Taxe de Sejour - What is the Point????

[Cassis]

I think I've lost it momentarily. [8-)]

[mint]

Lost the plot?  What plot would that be?

At this very moment, another blood-curdling shriek rents the air.  Marie Therese opens her lungs and the decibels of her scream register into the 200s.

Jean-Louis reluctantly admits to himself that perhaps an obstetrician is called for.  He motions to his men, "Get one of those shields and put the woman on it!"

Pierre-Yves holds up his hand, "Chef, let me help poor Marie Therese."  The Poles grit their teeth, but there is little they can do.  In this scenario, they dare not insist that Pierre-Yves do as they would like.  Best to slink into the darkness and return for the little man another day.

Pierre-Yves and Bernard lift Marie Therese, with some difficulty, onto the full body-length shield that one of the gendarmes has pushed forward.  Marie Therese closes her eyes and waits for the next contraction.  She crosses herself and prays silently under her breadth.

"You can bring her into the bar," says Jon, anxiously.  The 2 men heave the shield up and proceed with their burden into the bar of O'Casey's.

The alcohol imbibers, young and old, now look a bit solemn.  They clear a space in the middle of the bar floor.  Into this vacancy, Pierre-Yves and Bernard lay Marie Therese, trying not to drop her too precipitately.

Marie Therese's eyes are now almost popping out of her head.  She gathers breadth and, rounding her lips into an enormous O, she lets rip another scream.  "Help me, help me!"  "C'est insupportable!"  Unbearable?  What do you expect?  This is a woman who has carried whatever it is she has been carrying for 18 months.  Isn't that the length of time female elephants carry their foetuses?

[The Riff-Raff Element]

The telephone shook Dr Anil Chandra from a

deep sleep. “Yes?”

“Dr Chandra? It’s Gaston Lebeouf of the

gendarmerie. Could you come to O’Casey’s bar as quickly as possible?

A….er….well, I suppose, woman is about to give birth here on a riot shield.”

“I shall be there in five minutes!”

answered Chandra.

Dressing rapidly, he kissed his still

slumbering wife – how beautiful she was, he thought – and stole downstairs.

Packing an emergency bag, he hummed happily to himself before melting into the

darkness and heading for the square.

A son of Bombay, he had won

a scholarship to a London teaching hospital. There he had met a beautiful, petite French

woman. Married young, they had settled in Paris, and had

risen rapidly through the medical hierarchy in the capital. Then his wife had

inherited a large house in the Vendée. Reasoning that a rural life would

probably be beneficial to their children, they had moved here only a few years

previously. Mme. Chandra had quickly gained a post as a renal consultant at the

nearby hospital. Anil had decided to move into general practice.

 

He had quickly established a niche

specialising in treating “illnesses of the clueless non-French speaking British

expatriate community” which provided a steady income, but had been unable to add

any but the most difficult French patients to his list. He realised quite

quickly that whilst the British were entirely used to medicos from the

Subcontinent, the rural French were not.

Then, at a weekend drinking binge of the

“Anglophone Medical Association of France” he had met a doctor of Bahaman

origins who practiced in the far reaches of bucolic Jura. After a lengthy

session of absinth consumption, his colleague had passed on a piece of advice

that had revolutionised his practice.

 

“Prescriptions,” he had said, “are much

like money. They have neither colour nor smell. And, like money, the more, the

better.”

 

Chandra had returned home and spent an

instructive couple of days with the official pharmacopoeia of France.

Hidden in its pages he had found an entire gamut of nineteenth century remedies

that the treacle-slow bureaucracy had failed to remove from the approved lists

of drugs. Mostly plant based, harmless and ineffective in equal measure,

these could be prescribed with impunity. And, best of all, all were 100%

reimbursable.

 

Trade had picked up in a matter of a few

weeks as people heard that Dr Chandra was writing particularly impressive

prescriptions. After six months, and with the connivance of the local

pharmacist, he had added “complementary” treatments that had proved

astoundingly profitable.

