My unacknowledged relationship with thirty-something Barbie

On reading this article in today's Sunday Times about Alpha parents (stops to pat self on back for first successful link), I was reminded of the mother of a boy in my son's class, whom I have christened thirty-something Barbie, for obvious reasons.

I must say that in France I have not noticed this concept of alpha parents (a kind of graded social hierarchy of parents). It might be because there is precious little social interaction at the classroom door beyond 'bonjour', or it might be because there is no pecking order of schools (no league tables or Ofsted), and therefore less status anxiety. People tend to unthinkingly send their kids to the local school like they did in the UK when I were a lass.

Anyway, my relationship with thirty-something Barbie began last summer when my son sprinkled sand on her son in the park. It was a very minor incident and he was trying to play, so I said nothing. I could tell that thirty-something Barbie (and Ken) expected me to apologise, and in the UK I would have done. But I have learned that in France, he who apologises deserves an extra kick in the pants. I did attempt a 'boys will be boys' smile, but that was met with a stony stare (will I ever learn?). I reflected on the way back that as the boys were about the same age, wouldn't it be sod's law if they ended up in the same class in maternelle.

And what do you know, not only did her son end up in my son's class this year, but they have pegs right next to each other in the corridor. So every morning thirty-something Barbie and I meet at close range, and most mornings I have attempted some kind of eye contact with a view (yes, I admit it) to saying bonjour, but none has been forthcoming.

I have given up now. But she knows I am there and I know she is there. The longer it continues the more ridiculous I find it.

Thank god she has no mates. One alpha maman is easy to handle.

Caca boudin

My first born's prowess in the language of Molière never ceases to amaze me. I can feel the envy oozing from the pores of my middle-class friends back in the UK, whose lumpen, monolingual offspring have to make do with toddler French classes. Here's the deal: they have houses and careers - I have the trilingual wunderkind.

He started maternelle last September. The first term elicited nothing beyond 'I don't like school mummy, the children hit me', but come February he started emitting magical phrases such as 'caca boudin' (sausage pooh? Don't ask me, that's not even GCSE-level French), 'ça c'est n'importe quoi' (that's rubbish), and 'NON, ARRETE!' (no, stop!). Maybe the last one could be useful in later life, who knows?

Seriously, he has picked up a lot - he can count, recite nursery rhymes, and is slowly finding his feet. About my only regret in deciding to leave France is that he will soon lose the shaky base (as I think we can call a vocabulary that centres around wee wee words) he has built up. My middle-class chums will no longer envy me, I will envy them, as they can surely be only a few years away from the farmhouse in Normandy, while I will just have a stack of toddler French DVDs.

Maybe traces of French will remain. He still has a scar that he got from a scratch on his first day at school (when he learnt not to talk English in the playground). I wonder which will fade first.

My first real-life encounter with French was on a camping holiday, aged 12. My mum sent me to a van to buy some chips, thinking that some concrete motivation might loosen my tongue. The guy responded to my 'pommes frites' cue by shovelling chips into a cone - magic! But then he ruined everything by asking a question ; 'Maintenant?' (as in do you want your chips later ie should I wrap them, or do you want them now, in which case I'll cut the crap and hand them right over). My prize was hovering in front of my nose, but there seemed to be an unfathomable complication, as is so often the case in this country. He repeated his question several times, until I was nearly in tears. I did not get those chips. I fled in confusion.

But who knows, maybe, if my parents had had the foresight to have me born and live the first four years of my life in France, I would have had the presence of mind to shout 'caca boudin' first.

Other people's Paris, or She's a babe, I'm not

Reading other people's blogs about Paris is fascinating, because although I share this town (or to be exact the suburbs of this town) with millions of other people living lives vastly different from my own, they only become real when I read their blogs.

