Scary Pants

I was feeling so pleased with myself for having lost 6 kg after months of effort, until I hung out the washing this morning and was struck by the juxtaposition of my giant undies next to my daughter's tiny panties.





Nah, just kidding!

Those white ones are my no-longer-in-use, scary preggie pants. My current undergarment is the gratifyingly small black thing...

Antipo Gets A New Religion

I’ve never really been much of a girlie girl for one main reason: I hate shopping. I especially hate shopping for shoes, because I can never find the ideal shoe. That it to say a shoe which possesses a heel and a toe and a cut and a colour and a style that I’m completely happy with. I always have to compromise on my original desires and invariably play it safe with plain styles (to match all clothes) and monochromatic designs in black, brown, beige or navy blue.

Today I desperately needed a new pair of sandals because my favourite three year old pair had given up the ghost and literally disintegrated before my eyes. I harboured a secret longing for something pretty and sparkly and totally frivolous, but shied away from those I thought I could not wear with all possible outfits. I had already treated my son to a new football goalkeeper’s jersey (with padded elbows, just like Fabien Barthez’!) and sports socks, and I was keeping an eye on the clock because I had only 15 minutes before rushing back to our village to pick up Pauline from school, so it was not a good time for browsing and making thoughtful footwear decisions.... I certainly didn’t want to choose on impulse and regret the decision later.

Almost in spite of myself, I was drawn to the loudest, sparkliest, most bead-encrusted, not to mention VULGAR, sandals on display. I knew they were just TFM - too fucking much - and I would simply never wear them. I kept turning my back on them and lovingly stroked a pair of black strappy sandals with discreet little pastel coloured beads glued in a bunch on the side. But those Arabian Nights style monstrosities were calling.

And suddenly, in a rash and incredibly provocative move, I dared myself to choose the tawdry, pink, glittering, Oriental harem-appropriate crazies, tried them on, and BOUGHT them!

Oh. My. God.

Fluffy Bunny is going to burst with pride when she sees just how sartorially brave I have become.

Are you ready?


Can you handle it?



Here it comes....







As we left the shop and ran for the car, my heart was literally beating faster with excitement. I was thinking ‘I’ll wear them with plain jeans or a black skirt and a plain white blouse so as not to detract one iota of attention from my feet’.

I think I finally understand Retail Therapy.

Of course I could be teetering on the brink of a slippery and steep slope here....

I also paid a flying visit to the cheap jewellery shop...

I’m Turning Lebanese, I Really Think So

I took the children to my favourite crêperie bretonne today for lunch, mainly as a treat for me. The food is simply wonderful: authentic Breton galettes, or savoury pancakes, made with sarrasin (buckwheat) flour and smothered in melty butter.

I hope to take the Macs there one day. The Manly Mr. Mac would really love the galette Auvergnate, which has blue cheese, walnuts, lettuce, and soft saucisson from the Auvergne region. The saucisson is not dry and chewy like salami or other dried saucisson varieties, but fleshy and moist and a bit melty from the heat of the galette.

The Lovely Ms. Mac would possibly enjoy the Méditerranéenne, which is filled with ratatouille and thin slices of chorizo or merguez.

I almost always choose the Fruits de Mer: prawns and mussels drowning in sauce Mornay, garnished with plenty of lemon juice and parsley. My son always agonises between La Nordique - smoked salmon & sour cream with dill - and L'Hamburger, with minced beef, onions, cheese and egg.

I also have a strange crush on Madame la Patronne, the owner and hostess. She’s a tiny, fine-boned woman and she must be in her forties, but she is still extremely beautiful and gracious. She has big brown eyes, sculpted cheekbones and a lovely smile. Her voice is low and musical and terribly appealing. She always remembers my name, pays special attention to the children, who get a naughty lollipop when I’m having coffee after the meal, and she adores birds – finches and parrots - as much as I do. I know nothing else about her, in fact I don’t even know her name, but we do la bise (kiss cheeks) to each other once a year, every January, to wish each other a Happy New Year.

I’m always completely relaxed when we go there, and it feels like we are eating at a friend’s house. However, the reason I say my crush on her is strange, is because it borders on more than simple admiration. Every time I pay her a compliment I start to blush! I could be turning Lebanese again, temporarily. I simply must drag Ms. Mac along with me one day to see if she falls in love with her too.

