Cassis Posted November 30, 2006 Share Posted November 30, 2006 I think I've lost it momentarily. [8-)] Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
mint Posted November 30, 2006 Share Posted November 30, 2006 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? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
The Riff-Raff Element Posted December 3, 2006 Author Share Posted December 3, 2006 The telephone shook Dr Anil Chandra from adeep sleep. “Yes?” “Dr Chandra? It’s Gaston Lebeouf of thegendarmerie. 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 stillslumbering wife – how beautiful she was, he thought – and stole downstairs.Packing an emergency bag, he hummed happily to himself before melting into thedarkness and heading for the square.A son of Bombay, he had wona scholarship to a London teaching hospital. There he had met a beautiful, petite Frenchwoman. Married young, they had settled in Paris, and hadrisen rapidly through the medical hierarchy in the capital. Then his wife hadinherited a large house in the Vendée. Reasoning that a rural life wouldprobably be beneficial to their children, they had moved here only a few yearspreviously. Mme. Chandra had quickly gained a post as a renal consultant at thenearby hospital. Anil had decided to move into general practice. He had quickly established a nichespecialising in treating “illnesses of the clueless non-French speaking Britishexpatriate community” which provided a steady income, but had been unable to addany but the most difficult French patients to his list. He realised quitequickly that whilst the British were entirely used to medicos from theSubcontinent, the rural French were not.Then, at a weekend drinking binge of the“Anglophone Medical Association of France” he had met a doctor of Bahamanorigins who practiced in the far reaches of bucolic Jura. After a lengthysession of absinth consumption, his colleague had passed on a piece of advicethat had revolutionised his practice. “Prescriptions,” he had said, “are muchlike money. They have neither colour nor smell. And, like money, the more, thebetter.” Chandra had returned home and spent aninstructive couple of days with the official pharmacopoeia of France.Hidden in its pages he had found an entire gamut of nineteenth century remediesthat the treacle-slow bureaucracy had failed to remove from the approved listsof 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 fewweeks as people heard that Dr Chandra was writing particularly impressiveprescriptions. After six months, and with the connivance of the localpharmacist, he had added “complementary” treatments that had provedastoundingly profitable. Purchased under discrete plain cover from aBritish supermarket in the Deux Serves, and reserved solely for his Frenchpatients, these included such potent medicaments as Worchester sauce (“threedrops to be taken with food, twice daily), Jelly babies sorted by colour (“oneto be dissolved under the tongue after meals”) and Smarties (“insert one anallyeach night before retiring”). If any of his patients thought it odd to spreadmarmalade on their buttocks as a cure for scrofula or sprinkle Colman’s mustardpowder in their socks as a protection against leprosy they never said so. DrChandra’s prescriptions averaged 18 items, some of which were actuallyeffective at treating illness, and he had to have especially long pads printedto 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 andAnil felt fulfilled. He still enjoyed the midnight calls though – theymade he feel as though he was back in urgences again. Entering the bar he noted that many of thepeople gathered there seemed to be covered in manure. Shrugging inwardly heobserved to himself that there were still some local customs remaining to befathomed. Pushing toward the centre of the crowd from where emanated the unholywails of a woman in labour, he was surprised to see Mme. Berland, the localvet. His astonishment evaporated when he cast his eyes down to the creature onthe riot shield. Clearly this was one of those two-discipline jobs.“Right everyone out except the father” hesnapped. He wasn’t entirely surprised when seven of the group stayed where theywere. Turning to Mme Berland – “Do you have a rope and humane killer?” he askedquietly. She nodded. “Very well then, au boulot!” ***************************************************************************** Adjutant – Chef Leblanc stood at ease infront of the desk of the Colonel de Gendarmerie Départemental. His superiortapped 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 ofmen know the full story and I have sworn them all to secrecy. They are goodmen. They understand the need for discretion in these matters.” “I have had a …. suggestion from thehighest levels that it would be preferable that this unhappy series ofoccurrences remain outside of the public domain. It would seem that this man LePompoudor de Frou Frou has some impressive connections.” “Indeed, Sir. As you will have seen from myreport, 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 hehas requested a posting away from any English. It would seem that his dislikeof them was the root of all this. And what of the child?” Jean – Louis shuddered: the birth had beenone of the more terrifying experiences of his long career. “Well, Dr Chandrasays that cow-headed children are not unheard of in Hindu mythology. He seemedquite calm about it after the initial shock. He says the child should grow upnormally and should make quite a useful addition to any rugby team. I don’tthink he was joking either, Sir.” The Colonel nodded. “So, Adjutant-Chef,will it be possible keep this quiet?” “Yes Sir. The pompiers have washed thestreets, all the equipment is back on the farm and none of the protagonistsremember a thing now that they have sobered up. The Englishman in the bar knowsmore 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 smiledback. Elevation to the highest rank of NCO was a rare thing, and it would topup his pension very nicely. ***************************************************************************** In a small town deep in the South ofGuiana, Pierre-Yves surveyed his new office. There was a cheap desk, a coupleof 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 foetidsteam. 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 ofbeyond was all that could be done to save the tatters of his career. Hispension was safe, but in return he would have to sit in this pitiful office approvingor declining applications for new fosses septiques for the next 12 years. Theirony was lost on him. And Colette! Colette had stayed behind. Of courseit was better for the children not to change schools at this stage, but had theneeds of economy really necessitated her moving in with that dreadful Rosbifand his hockey playing wife? A tear of self pity welled up in his eye. He turned back to face his new boss. “I amlooking forward to getting back to work,” he said. “Will I have much contactwith the public?” “Not in this role, no” answered the man. “And,” Pierre-Yves continued “I was assuredthat there are no English here: is that indeed the case?” “Absolutely,” replied his boss. “Not anEnglishman 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 havejust taken over the café de la paixin the square. It’s now called “Kylie’s Billabong.” Quite a lively crowd thereof 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 fortheir Abba evening on Friday – perhaps you would care to join us?” Pierre-Yves wasn’t listening. He sank tohis knees, his head in his hands. Would the horror never end? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Cerise Posted December 4, 2006 Share Posted December 4, 2006 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? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
mint Posted December 4, 2006 Share Posted December 4, 2006 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. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gardian Posted December 5, 2006 Share Posted December 5, 2006 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! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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