Nut Brown

I had a little nut tree
Nothing would it bear
But a bunch of French women
Of a certain age.

Tanned by the sun
And smoking
Like a chimney pot
They all looked ten years older
Scraggy, nut brown.

Filed in: French women

Comedie Musicale 2

It's been a good year for primary school shows, for once. A couple of weeks ago we had my youngest's class put on a little show based on the year's work in theatre/dance, French and music. A few weeks before that he was in a series of sketches written to underline the importance of safety at railway stations. It was a regional competition and his class won. Parents were invited to a performance of the winning show.

Last night his school vied favourably with the final of the French X-Factor (between Brit Matthew and sassy Marina - he won) to put on a show where all the classes participated in a coherent storyline. This sort of event usually lasts for hours. There is a theme and each class has to perform, dressed up accordingly. Last year it was the Planets and we saw kids prance around being Venus, Mars, etc. It was tedious and annoying.

I don't know what came over them this year, but instead of being subjected to a long drawn-out series of whimsical nonsense, there was a proper story and no wimpishness. Amazing!

The story started with the kiddies of the maternelle. A king and queen were out riding one day and came across an abandoned baby girl. The king took pity on her and decided to rescue her and take her home. A few years later he died and she was left to the mercy of her cruel step-mother, but was entertained by small creatures and birds who did all the dusting, cleaning and sweeping.

Then we saw the start of the Mowgli story - he was found as a baby by a bear and was brought up by the animals of the jungle. Unfortunately he had to fight the tiger, won, and decided to leave the forest because he knew the tiger would never cease to try and kill him. Three fairies visited the children to tell them they'd be attractive, go on a journey and meet a prince/princess.

At one point the girl was stolen by pirates, rescued by corsairs and attended a ball where there was courtly dancing. Then things moved to the city to a West Side Story theme of dodgy types (my son's class) and hippy types. The two groups ended up fighting to the music of WSS.

Eventually, Mowgli and the princess found each other and fitted their two talismans (two sides of a broken heart) together, and had a party to celebrate their success.

It lasted an hour and a half, was slick and well produced and the kids had been drilled to within an inch of their lives so it was a pleasure to watch. The amphitheatre was packed with parents of all types from nut brown skinny women to paler (working) men, the glamorously dressed and ones in shorts and tops. For once, I didn't feel like I needed a constant supply of rosé to keep me going.

This will be a hard act to follow, and as the head is leaving along with 2 other stalwart members of staff, I'll be interested to see what they produce next year. One thing's for sure though, this will go down as a vintage year for interesting, snappy, short performances. I never thought I'd see that.

Oh happy school...

To date, I have been more-or-less impressed with the French education system. Despite reading François de Closets' 'Le bonheur d'apprendre and comment on l'assassine' which filled me with apprehension, I have had relatively little cause for concern.

It was thus with interest that I went along the other day to my eldest's parents' meeting, to be instructed on the workings of the CM2 curriculum (10yr olds). His maitresse is a very French lady. You could not imagine her being anything other than French, or a teacher. It's funny how teachers develop a look of the teacher about them. She is small, with a very long plait of hair which I should think she could sit on, but apparently she never sits so my eldest couldn't tell me if she can sit on it or not! She is also skinny in that scraggy French way, but I don't think she smokes. She isn't nut brown either, which is intriguing in itself.

I had a ferocious French teacher when I was about 14 who was small and French and female, and squat. Actually, come to think of it, I didn't have her, my elder brother did. I had her husband who was small and squat and English and kind. I got the soft option. He never forgave me for it.

Anyway, Mme de la C spoke for around 90 minutes explaining the whys and wherefores of her teaching philosophy, the demands of the curriculum and how the whole thing has been somewhat dumbed down (sound familiar?), although they have a mountain of work to get through before April. In April the teacher has to provide proof that the child can go through to 6ième and start collège the following year. It's very early to be making such a decision which is why there is such a scramble of work up until that time.

I got the message, therefore, that my eldest would be subjected to an amount of homework, which he could clear during étude at the end of the school day. This is a major relief to me, as getting him to do homework at home is such a struggle that it ruins the evening.

