To those who are far from chez eux

One of the things I will take away from France is an unconditional respect for people who leave their home country to look for a better life. Seeking a better life is the most human of motivations.

Such people fall into many different categories. Legal, illegal, black, white, with contacts, jobs and family, or without. Some have it easier than others.

Our family have had it fairly easy. We are lucky enough be white, 'invisible' immigrants, with papers. When I hear criticism of people who 'do not want to integrate', who 'don't speak French at home', I know that although they could be talking about my family, they don't really mean us. French society is racist to an extent that the UK simply is not.

If anyone wants to disagree with me, here's an example. When I was looking for our current flat, I was struck dumb when the estate agent, finding himself with a fellow white person (that he'd met 10 minutes before) remarked that I shouldn't bother looking in a certain part of town because 'il y a beaucoup d'Arabes'. Such a comment would be totally inadmissable in the UK.

The test of all my optimism, of course, will be bringing my Eastern European husband to make a new life in the UK. If I ever encounter any rascism of any kind, towards him or my children, you can be sure to read about it here.

The attitude in the UK is hardening towards foreigners, with the help of the tabloid press. I find it hard to get worked up about immigration, because having been an immigrant (I see myself more as an immigrant than an expatriate) and having known many immigrants, I think I understand it a little better than your average Daily Mail reader. What people who have lived in one place their whole life find hard to grasp is that living in a foreign country long term is tough and draining. With the exception of a few career drifters, most people dream of returning home one day, if conditions permit. I could laugh at the way hubski insists on watching the St Petersburg local television news via satellite every day, but I don't. Even though he hasn't lived there for 15 years, and will likely never live there again, he needs to know what's happening 'back home'. I read the British press every day for the same reason.

A different kind of crap

Since I decided to leave France, my idealistic streak has gone into overdrive.

I am upbeat about going back home, and my apprehension is fading by the day. But all the same, what if? Specifically, what if the problem's not about France, but all about me?

What if after all this England turns out to be a horrible disappointment? After all, I have never lived a grown up life there, having left the day after my University finals in 1998, when the nation thought Tony Blair was a good thing, Posh and Becks were love's young dream, and Big Brother was but a twinkle in Channel 4's eye. Much has changed since.

I know what my Francophile friends think. 'Poor thing, if she can't be happy in France, country of savoir vivre and I've lost count of how many days holiday I still have to take this year, then what hope is left for her?'

This doesn't worry me. France, after 8 years, still leaves me empty. This is not where I belong. I can't bring myself to mind that my children will be bilingual, not trilingual. In fact, I'm relieved in a way. Keeping up three languages through childhood is a logistical nightmare, not a breeze. And let's be honest, although French is a beautiful language, what is it going to be useful for in 20 years? Beyond impressing your girlfriend, and then its quicker to learn the guitar (now there's motherly wisdom for you).

People remind me that there are problems aplenty in England. I know all that. But I am ready for a different kind of crap. English crap. I am ready to trade French dog shit for English litter, open rudeness for surreptitious snottiness, irrational driving for irrational train delays, café society for soggy barbeques. Lazy bastards for workaholics.

I am ready to trade this most desirable and iconic of world capitals for a small shire town most famous for its power station, where hideous, thirty-something reincarnations of people I went to school with plod the streets pushing buggies.

And perhaps most importantly, I am ready for binge drinking.

How it all began...

I found hubski through an ad.

Thanks to the internet, this has now become almost a socially acceptable way to meet a partner. But for several years it was my favourite dinner party conversation stopper.

It wasn't that kind of an ad. I can't remember the exact wording, but it went something like this:

'Etudiante anglaise cherche échange de conversation Anglais-Russe'. It was pinned to the noticeboard in the Russian department of Toulouse University. Underneath the message I had written my phone number in vertical lines and cut them into strips.

