Covid-19 Season 2, Lockdown Day 11

It's been 11 days so far in this the second season of pandemic catastrophe Covid-19 lockdown. Back to teleworking, new and improved this time with a printer and set of shelves to tidy up my files, and it's back to limited outings for walkies and essential shopping. 

Local to me now

The bookshelves in Carrefour have all been screened off but you can buy books on Carrefour Drive and collect them 20 minutes later. Where there's a will... and all that. If bookshops have any sense, they'll set up a 'Drive' system too. Install a table outside, get customers to tell you what they want, shoot off and get it. Necessity is the mother of invention.

Another variation with season 2 lockdown is that you can't buy alcohol after 6pm even in the supermarket. There was much horrified shock on Facebook and the word spread so that we all knew about the dangers of shopping after 6pm. Forewarned...

Pre-lockdown bike ride to Palavas

Meanwhile I finally got round to some tasks I'd been putting off, but was so in need of variety, I was spurred to action. The hedge in the front garden has been drastically pruned back to allow visibility of the front door and hinder the nefarious activities of potential burglars. And Sunday afternoon was spent shortening two pairs of jeans using the visible hem method. If you don't know it, it's really cool and you don't need a sewing machine (although it would cut down on the time it takes!) although you do need to sew. There are lots of videos showing you how to do it, here's one:

While I sewed away, I listened to a documentary on Melania Trump on ArteTV. Do you remember when she read out a speech that plagiarised Michelle Obama's speech? I was shocked to learn that the White House aids did it on purpose because they thought Melania was getting too much attention. The lesson there is never to read a speech someone else has written for you without checking it first! I'll remember that if I ever find myself in a similar situation.

This is the week when we remember those who were sacrificed in the Great War. I watched a live service from Great St Mary's Church, Cambridge on Sunday as I can't access the BBC live. I've also been reading Ben Elton's 'The First Casualty' set in World War I. A disgraced police detective sent to prison for being a 'conchie' (conscientious objector) ends up investigating the murder of a viscount in France. It was a bit slow to start, but there is some magnificent writing on the war in the frontline, life in the trenches, and the abundance of poets (Elton seems to have a thing about war poets). There's some great humour too.

It's a book that's received some scathing reviews, including one by The Independent's Jane Jakeman who describes it as 

a Barbara Cartland story re-written by a dirty-minded schoolboy during a monotonous history lesson.

A bit harsh, it's not at all like that although it was vaguely reminiscent of Blackadder Goes Forth in places. I enjoyed it, she didn't.

To end on a positive note, here's a photo of my purr-sonal assistant being a real help while teleworking at my makeshift desk of cardboard boxes and bookshelf shelves. Fun times.

Lest We Forget

There is a high proportion of older inhabitants in the village where I live. This is one reason why it was decided to build a whole section of 'modest' housing in the centre, to bring in young families to fill the schools. The village, being in the affluent north of Montpellier, was gradually dying as the prices of the original villas were too high for normal families. The new houses provide rental opportunities for those who are priced out of the market (like me) but still want to live in a safe, attractive environment.

Today, being Armistice Day, saw many of the older inhabitants gathered together in one place, in front of the War Memorial. A classful of primary school-aged kids also came, cajoled into it by their teacher to sing the national anthem after the wreath had been laid. There were few parents of children who, like me, took their kids because they felt it was important that their children remember those who died to maintain their freedom.

My boys were not enthusiastic about going. We participate every year and I suppose they felt they've been there, done it, got the tee-shirt. However, their freedom came at a price, and I feel that standing with others at the memorial for 20 minutes once a year is a small price to pay to remember those who couldn't live to enjoy that freedom which they paid for with their lives.

The ceremony was short; the mayor gave a good speech where he recognised the part other nations such as the British and Americans played in obtaining victory, they laid the wreath, had one minute's silence, sang the Marseillaise and then it was over. We didn't go to the 'Pot de l'Amitié'. I had to buy bread, knew practically no one who was there, and couldn't quite face Pastis at 11.30am. Plus, the boys were keen to go about their own affairs having done their duty.

Actually, I think maybe it's only as you get older and understand the fragile nature of the world and the lunatics that would go to war at the drop of a hat that you really appreciate the concept of freedom and be so thankful that we live in the free (such as it is...) world.

We should honour those that gave their lives for freedom to ensure that our freedom is maintained, and not chipped away by the threat of fear by those who would control us. Beware the 'benevolent government' who would protect us 'for our own good'.

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.