Not at Work

Goodness me, I've been ravaged by food poisoning this week. It's hit my stomach and my head leaving me woosy and nauseous. Ulysse has been having a lovely time keeping me company in bed or on the sofa, and I've been doing nothing but snoozing, watching Agatha Christie mysteries and the Olympics on the tele and reading de Maupassant short stories (in English).

Last night I watched some of The Day the Immigrants Left on the BBC about a group of unemployed Brits who were invited to try their hands at the work immigrants do. They had been moaning about how immigrants take all the unskilled and semi-skilled jobs and how there's nothing left for them blah blah, usual stuff.

When given the opportunity to work, however, it became pretty clear why employers prefer to employ motivated immigrants. The Brits were mostly lazy, mouthy, stroppy, stressed out, or just didn't turn up for work. The skivers all said they were 'sick' or their girlfriend was 'sick' or some other unlikely coincidence involving someone being sick. It was sickening to hear.

The two lads who were picking asparagus kept taking time out to chat and smoke and say how hard it was and made a very poor show of doing the actual work. The carpenter objected to the manager telling him to his face he was doing something wrong (!) although he did actually finish the job he'd been set. The guys packing potatoes packed 100 crates with 10 instead of 12 packs and found it funny. In the Indian restaurant only 1 out of 4 turned up and he gave up half way through serving lunch.

You got the impression they all felt they were entitled to work as they chose, that they could take breaks when they wanted and just give up if it got a bit tough. Their excuse was that they were doing their best but that that was just the way it was. What a load of bollocks.

They came across as sorry, spineless, moral vacuums not deserving a job. Why should they be enticed to work? As one employer said, if you really want it, you get it. There are jobs out there, but the unskilled Brits don't want to do them.

The immigrants came across as discreet, motivated, hard-working and keen to do a good job. They showed the lazy Brits up and it does raise questions about benefits and how they kill the hunger to work.

The programme made salutary viewing.

Bi-Frontal Attack

This weekend my body was under assault on two fronts.

On Friday I was laid low by a post-cortisone frontal attack. I had been taking it for three days and stopped on Friday. As a result, my body, lacking the cortisone, went into a huge drugless sulk; my energy levels dropped to zero and all I wanted to do was sleep.

I dragged myself into work anyway, no idea why, and sat about until the end of the afternoon when I left early and went to bed which is where I should have been from mid-morning. Any thoughts I'd had of driving anywhere for the weekend were quickly dropped as I'd never have made it and would've probably ended up as strawberry jam amidst a smoking pile of tortured metal and dismembered bodies. And my boys would have become poor motherless children and been obliged to go and live far from their friends with their father and wicked stepmother etc etc...

Not so poor actually as I covered that eventuality with some insurance, but still motherless.

On Saturday the weather should have been nice but wasn't. My TWDB and I went out on his bike anyway as a way of avoiding the traffic in our attempt to find him furniture for his flat in Nice.

Then on Sunday, still not fully recovered, I suffered a viral assault by the back door. It snuck up on me all sneakily and laid me low for the whole of Sunday. I was literally pinned to the bed by a ten ton-weighing body and total brain black-out.

I told the boys they would have to get their own lunch and basically bring themselves up for the day. This went down very well to the extent they even tried to blow up the computer. I had to crawl downstairs to fix the fuse and forbid them from touching it again until I was able to deal with it. They turned to weapon combat outside with their friends after that, thankfully.

I was still in a comatose state by the evening, so they had to get their own dinner too - some microwaved leftover spag bol. When I came down this morning, the kitchen was only half-way to Armageddon. They had managed to tidy up a wee bit although not as much as instructed, natch.

As a way of losing weight, a viral attack like this is really incredibly effective as I ate nothing except a piece of toast for breakfast. Thankfully I went out to lunch today and absolutely stuffed myself thus staving off expiration by starvation thus rendering my boys poor motherless children obliged to go and live.... etc etc...

They don't know what a close shave it was, and how lucky they are!

'Ear Today...

It's always when life is really busy and you have tons of things to do, prepare, plan for and organise, that you suddenly start falling to pieces physically.

I was a physical wreck last week, but still had to deal with trips to the orthoptist, ophtalmologist, violin lessons, birthday parties and Intermarche for new glasses. Yesterday I was part of the local flea market, a left-over from last autumn when it was rained off.

NG and I sat on our stand from 8.15 to 1pm having spent the previous day sorting out stuff, and doing the violin ensemble/birthday party run at the same time. I hate doing flea markets, but I did get rid of some dross, and some bulky stuff that will no longer take up room in the garage. Surprisingly, the tacky 'Las Vegas' gambling clock that had been brought back for me by a work colleague, and which I was selling for 0.01€ didn't go...

Today I was back at the doc's - no surprise there - with inflamed ear drums. Ooh, said she, they're really bad, don't they hurt? No, said I, upon which she made a comment about me not being a softy, which I'm not. I was brought up in the days when you did NOT make a fuss, unless you were dying in which case you were allowed to look a little pale and have meals in bed.

Actually, I don't think it does any harm to be expected to just get on with it, unless it's really bad. I had a no-nonsense mother, and then an even worse no-nonsense husband who, being a doctor told me if I was ill I'd get a maximum of three day's sympathy after which I'd be expected to get on with it without fuss.