 

Purchased under discrete plain cover from a

British supermarket in the Deux Serves, and reserved solely for his French

patients, these included such potent medicaments as Worchester sauce (“three

drops to be taken with food, twice daily), Jelly babies sorted by colour (“one

to be dissolved under the tongue after meals”) and Smarties (“insert one anally

each night before retiring”). If any of his patients thought it odd to spread

marmalade on their buttocks as a cure for scrofula or sprinkle Colman’s mustard

powder in their socks as a protection against leprosy they never said so. Dr

Chandra’s prescriptions averaged 18 items, some of which were actually

effective at treating illness, and he had to have especially long pads printed

to accommodate the ever growing lists of placebo and palliative.

 

The Chandra’s had progressed from

“comfortable” to “wealthy” in short order. The waiting room was always full and

Anil felt fulfilled. He still enjoyed the midnight calls though – they

made he feel as though he was back in urgences again.

 Entering the bar he noted that many of the

people gathered there seemed to be covered in manure. Shrugging inwardly he

observed to himself that there were still some local customs remaining to be

fathomed. Pushing toward the centre of the crowd from where emanated the unholy

wails of a woman in labour, he was surprised to see Mme. Berland, the local

vet. His astonishment evaporated when he cast his eyes down to the creature on

the riot shield. Clearly this was one of those two-discipline jobs.

“Right everyone out except the father” he

snapped. He wasn’t entirely surprised when seven of the group stayed where they

were. Turning to Mme Berland – “Do you have a rope and humane killer?” he asked

quietly. She nodded. “Very well then, au boulot!”

   

           

   

*****************************************************************************

  

Adjutant – Chef Leblanc stood at ease in

front of the desk of the Colonel de Gendarmerie Départemental. His superior

tapped the report in front of him. “Who else has seen this?”

 

Jean-Louis inclined his head slightly.

“Only you, Sir. I thought it best that you saw it first. None of the rest of

men know the full story and I have sworn them all to secrecy. They are good

men. They understand the need for discretion in these matters.”

 “I have had a …. suggestion from the

highest levels that it would be preferable that this unhappy series of

occurrences remain outside of the public domain. It would seem that this man Le

Pompoudor de Frou Frou has some impressive connections.”

 

“Indeed, Sir. As you will have seen from my

report, the “radish affair” was dealt with with deeply impressive efficiency.

What will become of him this time?”

 

“I’m not sure,” said the Colonel, “but he

has requested a posting away from any English. It would seem that his dislike

of them was the root of all this. And what of the child?”

 

Jean – Louis shuddered: the birth had been

one of the more terrifying experiences of his long career. “Well, Dr Chandra

says that cow-headed children are not unheard of in Hindu mythology. He seemed

quite calm about it after the initial shock. He says the child should grow up

normally and should make quite a useful addition to any rugby team. I don’t

think he was joking either, Sir.”

 The Colonel nodded. “So, Adjutant-Chef,

will it be possible keep this quiet?”

 

“Yes Sir. The pompiers have washed the

streets, all the equipment is back on the farm and none of the protagonists

remember a thing now that they have sobered up. The Englishman in the bar knows

more than most, but he also knows what is best for him. There will be no leaks.

We will call it an agricultural incident.”

 

The Colonel smiled. “Excellent work Major Leblanc!” Leblanc smiled

back. Elevation to the highest rank of NCO was a rare thing, and it would top

up his pension very nicely.

 

   

           

   

*****************************************************************************

 

In a small town deep in the South of

Guiana, Pierre-Yves surveyed his new office. There was a cheap desk, a couple

of old chairs and a ceiling fan that rotated so slowly that flies rode on it.

Through the window he had a view of the swamp, from which rose a cloud of foetid

steam. The heat was stifling and his suit was covered in sweat marks.

Pierre-Yves never worked with his jacket off – it was not done.

His posting to the DDE here in the back of

beyond was all that could be done to save the tatters of his career. His

pension was safe, but in return he would have to sit in this pitiful office approving

or declining applications for new fosses septiques for the next 12 years. The

irony was lost on him.

