit.

No hurry said I and I was right. All as it should be for the exchange of C de S which arrived this morning announced by the postie tooting loudly around 1200 hrs, thinking I was still snoozing which I might have been but wasnt! Procedure was simple and clear though I was very nervous of driving to the office for the photos and fingerprints in Arras which was packed last time I was there. But no need to have worried, only three allowed in at a time, lovely day, bit of chitchat on the steps while waiting. Charming person behind the glass screen, keen, helpful, knew exactly what she was doing. Indeed, to the preceding ‘customer’ who was very nervous, she was really caring and comforting. How procedures should be. Unlike my expired French driving licence which had me sweating buckets. Now for the bl**dy taxes!

The word dyslexia actually covers a whole slew of conditions which includes number and concentration span problems, vision variations etc. Basically some people are very differently wired from the average. But so called dyslexics are original and recently I see they are sought after by the security services. Bit like being left handed and misunderstood.

Well, that was the quietest weekend in yonks; thanks I guess to Saturday being ferié not a mower, strimmer, tractor, pump or whatever, just quiet gardening, the odd barbie and chat across the fence with neighbour. I wonder if this will last the whole month of public holidays? I do hope so!

My younger daughter was treated savagely by the Belgian state system who even tried to get her put into a special school for the mentally retarded. Many of her teachers simply did not either believe she had a problem or that dyslexia existed. However she persisted with the help of her late mother and managed to crawl through school. Whence to England and HE where we found her a degree course without written exams, just course work and where she got extensive help including a computer with specially designed programmes and the right to X hours of tutoring per week. Plus a teeny weeny bit of help from Dad! Got a decent 2:1 at the end of it all. Very proud of her. Her son also has some similar problems but gets help from the Belgian system now. Believe it or not, my daughter is now and English language teacher!

Nothing is totally accurate in these counts, doudoune. Who knows if someone who died of X actually had an underlying Y problem? The main th8ng is that the precovid numbers become the post covid numbers or better as quickly as possible though worldwide that seems a forlorn hope at the moment

No more attestations as of today unless you are out after curfew. Phew, another barmy bit of paper disappears. Just in time for my first haircut in nearly 18 months, or is it more?

Did he not tell us that he was dyslexic?

As long as the whole population has not been vaccinated including the rufusniks there will be a danger. Plus a sense of what is appropriate behaviour such as not shaking hands, not snogging the whole village, keeping a distance, at least until there have been several months of zero cases.

The French army and public still bear the scars of Vietnam and Algeria deep in their culture, probably inevitably. Which explains their and the general public’s attitude to North African Arabs in general, enhanced doubtless by the attacks of terrorists on les forces de l’ordre as well as innocent others such as the Jewish lady who was done to death a little while ago, the staff of Le Canard Enchainé for example. The serving officers who signed the tribune will probably all be retired but that does not mean that the issue will go away. I think it has shaken the political establishment badly.

Anyone who can live in a barrel, beg and gain a worldwide reputation as a philosopher though in Greek must have some intelligence, no? He will doubtless reply when he has finished lunch, afternoon nap, afternoon tea and cakes and eyed up the dolly birds passing by. Googling is up to the reader. But that text is not difficult to read at all though maybe a bit verbose.

Trust me, Ken, he does!

Yes, Norman, I did wonder but I think they were drawn initially from both right and left. What they stand for now I dunno.

I have just been to negotiate for my first haircut in over a year and it brought back memories of another time. Other haircut Well, it is done, the sacrifice has been made, after tenders and negotiations and finally the deed; the annual haircut is complete, and my head looks like a cross between a kiwi fruit and a prickly pear. It was a delicate interaction, between the young lady and I, each feeling they knew best, each definitely but firmly trying to pull in their own direction. As I told the fascinated trainee who stood watching agog, it is a question of feeling between customer and shearer which is a finely balanced thing, a porcelain vase of fragility. But, there we are, I have lovely ears again, but no soft thatch at the back to keep the neck warm or to act as a cushion on airline flights, or to keep out the cold. Which brings us to fidelity: when I accepted the tender for the job the young lady at the till gave me a fidelity card, as do most French retail outlets. When I protested that I was faithful to a philosophy or a woman, if I had one, she pointed out that it doubled as an appointment card. Hmm, well, ok, accepted. But studying it later, I realised it posed a problem; the basic offer was ten cuts and a reduction of €5 on the eleventh ---- at one cut per year, that is eleven years before I get my bonus. Now, my granddad lived 'til 70, my dad 'til 73, so the chances of my being able to reclaim my €5 bonus are very slim. Not a lot of good really. So, yesterday I asked whether I could have the bonus in advance - no chance. Could I leave the card in my will so that me joyful descendants, crying alleluya at my post mortem munificence, could take advantage of this offer - need a lawyer for that one eh? And what about inflation - after all, this offer is a diminishing return, should it not be indexed, at least? And social charges, are they payable? The lady at the till looked confused and was clearly thinking that all Brits are totally doolally and why don't they bugger awf home. I am saddened that so much doubt has been caused to the owners of the salon which I patronize and that they might be in trouble because of the act of generosity as it seems to discriminate against the aged, whilst not favouring the famille nombreuse. Perhaps a fully transferable family card with indexed offer might be substituted, devoid of the stigma of prejudice and ageism, which would help the high breeders in their campaign to repopulate rural France with lotsa little white people. Meanwhile, I must wear a hat to keep out the sun and reintroduce myself to it slowly, no more than ten minutes a day, if I don't wanna burn and end up with a peeled bonce or worse.

