Eating Pizza

'I'm not one to ask for pity, and I know there are many worse off than me, but it is becoming painful to be counting your pennies every month and to give up many of the little pleasures in life.' This is the tale of Anne Larinier, 45, a nurse at Paris' Saint-Joseph hospitals. She tells Marianne magazine that five years ago she and her family enjoyed pizza in a restaurant once or twice a month. Today, she serves pizza at home on a Saturday night. Two years ago she gave up on her love of theatre, and the last time she went to the cinema with her husband was to see the last episode of Star Wars (Revenge of the Sith which came out in 2005).
Anne is not the only one suffering. The woes of the 'middle classes' are growing, and the magazine is full of their tales of hardship: the 33-year-old forced to live in a flat-share in a Paris suburb because he can't afford to rent on his own; the commuting postal worker whose standard of living slips each time petrol costs climb a centime. The article cites a study by Paris-I university and Paris' Ecole d'economie that shows teachers are paid 20 percent less today than in 1981 (excluding inflation). Marianne says a 'revolt of middle management' is growing as they watch the gap between them and the big bosses grow.
What the article doesn't say is why living standards are slipping. If you look at France's growth rate over the past five years, the fall off should not be so dramatic given the environment of low inflation. Can the cut in purchasing power, a key issue in the presidential campaign, be the sole fault of the 35-hour work week, which has effectively frozen people's salaries? Or is there something more sinister going on in France's economy?
On the TV chat shows, each presidential candidate promises to jiggle the social security system to ease some of the suffering they are presented with. The real question is whether they have the right fomula to turn the economy around for everyone and reverse what is percieved at least as an inexorable sense of decline.

Bunking Off Work

France is the champion of Europe for bunking off work thanks to legal protections which ensure workers still get paid even after six months, according to a Saratoga and Price Waterhouse Coopers survey of 14,000 companies.

But it's not just the legal safeguards that keep people away from their desks. French people are fed up with working. You see them every day: the grumpy lady at the post-office counter, the rude bank clerk, the aggressive waitress. Strolling past a market stall in Cannes last weekend I saw a rack of t-shirts with slogans such as 'work sucks' or 'the best thing about my week is the weekend.'

It reminded me of Britain in the early 1980s when Garfield cartoons proclaiming 'I hate Monday' decorated the walls of many workplaces. Although people still prefer Fridays, the Brit attitude towards work has become less hostile. The stand-off between companies and their employees is less about workers-vs-bosses and more about ensuring that managers are doing their job properly. People take some pride if not in what they do, then at least in providing for themselves and their family.

Business is a almost dirty word in France. The economy in the minds of many French people is a sort of pump operated out of the finance ministry in Bercy. The government just needs to adjust the settings to create jobs and money. Problem is, they haven't been getting the settings right for quite some time.

It is workers and not politicians that create the wealth of a nation and the government should give credit back to its citizens. When Socialist grandees like Laurent Fabius say factory workers should be allowed to retire early because they have such a shitty job, they are stealing their self-worth. Fabius might consider working in a factory beneath him, but it ain't so bad. For some people, not relying on state handouts is a source of pride and they enjoy the banter of the workplace.

Give people back pride in their work and they might start showing up more.

French Humour

When you think of France, sense of humour is not first quality that springs to mind. But it may be becoming one of the country's growth industries.
Stand Up comedy, a deeply British tradition, has come to France with the Jamel Comedy Club which this weekend welcomed Segolene Royal among its audience. And inspiration is criss-crossing the Channel with British comedian Rory Bremer stealing headline-grabbing tactics from France. The Observer revealed he'd posed as a Gordon Brown impersonator, tricking a government minister into saying exactly what she thought of her colleagues.
Just a few weeks ago Segolene Royal fell for a similar prank when comedian Gerald Dahan coaxed her to make a joke at the expense of the touchy Corsicans by pretending to be the prime minister of Quebec, Jean Charest.
Interestingly, the French media had no qualms about publishing the recording and Segolene was mocked for having fallen for the prankster. Calls of dirty tricks by her camp fell on deaf ears and in dinner parties around the French capital, Segolene was accused of having made another gaffe. In Britain, Channel Four decided not to screen the Bremner recordings because of regulations banning the use of deception unless it is in the public interest. And Margaret Beckett, the duped minister, condemned the stunt as an 'unprincipled and unpleasant breach of privacy.'

Nill Illigitimi Carborundum

That's Latin for Don't Let the Bastards Get You Down.

Years ago, when my sister got screwed by the company she was working for, my Mum sent a bunch of flowers to her office and the card read: 'nil illigitimi carborundum.'

I wish she'd sent me a card like that these past months.

I've had to face 'them' down on my own. Not completely on my own, thankfully. On the other end of my skype camera each night there is always my beautiful Donato. Telling me I am doing the right thing. Keeping me sane.

I've just written a book that is a lot about why French people would be better off if they weren't so afraid of taking risks. So it would have been very hypocritical of child-less me not to follow my own advice, even if I was terrified. Even if I just bought a house and have a mortgage to pay.