Antipo Potty Mouth

All my life I have looked like a nice girl, but my love of bad language is all-consuming. This passion of mine is so great that I am currently deriving plenty of amusement from swearing and cursing like a sailor all day long when I’m at work. Now that I can no longer blog during office hours, I have to entertain myself somehow during those long, dreary hours of making phone calls, 95% of which do not actually reach the intended person.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not all angry and swearing out loud in an aggressive way. I bid each interlocuteur goodbye in a sweet, polite voice at the end of each call, then hang up and whisper to myself in a sing-song voice “And fuck you!”

Or I delete an e-mail and merrily trill “Fuck off to the sin bin, you little bastard!” but sotto voce... And anyway now that I’ve been moved into my own private orifice (as The Lovely Ms. Mac calls it), I can say exactly what I like, knowing nobody can hear me.

Even when I’m walking to and from work, I play a little game to keep my spirits up. I have to cross several roads on my way, and invariably spend time waiting at each zebra crossing, because the drivers in my village do not usually stop for mere pedestrians. Obviously their time is much more precious then mine, so heaven forbid they should have to spare five seconds out of their day to actually come to a complete halt, even though one of my crossings is situated on a very sharply angled exit from a roundabout and in theory they have to slow right down simply to keep all four wheels on the road....

So as each car whizzes dangerously past, I say softly to myself “Bitch... slapper... whore....” for each woman driver, and “Bastard... scum... fucker...” for each male driver, but always in a genteel and dainty voice. For variety I sometimes insert “Sheep-shagger”, “Cunt" or “Scum-sucking toe-jam”. I can’t tell you how much this ludicrous and peurile game lifts my spirits!

On the rare occasion that a driver actually stops for me, I’m so grateful and joyous, that I mouth ‘MERCI!!!’ as exaggeratedly as possible, and literally skip across the road wearing my widest, crazy-lady grin (showing gums). This usually has them sufficiently worried to cast a glance in their rear-view mirror as they drive away.

Well, when trapped in the drudgy monotony - or the monotonous drudgery even - of the daily rat-race, I do feel that one has a moral duty to get one’s kicks in any way one can.

Bra-Fest Extravaganza 2006

I hope I haven’t raised your hopes too high, only to be sadly dashed by my confession that I chose comfort over style during my recent “droopy bosom cheering up” session. There are some absolute aesthetic horrors among my purchases, but they feel so goooood....

Babes in the Wood

This ghastly, Laura Ashley-style floral riot lends my babes an innocence which is not strictly justified. But it’s light and supportive and makes me feel girlish and coy.




The Danger Bra

I’m afraid this evil creation could cause any mountaineers foolish enough to go exploring too near the edge of the vertiginous cleavage to plummet to a horrible, dizzying death by smothering. I cannot be held responsible for the safety of any who venture here. May the Force be with you.




Old lady-style swimming togs

With built-in support for wrinklies. Alas, this becomes necessary at the age of 41. When I’m swimming for exercise in my old blue Speedos, my breasts disappear to a flattened, pancakey nothingness which is so depressing.



Sinful coffee silk and dark chocolate lace

For when one is feeling peckish...



Coffee & chocolate, a little closer, just in case you didn’t catch the full wallop, the first time round. I look enormous here - Tee hee! perspective is everything!



And finally the horror of horrors:

A truly hideous granny concoction, complete with dainty net curtains, to preserve my modesty. Heaven help us!

You're Desperately Waiting For My New Bra Pix, Aren't You?

But first this:

Antipo's homicidal PMT struck again last night.

Me: Remember, every day when Pauline gets home from school, she must put her dental plate straight into a glass of water to soak, or the minerals from her saliva dry out and form a stubborn crust that is so hard to clean off.

Evil Hub: Which is also why the saucepan should be scrubbed immediately after pasta has been cooked in it.

Me: DON'T TELL ME HOW TO CLEAN SAUCEPANS! I ALMOST ALWAYS CLEAN THE PAN STRAIGHT AWAY UNLESS IT'S GREASY TOO, IN WHICH CASE I LEAVE IT TO SOAK AND THEN PUT IT IN THE DISHWASHER!! SO DON'T TELL ME HOW TO CLEAN SAUCEPANS!!! JESUS, I'VE BEEN A HOUSEWIFE ALL MY LIFE SO I KNOW HOW TO CLEAN SAUCEPANS!!!!

