The French social model in action
For the record, I am very grateful to the Maire of the town of Q., where I live, for blowing pots of 'her' taxpayers' cash on an artificial beach and swimming-pool complex just a stone's throw from Paris and just a five minute toddle from my door. Oodles of sand have been shipped in and deposited on the Ile of Q. in the Seine, a new Olympic-sized outdoor pool has just been opened, and only the lucky few in possession of a matching utility bill and carte d'identité bearing the name of the town of Q. are allowed in for free (otherwise 20 euros par personne! Aie!). It's a very French exclusivity. 'I have an EDF bill to die for, darlink'. God knows how much those things can command on the black market (hmm, interesting thought).
After the usual three hours of getting ready, I and the tots rolled up to the gates this afternoon, and having presented our papers, were told that this year, we required a special 'Carte Q. Plage', and until we obtained it, all six of the gatepeople (that's six times more personnel than gate) would bar our way to Eldorado.
I was assured that the card formality would take a matter of minutes, and when I saw the set-up, all my disbelief and sceptism (and I had it in spades) was banished in an instant.
In front of me was a crack card-assembling team of no fewer than six keen-as-mustard young folk. One person to direct me to the first person on the production line (let's call them the 'funneler'), two, someone to photocopy my carte de sejour and cut out the photo from it, three, someone, poised with the sticky-back plastic, to assemble the thing and hand it back to me. That still leaves three people; one to answer the phone, one to stare into space and another one to strut backwards and forwards between the two desks to make people wonder how her boob tube stayed up. (Tit tape? Or a command of gravity unique to French women and yet to be patented?).
The part of me that secretly admires Margeret Thatcher but would never admit it in polite company got thinking. First, we have an unecessary card. Then, we have unecessary staff, most of which are superfluous even to perform this unecessary task. All of which adds up to an incalculable (if you are idle and innumerate) waste of tax payers' cash. I need hardly add that the whole thing is state run. To be fair to the French, they are better at running leisure facilities than the Brits (or is that damning with faint praise?).
Then the large part of my brain devoted to conspiracy theories kicked into gear. I looked around the beach. It was awash with personnel, wafting about, inspecting their nails, having flirty play fights, playing beach volley-ball, playing with walkie-talkies. They were obviously all students on summer jobs. There's nothing wrong with the hallowed institution of the cushy summer job, but I have never witnessed so many people enjoying one in such an enclosed space.
Maire, she need votes. Student, he need job. Student's maman and papa, they need them out of the house, and with own cash, not their cash. State cash. You can't fool me, froggy.
Great pool by the way.
After the usual three hours of getting ready, I and the tots rolled up to the gates this afternoon, and having presented our papers, were told that this year, we required a special 'Carte Q. Plage', and until we obtained it, all six of the gatepeople (that's six times more personnel than gate) would bar our way to Eldorado.
I was assured that the card formality would take a matter of minutes, and when I saw the set-up, all my disbelief and sceptism (and I had it in spades) was banished in an instant.
In front of me was a crack card-assembling team of no fewer than six keen-as-mustard young folk. One person to direct me to the first person on the production line (let's call them the 'funneler'), two, someone to photocopy my carte de sejour and cut out the photo from it, three, someone, poised with the sticky-back plastic, to assemble the thing and hand it back to me. That still leaves three people; one to answer the phone, one to stare into space and another one to strut backwards and forwards between the two desks to make people wonder how her boob tube stayed up. (Tit tape? Or a command of gravity unique to French women and yet to be patented?).
The part of me that secretly admires Margeret Thatcher but would never admit it in polite company got thinking. First, we have an unecessary card. Then, we have unecessary staff, most of which are superfluous even to perform this unecessary task. All of which adds up to an incalculable (if you are idle and innumerate) waste of tax payers' cash. I need hardly add that the whole thing is state run. To be fair to the French, they are better at running leisure facilities than the Brits (or is that damning with faint praise?).
Then the large part of my brain devoted to conspiracy theories kicked into gear. I looked around the beach. It was awash with personnel, wafting about, inspecting their nails, having flirty play fights, playing beach volley-ball, playing with walkie-talkies. They were obviously all students on summer jobs. There's nothing wrong with the hallowed institution of the cushy summer job, but I have never witnessed so many people enjoying one in such an enclosed space.
Maire, she need votes. Student, he need job. Student's maman and papa, they need them out of the house, and with own cash, not their cash. State cash. You can't fool me, froggy.
Great pool by the way.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 12:06 PM
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