I didn't rate my chances of finding a Russian who was learning English in Toulouse, especially one who was going to walk past the notice board in the dusty old Russian department. This was 1996, and Russians abroad were still a rare breed, and generally too rich, dodgy, and busy competing for private beaches on the Cote d'Azur to improve their English.

My ad almost didn't see the light of day. I only put it up because my Bulgarian flat mate had given me her own ad to post, offering Bulgarian lessons for 50 francs an hour. I decided in the interest of relieving boredom to add one of my own to see which would get the greater response (we drew one all). Another reason was in the ten-minute intervals between lessons I remained in the classroom on my own, too paralysed by my terrible French to join in with the French-speaking fag break in the corridor. After a few weeks I got bored of doodling and started to play with fate instead.

A few days passed and I noticed that one of the telephone number strips had been torn off...

The third sex

A casual remark in the hairdresser's today reminded me. The gorgeous, springy barnet that I grew (I wish I knew how because I would bottle the formula and sell it) during pregnancy had wilted beyond recognition, and I decided that it was time to have it all cut off again.

I don't go to the finest establishment in town, and the hairdresser (hand tremor, mossy breath) took a full six minutes to undo 18 months of nurturing. Mid-attack, she asked me if I would like my hair 'griffé' (feathered) at the back. I replied yes, and to that she said, almost to herself, 'pour quand même garder un peu de femininité'.

Hmmm. 'Quand meme'. Was I being paranoid, or was her comment roughly translatable as 'We're fighting against the odds, but let's try and send you out of here looking more or less feminine.'

You see, in this country, I have often been mistaken for a man. I am taller than the average French man, with short hair, and am welded to my jeans and denim jacket. I sometimes forget to apply mascara. At first I found the 'third sex' encounters, usually in shops, hilarious. 'Merci Monsieur, euh, pardon, Mademoiselle. Excusez-moi!' Then, after about the sixth occasion, I began to feel like a freak. Plus, now I am finally starting to look my age (blame sleepless nights), there's a good chance the next occasion will be 'Merci Monsieur, euh, pardon, Madame. Excusez-moi!' Not quite as funny.

Anyway, I used this thoughtless remark as fuel for a rare retail binge, during which I bought my first ever poncy lady jacket, the sort, according to Glamour magazine, one can wear both to weddings and with jeans.

I am 31-year-old mother of two after all. I will throw out my last remaining hooded top tomorrow. But no Frenchy will ever make me throw out my denim jacket.

Pain aux raisins and me - it's back on

Today I did something that I haven't done since 1996. I ate a pain aux raisins. The reason for this 10-year drought is nothing to do with excessive willpower or lack of opportunity. It's just that for the past decade, just looking at a pain aux raisins has made me feel queasy.

I spent 1996 studying at Toulouse Le Mirail University. Our student house was fiendishly situated - opposite a boulangerie. I started off on fresh, warm baguette (a whole one for breakfast became the norm). I held off the pastries for a while, remembering my experiences on holiday the previous year in Aix-en-Provence. Finding myself overwhelmed by the delicacies on offer in the patisseries, I got organised and decided to work my way across the cake display from left to right, buying one cake per day. Towards the end of my stay, I realised that there were more cakes than days (so many cakes, so little time), so I upped the tempo. It took me six months to reclaim my wardrobe.

As the term wore on, my habit grew to two pain aux raisins per day, on average. The combination of the crispy pastry, the sweet glaze, the juiciness of the raisins set off by the crème patissière was quite simply a work of genius. It did get a little obsessive after a while. I would take detours in order to compare pain aux raisins from different outlets, with my mother's dinner-time refrain: 'Francesca, that's pure greed,' ringing in my ears.

Then came the day when biting into one, I caught a whiff of that lovely custardy pollyfilla that joins the pastry whorls together. And it made me feel sick.