 

And Colette! Colette had stayed behind. Of course

it was better for the children not to change schools at this stage, but had the

needs of economy really necessitated her moving in with that dreadful Rosbif

and his hockey playing wife? A tear of self pity welled up in his eye.

 

He turned back to face his new boss. “I am

looking forward to getting back to work,” he said. “Will I have much contact

with the public?” “Not in this role, no” answered the man.

 

“And,” Pierre-Yves continued “I was assured

that there are no English here: is that indeed the case?”

 

“Absolutely,” replied his boss. “Not an

Englishman for 100 km. Of course, we do have quite a lot of Australians here –

mining and prospecting types looking for gold. In fact a couple of them have

just taken over the café de la paix

in the square. It’s now called “Kylie’s Billabong.” Quite a lively crowd there

of an evening. They’ve even imported a wine from their homeland called “Kanga-Rouge.”

Quite amusing, you see, and very palatable. There’s a group of us going for

their Abba evening on Friday – perhaps you would care to join us?”

 

Pierre-Yves wasn’t listening. He sank to

his knees, his head in his hands. Would the horror never end?

[Cerise]

Thank you Jon - I've been worrying about Pierre-Yves and Co.  It is comforting to know that it ended happily.  Our mayor has decided not collect Taxe de Séjour - obviously a forum reader[:)]

 

I do hope the bichon frisée is OK - presumably it went chez les Rosbifs with Colette?

[mint]

Pierre-Yves looks up after an interval.  What has he come to and how has the rapid turn of events left him in this God-forsaken outpost of empire?

He looks across the dusty compound that contains his office AS WELL AS his living accommodation.  The latter is a bungalow of sorts.  It looks definitely rickety, nothing like his pavillion in the Vendee.  In fact, with hindsight, his pavillion has now assumed palatial proportions.

He tries not to think of the chic flat in Paris in the chicest of arrondisements where he had started his career and he and Colette had started their married life.  Not for the first time, he rues the day of the armadillo and the night of the radishes.  In fact, he wishes he has never so much as set eyes on Poles.

He reassesses his new situation.  Separated from wife and children, he nevertheless has a certain standing in his new community.  He determines he will go to the the Australians' party down at Kylie's Billabong.  The blood of the Pompadore de Frou Frou's flows in his veins after all.  He is nothing if not resourceful.  His antecedents have not survived the horrors of the revolution with their heads still firmly attached to their bodies for nothing.  Alors, he belongs to a nation that possesses both resource and some cunning.  He determines to survive in this hell-hole.  He now has 48 years and there are but only 12 years to go to his retirement.  He will have annual leave.  For his grandes vacances, he will return to his beloved homeland and be reunited with his wife and children. 

In the meantime, his first priority is to change out of his sweat-soaked clothes and smarten himself up after his long journey here.  He removes his jacket and looks at the sweat marks in the underarm of its sleeves, and shudders.  He drops it on the floor.......

Dr Chandra meanwhile, back at the Vendee, climbs back into bed after his night's work.  He has managed to strike up a good working relationship with Mme Berland, the vet.  Together, they had managed to extract the child from Marie Therese.  All right, so they have had to use all their ingenuity and every mechanical help available to both the medical and veterinary professions to enable them to complete their task.  Still, it is always satisfactory to attend a birth with a good outcome.  Marie Therese has survived their ministrations and the new-born baby with the cow's horns has a certain distinction.  He remembers seeing many representations of Moses in many a church where Moses has what looks suspiciously like horns on the sides of his head!

Dr Chandra is a happy man.  He is so glad that his scholarship to Guy's in London has lifted him out of the poverty of Bombay, or Mumbai, as the city has now been renamed.  He remembers well the slums of his childhood there.  True, Mumbai is now no longer in such dire straits.  Why, it is now a veritable city of gleaming multi-storey offices full of graduates working in call-centres for British Banks.  If you don't believe me, I invite you to ring your high street L.......Bank and see if you don't get a charming but totally incomprehensible voice asking you what your mother's maiden name is (part of the security process, you see).

