Andy tells me that it is only right that I should follow-up my blog about why it's so great living in France, with a blog about the things that drive me mad. I argued that telling the world how much the French annoy me probably wouldn't help in our efforts to fit in with the locals. Ok, our direct neighbours don't speak English, but Google Translate is pretty hot these days.
But Andy's point is a fair one: I ought to give an un-biased account of life in France, not one which just focuses on the good stuff. So here, in short, is what drives me mad (note that this Bad Things list is not as long as the Good Things list - ergo life in France is Good).
1. The driving
Ok, it may not be a patch on the Italians or the Spaniards (oh dear, here I go on a whole anti-European drive, never mind just a French one...) but the driving here drives me mad (if you'll excuse the pun). It's not bad driving as such - there's generally not much speeding, swerving or beeping to speak of - it's more the etiquette. No one, and I mean no one, ever lets you out. If you sit there with your indicators flashing madly, waiting to pull out from a parking space into slow-moving traffic, nine times out of ten you will be willfully ignored. Trying to do a tricky reverse parking manoeuvre while your child screams blue murder in the back? Don't expect anyone to give you any space to carry out this difficult task, you will just have to wait your turn. Which leads me neatly on to...
2. Manners
This one could get me into hot water. But if we exclude the nice French children from my previous blog, who always say Bonjour, and the sunny people at the checkout tills who wish you a bonne journée, there is a certain lack of politeness around here. My neighbours are lovely. In fact, on a one-on-one basis, most people around here are charming and welcoming and helpful. (Except the other neighbours who have never even said so much as Bonjour in 8 months, and the estate agents who ignore all your calls, and the man in the Feu Vert garage who doesn't appear to want our custom at all). But there is a general lack of awareness of other people from the average person on the street. Everyone seems to mooch along in their own world, and if they accidentally (or not, as the case may be) knock you as you walk past, you are unlikely to get a 'Pardon', or even so much as a backward glance. Getting on the tram with a buggy, I have been stared at point blank more times than I care to remember, as I apologise for having a baby and attempt to find a tiny little space in which to squirrel myself and my clearly unwelcome small child. Coming back from the UK last week just reinforced this: we left behind the helpful souls of England who all wanted to give up their seat for me, to be met by the stony, unsmiling faces of the folk of Geneva.
3. French old ladies and their advice
One of the other trials one has to negotiate when taking public transport is the French Old Lady and her Advice. Mainly, it concerns the aforementioned unwelcome infant and their well-being. He is either too hot, too cold, too tired to be out, too young to be out or just inappropriately attired for that particular old lady's whim. For the record, yes I did check the weather forecast this morning, no he doesn't need a hat today, yes he is wearing a vest underneath his babygrow and yes, he's my child and he's just perfect, thank you very much.
4. The bread is too small for toast
What sort of country doesn't prioritise the production of bread that lends itself to becoming toast?
5. Numbers
My French has improved a lot since we moved here, but I am floored every single time someone says a number that begins quatre vingts... Argh, I think, they've just said one of the stupid numbers. Now, what did they say after they said quatre vingts? Did they say a normal number like sept, so it's actually not too tricky, it's just 87. Or did they say dix-sept, meaning I have to do some quick addition in my head and work out what 80 plus 17 is (not a difficult sum, I know, but when they are in the middle of dictating a long phone number and you're desperately trying to keep up with all the other quatre vingts, it's like some kind of French Numberwang). What kind of language names its numbers thus: Ten, Twenty, Thirty, Forty, Fifty, Sixty, Sixty and Ten, Four Twenties, Four Twenties and Ten...?! At least the Swiss are smart, and have adopted the far preferable Septante, Octante, Nonante.
And that's all I have to complain about. So far.