The parents who choose that school are as nuts as the owners, Geordie!?

Yes, I have known a few too.

If Marine Le Pen became President of the Republic how would you react? Would you leave France, keep your head down, practise goose stepping, learn the whole of the Marseillaise, wear a Le Pen badge......? Just a thought.

The generals are attempting to preempt and control the debate in the run up to next year’s election, IMHO. Given the noisy voice of Le Pen and the easy appeal of the extreme right, it is to be hoped that Macron listens, at least. It was interesting that the text specifically excluded les gilets jaunes from the attack, concentrating amongst others rather on the black blocs or extremists who laid into the police/ gendarmes/ CRS, thus not alienating that disadvantaged group and enabling Le Pen to appeal to them. The appeal to nationalism is not surprising.

I make a point of asking people that I chat to if they have had a jab or two; the number of refusniks is very worrying. I just hope for their sakes that it does not all come back and bite them in the derrière,msomtomspeak. The French government could help by placing restrictions on those who will not have the vaccine such as a ban on using public transport, suspension of health or pension rights.....

Time to strangle someone https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-56905752

Bobo help the car salesman that has to deal with you Lori!?

Frexit?

If you got a 2 year old Kia you coupd get the remains of the 7 year guarantee, if 5 years.

Did ALBF write this?

Trou en formation with a sting in the tail. French genius! (For those whose knowledge of French is 'challenged', please understand that the French word ‘formation’ can be translated into English as ‘under construction’ (as in ‘being built’) or ‘training’ (as in ‘being instructed’). Well, there you are, on a lovely Saturday, shooting round Paris on the Péripherique at high speed, for once, trying to stay alive, keeping a safe distance from the car in front that is just too small for the Twingos to cut into, and desperately hoping that the Spanish trucks either side of you will not swerve and turn you into roadkill and swarf, as well as watching out for kamikazi motorcyclists, and you are bored with spotting and admiring Rom encampments with the squads of CRS there to ensure their security, or counting Fiat Duplos, or cutting up GB plated cars with extravagant Gallic gestures or, well, whatever, and then it happens you are about to meet an old and cherished road sign friend. Who you have not seen for a while, and who apparently hails from Toontown, and goes by the delightful name TROU EN FORMATION (a phrase from the Breton, originally, I think, though the family diaspora is now worldwide ). But, disappointment, sadness and woe, for you do not find hide or hair of said trou, not even the slightest scratch on the road surface, though, at 120kph the smallest indentation could easily have been missed, to be fair. Which got me thinking; it was a Saturday when the traffic is somewhat reduced, and it is the Spring, a time of youth, fornication, reproduction and offspring, and it was a big wide bit of road. Of course, (as I slapped myself on the head and got a foul look from the drop dead cute little blonde in the Smart next to me) it was a training day for Trous, run by that famous and rather frightening instructor Majeur Trou and his band of wandering acolytes, the Troubydoors (these are the little buggers who form up right outside you front door or gate). Imagine the scene in Toontown; a queue of little scrapes jostling together to get into the trouroom for their training days, full of enthusiasm to get out there and break rubber, crack suspensions and cause accidents. The door is opened by a towering, bemeddeled Gros Trou, the survivor of many campaigns, who has always escaped to fight again, and who holds the rare accolade of the Introuvable Medal given only to those who have infiltrated public service, for winning so many battles against their deadly enemies, Les BoucheTrous. They rush in, lay flat on the floor and volunteers first walk, then drive over them at speed. Of course they groan and moan a bit at the shock, but only those with the greatest number of twisted ankles, for the Pavement Trous Brigade or the most vicious cracked chassis or slipped loads or swerves causing accidents, the famous German brigade, called the Bad Trous, are selected. The failures, Les Trous Perdus are sent off to distant farm tracks and paths to do their worst to hay wagon wheels, drunken yokels in 4x4s and the wheels of bicycles. They are most famous in the country regions of Normandy, Les Trous Normands. Finally, they are lectured on the importance of their craft and of keeping it simple and local as far as possible, for it has been rumoured that they are to be mass produced in a Chinese process called Usine Des Trous, which will result in the unique Gallic Trou disappearing forever. Then, finally, in a delightful little Toon truck which dances with joy at being driven, called Trou de Balle, they are taken out at the dead of night, bursting with happiness, these little trou of different types, trou axial, foré, creusé, cylindrique, naturel, artificiel, and given their assignments. With what enthusiasm do they settle on roads and paths, motorways and runways, driveways and concourses, these wonderful little insurance claims of the future. And remember with pride those who undertake the really secret missions, to infiltrate the health budget, for example, to become the hated and never ending Trou de la Sécu, or those who get lost and turn nasty, les Trou du Culs, or the culinary branch, Les Trous du Gruyère, or the famous marrying ones, Les Trousseaux! They are legion and should be loved, but please, keep away from me and mine, guys and gallic trous. Now, if Paris is Toontown, and therefore the President is Roger Rabbit, Mrs President must be ..........? If the trou fits, step in it babyeee. And then there is a miracle, a metamorphosis as only the French can inspire, for behold, as soon as those carefully trained holes have found a space for themselves and dug in, so to speak and begun their destruction of the nation’s cars, they change, like tadpoles do into frogs, into nids de poules, chickens nests. Ah France!