When I first visited France I was sceptical of the French habit of walking past patisseries without looking at the cakes in the window, or even licking the glass. I saw it as another proof of their cold, aloof approach to life. How could one walk past rows of religieueses without having a religious experience? Remain unmoved before millefeuilles? Such people were cold fish, they had no hearts, no guts! And their women had no bottoms. Not in the anglo-saxon sense of the word.

You will never find me complaining about French food. I can even forgive the continuing arrogance of the French on the subject (like much else in the country, this attitude is straight out of the 1970s). But, as Chirac proved recently with his inventive jibe about English food, it's about the only thing they have left to boast about at the moment. So let them. Plus, I can't understand why the Brits, who must by now be the fattest nation on earth bar one, have chosen to get fat on disgusting dry buns with squirty cream and a miserable snail's trail of jam on them from the Baker's Oven.

So today, while standing in line at the patisserie, I happened to notice that the pain aux raisins had an icing sugar glaze on them. An unusual variation, I decided, and worth investigating. Or it could be because my croissant aux amandes habit has been spiralling recently.

Time for this frog to croak

This week's Observer served up a familiar doom and gloom analysis about the state of France. This is no longer news - what interests me is who can say when exactly this country is going to breathe its last, and when can we expect the horsemen of the Apocalypse to thunder up the Champs Elysées. I love a good show, and I got bored of the tanks on July 14th years ago.

The demise of France has been predicted for so long that it beats me what we're all still doing here, waking up in the morning and boldly going about our business. I'm surprised that the horsemen are not already among us and cantering aimlessly around the streets. Maybe if they were offered half-price refrigerators they might be tempted to settle here.

Indeed, I have come to the conclusion that the reason why France has not yet gone down the pan is because the system favours just enough people to keep it afloat. Why else do the French put up with their politicians? The government repays the people by abandoning reforms again and again. They have no choice. Take away the trough and you have anarchy.

Chirac understands this. But it still amazes me how he has managed to build a 40-year career on what seems to be little more than insincere charm. To me he is the epitome of the slippery Frenchman who you can't trust as far as you can throw, and he is a terrible ambassador for his country for that reason. Take the shameless way that he created a diversion about Britain's EU rebate to distract from the French voting 'no' to the EU constitution, almost bringing down the whole house of cards to save his own skin. Blair shouldn't have been surprised. I shouted that at the telly, but poor Tony couldn't hear me, blinking back tears at his press conference.

Chirac is an old man with no vision whatever. If he had, he would have done something after the 2002 election which he was forced to run against the extreme-right Le Pen. I saw the horror and sense of humiliation that the French felt then, and I honestly thought that was a turning point - now things will start to change. But a few months after the old weasel was reelected it was as if nothing had happened. As far as I'm concerned the French have had enough wake-up calls - if they still don't want to change, tackle the suburbs, reform the job market, then they deserve a bumpy landing. By then I'll be safely back on the other side of the Channel.

Mr Chirac - it's time to croak - in the political sense at least. After, le deluge, as they say.

14.03

A lovely sunny Saturday in early May and I decide to take the children to the park. My spirits always lift when on approach I see that Other People are in the park. That way my son will have other kids to shout 'caca boudin' at and sprinkle sand on, leaving me to ruin my back in peace while my 10-month old daughter learns to walk holding onto my fingers.

This time though, despite the gorgeous weather, I could see that the park had been shunned. A glance at my watch confirmed my suspicions. We had broken unspoken rule no 1874378 - between the hours of 12.30 and 14.00 thou shalt not go to the park, thou shalt be engaged in lunch-related activities, or sitting meekly on the sofa waiting for 14.00 and the invisible forcefield protecting the park from all but ignorant foreigners to lift.

It was 13.20, so I resigned myself to wait. Over the next 40 minutes or so, I reflected how weird it felt to sit alone in a park in a busy part of town on the first sunny weekend of the year. One of the things I have come to appreciate about the UK is the spontaneous sun worshipping, the unselfconscious shedding of layers and exposing of lard. Who cares if it's mid March? Wonderful.