She insists that the children learn their lessons by heart as this is the only way to create automatisms which enable them to apply what they have learnt to problems or situations. I was less than impressed at the idea of all that rote learning until she said that its sole aim was proper application of what had been learnt without recours to textbooks the whole time. The link between memorising and understanding has thus been well-understood, which did surprise me actually.

Unfortunately the children do not get an opportunity to express themselves verbally in a creative way. They learn sentence structure and grammar, and apply it in strictly controlled text construction. The only chance they have for creativity is in arts plastiques. Here they are given a starting point which can be an item taken from a painting, and told to make something around that item. At the end, they are shown the original work of art. This is an interesting, intelligent way of linking their personal creativity to that of the great artists.

One major worry I had was that they would be spoon-fed their lessons from start to finish. Apparently this is not the case. The class starts with a blank board, and a lesson plan. The children provide input from the start, guided by the teacher, and by the end of the lesson, the blackboard is full. They take notes which they have to learn, and the pace is intensive and stimulating. Every so often when it gets too intense, the teacher relieves the atmosphere with a joke and off they go again.

I think my son is particularly lucky this year. He has a motivated teacher who is kind but firm and stands no nonsense. She is experienced, takes her vocation seriously, and lets no child get away with napping, shrinking or avoiding paying attention.

The amazing thing is, that my son thinks she's great and enjoys her classes. Last year he was not so lucky, and it caused both me and him much anguish.

Discipline, hard work, fairness. It's perfect for him.

Remembrance solemnity and japes.

Remembrance Day in the UK is marked by the sale of poppies. In France, different organisations sell stickers depicting the cornflower : le bleuet. I have seen no one selling these stickers except on November 11 at the Remembrance ceremony so I suppose the symbol is not so widely known as the poppy in the UK where you'd have to be pretty blind not to notice it in the buttonholes of Everyman and his dad.

I always try and go to the Remembrance Day ceremony, with the boys, especially now they are old enough to understand. When we went last year, children from the local primary school all stood near the war memorial as a group, as they did this year too, except that this time, my eldest was standing with them.

He had not been keen to go, despite a note in his class liaison book asking as many children to attend as possible. Needless to say, he hadn't shown me the note until after I had made my unilateral declaration that we were going, no arguments. He perked up when he discovered a friend down the road was also going.

The ceremony was all of 15 minutes long. Hardly enough to warrant an all-out fit of the sulks which, he realised afterwards, was somewhat excessive.

Why do we go? Well, the boys are always playing war games, rushing about with their pistols, plastic grenades, swords and other armoury. Once a year, they are taken to a place which reminds them of the consequences of war, and the reason why they can live and play in freedom.

The Maire thanked the parents for bringing their children to continue to recognise the importance of remembrance. He read out the official message and three of the kids laid a wreath. More moving than the words, however, was the tape of a lone trumpet which manages to conjure up so much of the dignity and tragedy of being a soldier.

The occasion was solemn without being stuffy, and was followed by an invitation to join the Maire and War Veterans at an aperitif up the road. We went, of course although I was rather disappointed that there was only whiskey or pastis on offer, or fruit juice. No muscat, my preferred drink at these occasions.

I chatted to some of the (elderly) men - it was mostly men, and in fact, got chatted up by one who wanted to introduce me to his 44-yr old son who wasn't there (thank goodness!). He told me he'd been an air steward before retiring, and that he'd been happily married for 45yrs to his wife, although he'd had certain 'adventures' - with his job, this was not surprising. I was not overly impressed at this TMI (too much information), but apparently this is a very French way of behaving - both the doing and telling complete strangers (female).

When the RA and I were standing together talking to this guy, he was greeted with enthusiasm by a group of 3 other elderly men as a lucky sod to be in such attractive company! It was a merry event... The Scotch was obviously going down extremely well.

Anyway, I will now have the pleasure of being greeted by this gentleman in the village when he sees me, and am known as a good sort because I was female but happy to chat, as opposed to being French, stuck-up and not chatting. He also remarked that I looked very youthful, in contrast to nut-brown French ladies who overdid the sun and closely resembled walnuts as a result.

They don't like it, these guys. But no one takes much notice of them. French women behave to please themselves first.

I enjoyed myself - I liked the gratifying attention, liked talking to some of the veterans, and appreciated their pleasure that I brought the boys.

It's good to remember.