Pompier, pompier, lend me your hose
Of all the wonderful things France has to offer, why are pompiers never mentioned? I'm not talking about their abilities in putting out fires and rescuing people in distress, although I'm sure they are impeccably trained...
I'm talking about their contribution to the general good. Specifically, in terms of eye candy for the thirty-something housewife with time on her hands (that can't be me, surely).
At the moment it is pompier season. Outside supermarkets up and down France, hunky firemen are touting their wares for loose change. Tombola tickets this time, but during the winter pompier season calenders are on offer. I bought one a few years ago, and this may be just my filthy mind, but homoerotic imagery leapt from every page. From January to December, pompiers, soaked to the skin and dressed top to toe in black, brandishing hoses of ludricrous dimensions in various contrived poses. Simply thrilling.
There's a logical reason for all of this male beauty in pompier form. As a part of their job, they are required to work out twice a day. There's a gym on the premises, and when the pompiers are not pumping their hoses, they're pumping iron.
An acquaintance of mine, T, left her husband for her third pompier last year. I always think of her when I walk past the fire station.
My way of dealing with pompiers is less drastic. I turn up slightly early to pick up my son from school, which is directly opposite a fire station, and stand around innocently, discreetly dabbing the drool from the corner of my mouth with the scrunched-up tissue officially intended for my baby daughter, as I watch the pompiers pace around purposefully, fiddling with their trucks.
But alas, like many other aspects of France, pompiers are best viewed from a distance.
The other day I broke into a near run as I noticed two pleasingly v-shaped pompier silhouettes in the distance. However, on approaching and overtaking them, I couldn't help but notice that something had gone badly wrong. The pompiers weren't to scale. I was a head taller than both of them.
Why are French men so dinky?
This has given me an idea for a range of cute pompier dolls. 'Bonjour madame. You can't have me I'm afraid, but here's a slightly smaller effigy of me for your mantlepiece for a paltry two euros'. Why should T have all the fun?
I'm talking about their contribution to the general good. Specifically, in terms of eye candy for the thirty-something housewife with time on her hands (that can't be me, surely).
At the moment it is pompier season. Outside supermarkets up and down France, hunky firemen are touting their wares for loose change. Tombola tickets this time, but during the winter pompier season calenders are on offer. I bought one a few years ago, and this may be just my filthy mind, but homoerotic imagery leapt from every page. From January to December, pompiers, soaked to the skin and dressed top to toe in black, brandishing hoses of ludricrous dimensions in various contrived poses. Simply thrilling.
There's a logical reason for all of this male beauty in pompier form. As a part of their job, they are required to work out twice a day. There's a gym on the premises, and when the pompiers are not pumping their hoses, they're pumping iron.
An acquaintance of mine, T, left her husband for her third pompier last year. I always think of her when I walk past the fire station.
My way of dealing with pompiers is less drastic. I turn up slightly early to pick up my son from school, which is directly opposite a fire station, and stand around innocently, discreetly dabbing the drool from the corner of my mouth with the scrunched-up tissue officially intended for my baby daughter, as I watch the pompiers pace around purposefully, fiddling with their trucks.
But alas, like many other aspects of France, pompiers are best viewed from a distance.
The other day I broke into a near run as I noticed two pleasingly v-shaped pompier silhouettes in the distance. However, on approaching and overtaking them, I couldn't help but notice that something had gone badly wrong. The pompiers weren't to scale. I was a head taller than both of them.
Why are French men so dinky?
This has given me an idea for a range of cute pompier dolls. 'Bonjour madame. You can't have me I'm afraid, but here's a slightly smaller effigy of me for your mantlepiece for a paltry two euros'. Why should T have all the fun?
posted by francesca tereshkova | 5:00 AM
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