The French are comically set in their ways. One example that comes to mind is my 'pot de depart' from my last French workplace. A bottle of champagne had been purchased to celebrate (ho ho) my departure, and as my soon to be former colleagues gathered round, one of them sniffily remarked that we were opening the champagne at the wrong time of day (4pm). What we should be doing at this time of day, she informed us, was drinking tea and eating little pastries. I didn't bother to seize her by the lapels and demand 'Why?' because I knew that there was no answer, other than it is, quite simply, rule no 7890454. In one way, living among such a hidebound people gives boring old me the luxury of a being a rebel. Where else in the world could I get a dirty adrenline rush from having a glass of champers in the middle of the afternoon instead of just before lunch?

One of the reasons that France is doing my head in is the internal clock that programmes people's actions. I neither want nor need such a thing. When the invisible sheepdog rounds the crowds up in the park and starts herding them in the direction of the exit at precisely 11.31am every weekday, I fight the urge to sprint to the gate, block it and shriek 'Come on Frenchies! Break out of the mould! Live a little! Stay until 12.08! Hell, buy a sarney and SIT IN THE PARK EATING IT. What do you think is going to happen eh? eh?'

At last I heard the gate click - it was a mother with two older girls. When they had settled themselves and the mother had told the girls off for shouting, I snuck a look at my watch: 14.03.

Spookily, at that precise moment, the mother called across ' On reste quarante minutes, a trois heures moins vingt on part.'

Amazing then, how they manage to be late 90% of the time. it just doesn't make sense.

On unfairness and refrigerators

I have an American friend, let's call her L. We met two years ago through her French husband, who heard me speaking English in our local ludotheque, and promptly marched up and introduced himself. That is the only time a French person has ever marched up and introduced him/herself to me, and I salute him as the exception that proves the rule (he did spend several years in the States, which I think played havoc with his DNA).

L is a lovely person and different from me in that she has a promising future in this country. Her man is French with the right diplomas and a management job in a French bank. She has just got French nationality and will soon become a teacher in the state system (hello job for life). She has a mum-in-law nearby who babysits. They plan to move down South in a few years. All of this is just peachy.

I like it when things work out for people, especially when they are my mates. But I found out a very minor something when we were chatting in the park yesterday, which makes me question if I am a good person.

All the CDIs (permanent contract holders) in L's husband's bank get a catalogue of household items with prices around half the market rate. Lower, non-CDI-possessing life forms are not entitled to have it.

I have grown to accept that six weeks holiday a year, lavish Christmas presents for the kids, subsidised, on-site yoga classes, and free orthodonistry for your third cousins are a reality for many people lucky enough to be in work in this country. But I am not OK that everytime I buy an expensive fridge, I am subsidising a cheap fridge for the tanned ones, not to mention adding to their sense of entitlement.

Sorry, but my need for cheap white goods is greater than theirs. Not that I need a new fridge - it's the principle, you understand.

It's time to stop this madness. I'm even willing to go on strike.

Come fly with us...

Eight years of life in France have given me so much stuff to tell that I don't know where to begin.

But as I have next to me a copy of the promotional blurb from the company where hubski works (a Russian airline that shall remain nameless), I think I will quote a few paragraphs, as they do a much better job of summing themselves up than I could ever do (and that's saying something).

Here goes:

'Having decided to travel by air many of you will start with numerous questions: which tariff is better, how do I book and buy my ticket, when do I have to be in the airport for the check-in etc, and the answers may prove not to be that simple.'

Well, forewarned is forearmed, I suppose.

This next bit worries me, however:

'Our passenger should be aware that every stage of their trip here on earth and up in the sky will keep them confident and comfortable.'

Good to know St Peter will be on stand-by with the nibbles.

Lastly, I leave you to reflect on this:

'Safety and comfort are ......... Airline's main concern but we also strive to make our flights accessible to the widest range of passengers.'

