Yer Man meets le People

If you live in France, you'll know that there's no avoiding hearing about the municipal elections next year. As a Brit and therefore one of the happy EU family (*cough*), I am allowed to vote. I am not allowed to vote in national elections despite the fact that I pay taxes and have been living here for donkey's years. In my opinion there should be no representation without taxation (give or take the odd exception) but no one listens to me.

Anyway, I signed up at the mairie to be added to the electoral list because I'd like to participate in the next local elections and do my tiny bit for 'democracy' (not that there's much of that left in France any more but that's another story).

The current maire has an Italian name and would not look out of place in a mafia baron mansion in Sicily. He has charisma and class and is a wily politician who's managed to stay in the hot seat for decades. Hardly a spring chicken, he now wants to move to a bigger seat in the local commune and leave the stress and hassle of being maire to another.

Never one to leave anything to chance however, he has endorsed the next wannabe maire, his poulain, and is doing absolutely everything in his power - which is a lot - to make electors want to vote for him. Last night, he put the local sports hall at his disposition for a meeting to which the village was invited. Wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to who paid for this but I have my suspicions...

I arrived late because I had something more important to do beforehand. The sports hall had been transformed with a stage, and two screens to show the natty little presentation that had been prepared by yer man. It was pretty packed but I managed to find a seat, funnily enough behind the neighbour who lives up the road, whose better half was on the stage as one of the campaign team. He's the campaign guru I heard, the one at the hub of things directing strategy, manipulation and, presumably, cups of tea coffee.

Next to him was some other bloke who I'd never seen before and as I arrived late missed knowing what he was doing there. I presume he is also part of the team which is aimed at reducing the average age of the council by a couple of decades.

The current maire was next to him looking very much like he had everything under control, and standing next to him was the wannabe maire who was leaning on a lectern which I thought might collapse under the strain. I have a hard time remembering his name. I keep calling him Cahuzac which is a shame because Jérôme "les yeux dans les yeux" Cahuzac is a disgraced former Budget Minister who was accused of tax fraud earlier this year.

Anyway, it's something like that, possibly like the name of that water which has the advert with a pale child with pale blue eyes running over the moors who holds a glass of crystal clear liquid and speaks in Breton. Le Wannabe, however, is nothing like her. I felt quite worried for him actually. He obviously has a copiously-stuffed expense account and makes good use of it. When he speaks, in his extremely local accent, he snuffles and snorts and it's as though the act of speaking standing up even puffs him out. It looked like he could have a heart attack at any moment! Actually he reminded me of John Nettles in the very last episode of Midsomer Murders, only fatter.

So what did he say? Well, I take anything that any politician says with several shovels of salt because they are known for going back on their promises post-election. So basically I was listening with only half an ear because that is all a politician's words are worth.

As a person, he did not fill me with confidence as he looks so unfit (and probably snores) physically. The other hopeful, the local pharmacist, is in much better shape and has the advantage that everyone knows him (and he knows the contents of their Carte Vitale).

At the end, some other retiring member of the municipal team got up to whinge a bit about the fact that the pharmacist is daring to stand in opposition to the maire's wannabe, mainly because, it seems, he once said that he would never stand for maire, but changed his mind. Shock horror, a man who changes his mind! He should meet my DB! He changes his mind every 5 minutes.

So, there you have it. I can see it's going to get pretty exciting around here in the new year as the campaigns hot up, if Le Wannabe survives through his Christmas Eve orgy of animal fat and strong liquor...

Keen Mummy

I was very glad to have made it to my youngest's parents' evening last night. Not that I could have missed it; he had been reminding me since the day before. He's got his head screwed on right, that one. No idea where he gets it from!

I left him at home with his brother to zap on the Nintendo and stuff pizza while I sat at his desk and listened to his teacher outline the year ahead, especially regarding reading, maths (of course!) and homework. She's quite something, sa maîtresse. There are some fabulous teachers about, and I believe she counts among them. She's been teaching for twenty years now, and is as motivated and enthusiastic as ever. I don't think she was one of those who couldn't think what to do after university so drifted into teaching! Oh no, she's got the vocation!

As I looked around the class at the other mostly mummies, I noted that there was one of probably Vietnamese extraction, and one black mummy, and me, of course, the Brit foreigner. There were two parents who hadn't turned up out of a class of 25. We are obviously a keen bunch. Some parents furiously took notes, and this is perhaps why they have got on in life, and I just push paper and look after the boys...

Actually, I did come away from there plunged in gloom, again. The teacher let us know she likes to involve parents, and would any of us care to come in and talk about our profession to the kids as they often have only a vague idea as to what their parents do. This of course brought home yet again my status of not being anything in particular. I mean, I can hardly go in and talk about pushing paper about, can I? I can't talk either about being a writer without feeling like a fraud as you can't really be one without having published some thing, and a book in progress and a letter to The Times don't really count...

I did ask a sensible question, however, which was what they do in étude. I'm a firm believer in étude because it gets all the homework out of the way, leaving them to come home and relax. I wanted to check that my youngest would be benefitting from his 45 mins after school and that I wouldn't have to sit him down at home as well. I understood that étude was perhaps not enough, in which case why bother. So I put the question to my youngest and asked if he wouldn't prefer to work with mummy at home rather than stay on at school. Amazingly, he said he wanted to go to étude. He's full of surprises, that one. I will, however, check that all is well on a regular basis, and that he knows his poetry every Monday.

A lot of time was spent telling us how the kids are taught to read. This is a major issue at the moment in l'éducation Française and new guidelines have been issued on the horrors of la méthode globale in favour of syllables and breaking up words into their component sounds. She actually uses a little bit of the global method to show the children where they are heading, which I totally approve of, as it helps motivate them - through a story, for example. We were advised on how to help our children, and what not to do, which was brilliant for those stroppy parents who think they know best. They were definitely put in their place and told that ignoring the consigns could be severely detrimental to their children's ability to assimilate what they were learning at school. Apparently it can be confusing and they switch off. There are also children who purposely hold back until their parents buy them what want, with the attitude "Tu veux que je lise, tu vas voir... hehe"

I finally crawled home at 8pm to find the boys still zapping, having scoffed their pizza. They'd had a lovely time!