The result is I have very little time for wimps or softies, and anyone who looks like they're trying to use the poorly card to get out of doing something gets short shrift from me.

There's a boy over the road who is the most wormlike little brat in the neighbourhood. He's a total coward, and of course is thus very badly-behaved in my eldest's class. When he is told to do something, if he thinks he can't do it, or hasn't really worked for it, he starts whimpering and trying to elicit pity. This incenses the teacher who is a dedicated, enthusiastic lady. To have this self-pitying little worm in her class of otherwise nice children must be a daily blot.

I know my eldest gets irritated by him. He is not the world's best doer of homework, either, but he does what he has to do, even if he moans and groans whilst doing it. Afterwards, of course, he's always delighted that he's achieved the end of the painful exercise and can dash off and do something more interesting with a clear conscience. Over-the-road-worm never has that sense of achievement. One wonders what'll become of him.

In the meantime, I just hope he isn't in my son's class next year when he goes into sixième!

Not so badly struck...

It seems I'm not skiving off after all, whatever anyone might say. The doc just wrote on my sick note 'bronchite aïgu'. So there! I feel very dramatic reading that. I mean, the 'aïgu' adds a whole world of severity to my condition! With a condition like that I could imagine being whisked away, prostrate in an ambulance, to be wired up and worried over in ER.

Cameron: "She's got a new symptom!"
House: "Write it on the board, Cameron."
Cameron writes 'Conjunctivitus' on the board.
House: *Sharp intake of breath* "Put her on 100ml of blahblahblahXYZ and 20g of morphine! This is getting nasty..."

So, to wile away the time, I've been reading the true story of a real tragedy, "Il était une joie" by Bernard Durand. I met him during the book launch and was deeply moved on hearing of the loss of his youngest son aged 17.

It's taken until now for me to get round to reading the book. It's not one that you'd pick up for a light-hearted 10-minute dip and I needed to be in a suitable frame of mind to attack it. Being fed up with my woolly head and general state of disrepair plus having the opportunity was the perfect set of circumstances.

I'm not that far through, but it makes sombre yet impressive reading. Here's a family; a good family with two parents, four lovely intelligent children, a loving, caring environment torn asunder by the untimely death of Jérémie. He was riding his scooter with his cousin one night when a 4x4 driven by a drunkard ran them down from behind. Despite all the scooter lights on, and safety helmets, the driver "didn't see them" and they had no chance, especially when another drunkard driving a 106 came up behind and dragged one of the bodies 100m down the road only stopping when it was too caught up to go further. The boys showed neither alcohol nor drugs in their blood.

They were decent lads; ones with a good future to look forward to, ones who knew how to love and be loved, who knew the meaning of responsibility, honour and integrity. Why is it that it's these boys who got mown down, and not some petty, mean-minded little voyou? It's something that really incenses me with this world. People talk about 'karma', but there are lots of bad people living perfectly happy bad lives causing havoc around them with their hate, but who go through life untouched by disaster.

Then you have children who would be the next set of the country's leaders; ones it so desperately needs, who have lead blameless lives full of joy until suddenly killed before they even have a chance to fulfil their potential. Leaving the Earth with an excess of the dross.

What a waste.

A Weekend not in Bed

I'm sitting at home typing this between coughing fits, feeling light-headed and generally spaced out.

I've been ill since Friday, struck down by a wicked virus that's doing the rounds, felling all who stand in its path. I've even had no voice, which some may find a positive by-product of me drooping about. At least they can't hear me whimpering about not being able to eat because my throat hurts so much. We've also had no internet connection in the area since Friday morning which is why I haven't described in lengthy detail all my woes to you already.

On Friday evening I was in such a semi-comatosed state that when Ulysse was discovered to have blood pouring from his nose and a jaw which didn't shut, I just had to leave it to Big J to take him to the on-duty vet. Apparently he was hit by a car, and has had to have it wired up so he's still there being fed and nursed, poor darling.

I would have quite happily have spent Saturday in bed too, but had organised to have my youngest's birthday party for 6 little boys in the afternoon. They had a lovely time playing treasure hunts, war, footie, flour tag (with my pop socks) and pass the parcel. NG made the cake which went down very well, but I was thankful we had asked them for 2 hours and not 3. Tempers were starting to fray and it was with joy that we returned from the footie pitch (Mairie carpark - no weddings that day!) to the sound of parents' cars arriving.

By the evening, what little voice I'd had went on a weekend break leaving me pretty silent during our festive birthday dinner at the local Vietnamese restaurant. I couldn't eat much of the meal either but was given the left-overs in a doggy bag.

Yesterday my voice was still sunning itself elsewhere, so I had to sort out the garage in silence. It sounds a mad thing to do, but I'm doing the flea market with NG next Sunday, and yesterday was the only day I had to sort out stuff I wanted to sell. It took the whole day but the garage looks amazingly clear. I won't say there's almost room to swing a cat...

A trip to the doc today has me dosed up on antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, throat stuff, anti-septics, uncle Tom Cobly and all. My throat is still killing me though. Breakfast was banana milkshake and lunch was a scrambled egg. You could say I'm feeling sorry for myself...