The BJ List

Picture a group of four (two young and two youngish), sexy, confident, worldly women sitting at an Ethiopian restaurant in Paris eating sorghum pancakes and spicy chicken in groundnut sauce with their fingers. They were laughing, chatting, laughing, telling dirty jokes, cackling, drinking wine, laughing some more, discussing their children, their careers, how to save the planet, food, handbags, but most of all.... Men. And did I mention the laughter?

We were Virginie, The Lovely Nina, Fluffy Bunny and Antipo. It was an unforgettably wonderful, girlie, soulmatey evening. Fluff fixed my head (again). Nina introduced me to blogging. And Virginie kindly and patiently corrected my unwitting use of the extremely vulgar expression ‘tailler une pipe’ to the more elegant ‘faire une fellation’. I know it’s hard to believe that I could be so naughty.

From then on, Fluff and I, in our e-mails to each other, created a neverending list of possible euphemisms for Blow Job.

Please feel free to contribute. In fact, a contribution is compulsory for all readers of this blog. Moreover, multiple contributions shall be expected from some of you.

Bad Jelly
Burning Jammies
Balcony Jaw
Buccal Jackoff
Ba Jamas
Belly Jeans
Big Jobs
Babble Jar
Babe Jack
Baboon Juice
Baby Jane
Big Jollies
Boob Jive
Bachelor Jam
Balaclava Jackhammer
Bacteria Jacuzzi
Ball Jab
Blushing Jasmine

Not Quite Dooced, But Nearly!

Oh dear, my blogging and e-mailing of friends during the day time will henceforth be severely curtailed. A certain figure of authority has finally cottoned on to my dwindling productivity in the professional sphere... he set me up with a new computer and took the opportunity of checking my files for the first time in months.

It was so traumatic to be finally busted that I can't remember much of what he said! He doesn't know about the blogging, just that I haven't been working hard enough. He said very kindly "I'm not questioning your work, but I think you must learn to use the client calls software more efficiently because these calls that should have been made in April are still at the top of the list, hence preventing you from seeing the new and urgent calls at the bottom of the list..."

I replied "Ohhhh, I see what you mean" in an admiring tone of voice! Fuck! I wanted to say "If my job wasn't so damn boring I would not have been obliged to turn to blogging to keep my neurones ticking over!"

And I'm bloody working on Monday, even though many French companies close for Pentecost. The Lovely Ms. Mac has kindly offered to phone in a bomb threat to my office. She is truly my soulmate. If she would only blog a photo of her birthday necklace, then I would know that she is perfection incarnate!

The Earth Moved Under My Feet

I wished I had taken off my eye makeup before watching the semi-final of Nouvelle Star (French Idol) on telly last night. There were only three young finalists left, and I had become hopelessly attached to all of them. I cried with anticipation before the damn show even started. I cried when when they sang - every hair on my body stood on end when Dominique sang 'IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII am calling yoooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu', the famous song from the Bagdad Café movie. I cried when they showed video clips of their families and friends sending their love and encouragement. I cried when the judges gave their enthusiastic verdicts, and I cried every time Marianne James cried.

In fact I only started watching the show because of Marianne James' delightful bolshieness and eloquence. She is sublime. Not only do all four judges express themselves beautifully, but I find that even the young contestants have a way with words that their Anglophone counterparts often do not. There's something about the French language that renders even the most unsophisticated teenager unbearably poetic. They say things like 'J'espère aller au bout de l'aventure', 'C'est très riche en émotion', and 'La musique donne une autre dimension à l'ambiance'. I can only imagine a young Anglophone saying 'It was totally cool and I'm really stoked!', or 'The music rocks, Dude!'

Even when it was all over and and the contestants' theme song 'J'irai Chanter' was played, I sobbed when I heard eliminated Cindy's voice. She's a tiny, skinny little thing with a really powerful and impressive voice.

I only started watching the series about four weeks ago, and I was mystified as to how young red-haired Stéphanie from Belgium made it past the casting phase. She sang badly out of tune, and I just cringed for her. Aren't the contestants properly advised on their choice of song? She was just awful singing 'Désenchantée', which requires very low, deep notes. Even her rendition of 'Poupée de son, Poupée de cire', which is surely easier to sing, was quite horrendous.

Happily, the final will be between the lovely Dominique, who will surely succeed as a singer, and my favourite, Christophe. He is so endearing, with his gawkiness and scruffy hair, but what a talented boy he is, and he can sing such a range of different styles. They both deserve to win.... I'll put a whole stack of hankies on the sofa for next week.