I found a Paris blog today called 'Confessions of a young woman', which sounded promisingly pervy, but turned out not to be. It was a standard 'Ooh isn't Paris lovely in the spring' post (yeah yeah). And then came the parallel universe moment: 'I find myself constantly locked in stares with young men on motorbikes, and hold myself back from climbing aboard.' and 'I was pulled over by young security men, as innocent looking as I am, while everyone else from my plane was ushered through. They grinned and asked me questions that had nothing to do with airport security,' and there were others, but by then I was lost in thought as to Where It All Went Wrong.

I scrolled down and came across some of her holiday snaps, and I can vouch for the fact that the young woman is innocent looking, but I sure can see the security men's, and the Greek waiter's, and the young motorbikers' point of view.

As I begin to accelerate away from 30, there are moments when my increasing lack of babedom is brought to my attention.

The first moment came about a year ago when pregnant with my second child. It was hubski's birthday and we'd invited round one of his colleagues who had recently got divorced. And when I opened the door and saw the cause of the divorce standing next to him, my heart hit my boots in a most unsisterly manner, for I knew then to prepare for an evening of invisibility.

I often think how galling it must be for older women, who despite their life achievements and the years spent acquiring a real personality, slowly but surely fade from the radar.

I'm not moaning - everyone gets their go at being young and sexy. I'm fairly happy with the way I look now, ironically far happier than I was years ago when I can see from photos that if I'd made more of an effort, got rid of the army surplus kit and wiped the gormless expression off my face, I would have actually been quite fit.

So, young woman, next time you see a sexy biker on a Paris street corner, don't hold back. Climb on board while you still can.

This blogging lark and the book arrived

I have been in the grip of my usual procrastinitis over the last two weeks. Repeat : 'It doesn't have to be perfect Francesca, just bloody get on with it'.

If only I could get paid for thinking. Then all our money worries would be over and the French state could stop paying me unemployment benefit for me to rail against it. (That last sentence surely shows I am almost French.)

'Au revoir and thanks for all the euros (and francs before that)' would be a good epitaph for my time here.

'Enfin un boulot' arrived a few days ago, and I have read it already. Hubski is on chapter two. I say with a mixture of shame and pride that it is the first French book I have ever read (ok, skimmed) from cover to cover.

What strikes me about this book is that it is very balanced, fair and unemotional - something I cannot be as I'm just not grown up enough. There are lots of useful facts and stats sourced from official-sounding websites, and I skimmed those bits.

Several extracts stood out for me, and they are special in that they come from a French man and therefore prove to me that I am not insane or raving when I shout it from the rooftops as to Why I Want To Go Home.

I'll include some next time, not because I'm a procrastinator but because I've just searched the house from top to bottom for the book, and I think hubski may have eaten it.

Why now? Here's why...

Things have been coming to a head for the past eight years or so, since before blogging was invented. And so, at long last, I find myself writing my first post in April 2006. Better late then never.

I've been meaning to start a blog for ages, but the final straw came last night while trawling on amazon.com. I found a self-published book called 'Enfin un boulot,' ('At last, a job') written by Vladimir Cordier, a Frenchman who left his native country eight years ago for the UK. He left because of the lack of employment opportunities in France, and, after changing jobs frequently in London, found his way and is now earning a tidy sum. I was struck by the reverse symmetry of our lives (where 'struck' equals 'repeatedly struck my head against a wall').

He left university in the same year as me and is the same age as me (well, a year younger, just to be annoying). He chose Britain, I chose France. My story is the 'revers de la medaille' (the other side of the coin), to use a phrase that I always wanted to fit into my A-level French essays but could never quite work out how.

Mr Cordier, I have ordered your book and will duly force my husband, who is in great need of its wisdom, to pretend to read it. I will also, really, read it, and tell him about it whether or not he wants to hear, always taking care to show my native country in the best possible light.

Because I can no long live in France. The time has come to say it: I give up. And hubski and my two kids, who have never lived in Britain, and I, their great leader, who has, will shortly go back 'home,' just as soon as we can arrange it, to begin a new adventure.