This explains why I would rather travel to Russia by bus than by plane.

If anyone wants to know what this has to do with France, well, not a lot, I must admit. This is because hubski, despite having been in France for a whopping 15 years, being regularly mistaken for a Frenchman, and a having a string of qualifications, including since recently French nationality (which means, as I am fond of pointing out, every time he tells an anti-French joke he is insulting himself), he has never managed to get hired by a French company.

He works in aviation, and the only reliable route into the French national carrier is via the undergarments of the person who recommends you, except perhaps at entry level (excuse the pun). I do know what I am talking about, so you'll just have to trust me on this one.

So, what am I doing here?

I've been meandering around a bit with this blog, but its time to get to the point. What I am doing in France in the first place?

That's the million dollar question for all expats, and therefore the one I usually avoid asking people. If they want you to know they'll tell you. It's a cliché that most expats are running away from something, but with me that was only a small part of it. I prefer to see it as running towards something, in my case, Paris (who could blame me?), where my boyfriend had a job.

Basically, Paris was the only place where we could both find work.

How romantic.

Franglais - it creeps up on you

On reading my last post I realise that I have become a person I swore I would never be. A person so smug and annoying that they deserve to be put in a Mairie where all the staff are going through messy divorces, and shunted between counters in a process known as the 'death spiral'.

In place of the word 'storage room' I used 'cave'. Not a mossy cave where bears live, but the French for 'storage room'. It's true that 'storage room' doesn't have the same pithy ring as 'cave'. It doesn't matter that I had to have a long hard think before I came up with it and that even now I'm sure there must be a better translation (no, not a cellar, because my storage room is above ground, damn it). There is no excuse for franglais. No excuse for dropping in a casual reference to the fact that I am the real deal - a seasoned expat. It is way too irritating.

I was confused the first time someone asked me for my 'coordinates'. Then I realised that otherwise sane English people asked for each other's coordinates all the time, as if we were all engaged in a gigantic game of battleships. It has become an accepted Franglais expression. Except the poor things have been here so long they are probably not aware that they sound as if they are trying to blow someone up, not find out their address.

Even worse is when people adopt French speech inflections. Yes-ah. No-ah. Beeeh...

Excuse me, I'm going to get a drink. It's been a long day.

Catharsis

I love chucking things out. And as our flat goes on the market this week, I now have a real excuse.

Down I went into the cave, and out went the artificial Christmas tree, hastily bought five years ago when my step-daughter visited us on Christmas Eve (thinks: this Christmas we'll get a real one, yay!). Then I came across all my son's baby clothes, and, after some soul searching (must not, cannot think about more babies) out they went into the clothes donation bin in the next street. I opened a drawer and found three years worth of boy shoes, beginning with tiny summer sandals, through to little scuffed DM boots and mud splattered wellies. I found my old maternity clothes. More soul searching followed (even if we win the lottery and decide to have a third child to celebrate, I will be able to afford to buy new ones). I found various brackets, sprockets, leads and other boys trinklets belonging to hubski. I gleefully tipped them out on the street, hoping they would be scavenged before he returns from work. Hubski has issues with throwing things out, which just adds to the guilty pleasure.

I punched the air as I junked his hated brown crocodile-skin-effect desert wellies, a gift from my mother-in-law (making it all the more sinful as she probably spent half her pension on them). They had passed their six month quarantine period (meaning I had moved them into the cave and hubski had not remarked on their absence).

Every little item has a story. So I was surprised at my lack of nostalgia as the pile outside the cave grew higher. It made me realise how much I had been looking forward to turning a new page. For the last two years I've just been waiting in the blocks.

There are some things I can't throw out. I can't throw out letters. I can't throw out my daughter's first pair of shoes (especially as I only bought the second pair the day before yesterday).

Knowing that I have less stuff makes me feel lighter. I have never had colonic irrigation, but I now feel as if I understand these people a little better.