Dr Chandra has no regrets about leaving Mother India.  After all, who wants to have spent their childhood in what is now dubbed the "AIDS capital" of India.  He feels fortunate in having been in England during the Thatcher years.  Ah, those were the days; the days of true meritocracy.  If a grocer's daughter can become the Prime Minister, then this is the American dream writ large in a UK setting.

In his medical school, Anil had made his mark.  For a start, his dedication to his studies was hardly shared by his fellow students.  They brayed in their Home Counties accents and partied when they should have studied.  By his dogged determination, Anil had triumphed.  He was top of his intake at his graduation.

After that had followed his dream of becoming a top physician.  His was not the nature of a surgeon.  Not for him the crude excising of tumours and gangrenous limbs to effect a "cure".  No, no, his is the painstaking nature and attention to detail of the true-born physician.  He loves the investigation into the cause of disease and its elegant solution.  Not for him the "quick-fix".  He is a fastidious man in many ways and, in this respect, he is not unlike our hero, Pierre-Yves.

However, he found that even Thatcher's Britain had its limitations for a man with a dusky skin from the sub continent.  Brilliant as his research work and clinical practice had been, he found ascending the ranks of the medical establishment closed to him.  He applied for many many consultants' posts, but there was always some insurmountable hurdle at the last fence.  Once he was told that they needed a consultant who had "shared experiences" with their patients.  Well, there was no way that he could have had similar experiences to his British patients in Mumbai, or Bombay, as it then was.

Disillusioned, and accepting that he was never going to ascend the British medical heirarchy, he had opted for general practice.  The only GP placement that would accept him was some third-rate practice in a Welsh valley.  Horror of horrors!  He has not left one third world country to live in another.  (Please do not take offence, Welsh people; this is merely the thought of Anil.  I do NOT say that it is the reality). 

But, back to the present.  Yes, this is much more like how he would like life to be.  His pretty wife, Lakshmi, is from a caste high above his own.  His children are in the French education system.  His house is a vast and beautiful Vendeen property.  Although he would have liked to have practised more challenging medicine than his present situation, he understands that this is the softest of soft billets.

The expatriate British practice population is "a piece of cake, old boy!"  Of course, he can't be bothered to learn all their individual names, but he gets by very well by calling all the women, "my dear" and all the men "old boy".  He takes care to call all the children "sweetheart" and thereby earns the undying gratitude of their parents.

The French patients of his practice are another matter altogether.  He wonders whether he couldn't make even more money out of these "frogs" by substituting the Colman mustard powder with Asda's own  brand?  Surely, they would not notice the difference?

Or course, the Lea & Perrins is a different matter.  Who could mistake the taste of Lea & Perrins after they have tasted it?

Tonight's work has been more than satisfactory in many ways.  The mother and all 7 putative fathers have invited him to be godfather to the child.  He has a  lingering interest in all things Hindu and a boy with the horn-like protruberances of this child is not come across everyday in the Vendee.

He sighs with contentment.  He cannot know that thousands of miles away in the tropical heat, Pierre-Yves has also come to some conclusion from his mental deliberations.  Pierre-Yves has determined to make his mark on Guiana.  He resolves to introduce the taxe de sejour in this most French of former French colonies.

 

[Gardian]

Jon / Phil / Sweet 17 ............

May I take this opportunity of thanking each of you for the a succession of some of the best chuckles I've had for ages.

Every 'edition' was eagerly awaited and (trusting that I've broken nobody's copyright) has been circulated to one or two friends with like-minded humour.

If those French students who wanted to know what the British think of the French, they'd do worse than read that.  As a gentle 'josh' at life in this country, it was priceless.  My only surprise was that there wasn't somebody who didn't post a 'It's bad form to talk like that about your adopted country' type comment.  Glad they didn't, but they probably will now!