And now what's done is done. And the upside -- and it is a huge, awesome, frighteningly wonderful upside -- is that I'm going to be an author. And now it's done, they can't squeeze the excitement out of me anymore.

I went for a long jog this morning. And as I rounded the turn of the hill in the Buttes Chaumont park, I caught sight of the delicate china-white Sacre-Coeur church crowning Paris' skyline. And my adrenalin finally flushed out months of worry and self-doubt and for the first time I felt a thrill of exitement about what I am doing. I am about to publish a book. And everything is going to be fabulous.

Impertinence

'Apparently she might not come,' I was informed by grumpy journalists as soon as I arrived for a joint press conference with Segolene and Former Health Minister Bernard Kouchner at the Socialist party headquarters. Sure enough 'la star' failed to show.

Kouchner attempted to fill the void by presenting his alternative to Royal's boot camps for unruly teenagers: civic service training with charities or state services. Journalists were waiting for the overdue announcement of Segolene's new campaign team.
'Will you be part of the team?' the former doctor was asked. He didn't know.
Sarkozy had named Kouchner as a Socialist he could work with, and I asked the founder of Medicins sans Frontiers whether he'd be willing to work with Segolene's competitor if she failed to win the elections. While he didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about the idea, he failed to rule it out either.
'Beware of opinion polls,' he said.

'You always ask impertinent questions,' said one of the press attaches as we edged out of the chilly tent erected in the middle of party HQ.
'I've been accused by the Elysee of impertinence, but I never thought I'd hear it from the Socialist party,' I said.
He grinned. 'Oh it's not a reproach. I like your questions.'

Vaffanculo

To take a break one second from the French campaign.

'Siete Degli Irresponsabili , BASTARDI ; BASTARDI ; FRANCO TURIGLIATTI SEI UNA MERDA VIVENTE ; BASTARDO ;BASTARDO ; mi ritroverò con Berlusconi per colpa TUA BASTARDO PEZZO DI MERDA ; VAI A FARE IN CULO TU E TUTTA LA TUA RAZZA DI MERDA ; BASTARDI

VAFFANCULO VAFFANCULO.'

Even for those of you who don't speak Italian, I think the message is clear. This is a mail from Donato (reproduced with his permission) to the Rifondazione Communista party of Italian Prime Minister Romano Prodi's coalition government. In a vote on foreign policy in the Senate, where Prodi enjoys a one-seat majority, the communists witheld their support, forcing Prodi to quit. Though it seems likely he will be back with a new coalition, the move gave heart to Berlusconi's party. And promted this delicious reaction. No mater if you don't understand. Try reading it out loud a few times. It's a wonderful way to rid yourself of any frustrations you might be holding onto.

Segolene in a tropical paradise

To escape the heat of a presidential campaign marked by practical jokes, poisonous party infighting, and a public spat with her partner over money – taxpayers money admittedly – Segolene escaped from Paris to the bathe in the ‘warmth and energy’ of the Caribbean. After a difficult month, she admitted ‘it’s not a bad thing to put some distance’ from the French capital – roughly 7,000 kilometres – and surround herself with less critical crowds on the French islands of Martinique – where she spent three years as a child and one year as a civil servant – and Guadeloupe.
For four days, she was constantly followed by the sounds of the Carribean chart hit ‘Celimene,’ tweaked to ring out her name, and men and women in bring colours clapping, singing and dancing.
‘Seg, Seg, Seg, Segolene – ooWayhe – Seg, Seg, Seg, Segolene.’
At rally after rally, the Socialiste candidate smiled and swayed her arms, though her legs seemed less eager to swing with the rhythms of her childhood.
She was also greeted with a specially composed song - ‘weclome back to the school of your youth’ - by the pupils at Saint-Joseph de Cluny, still wearing the same uniform that Segolene had once adorned, a pleated blue and red tartan skirt teamed with a white shirt.
‘I wish for you to be happy at school and to have a wonderful career which allows you to be free and fulfilled as women,’ she told her adoring audience. Segolene recounted afterwards to journalists how her Caribbean experience helped her career. ‘Afterwards I had such a nostalgia that for homework I wrote poems about Martinique which helped me win the first prize for poetry.’
In a whirlwind series of open-air meetings, dotted with colourful diversions such as a beach pick-nick and market visit, one thing struck me as quite extraordinary. As the sweat poured off her minders and the photographers jostling around her, Segolene proved she is a real lady. She didn’t even glow, let alone transpire.




In the market of Fort de France, she made her way past crates and supermarket trolleys piled high with exotic fruits – limes, melons, star fruit – to press home her advantage over Sarkozy, who was forced to cancel a December 2005 visit because a law on teaching the positive effects of colonialism prompted protests in the overseas territories partly populated with descendents of slaves.
Segolene said she would be a president of a ‘mixed race France,’ and pleased the crowds with a few words in Creole.
‘Moin se on famn doubout, nou kay casse ca,’ which translates as ‘I am a tough lady, and we’re gonna shake things up.’
Her Caribbean visit was also a welcome break for the pack of journalists following the Socialist campaign.
‘It’s better than Scotland huh?’ said more than one hack as I dipped my tired and pasty limbs into the turquoise-blue sea.
‘Dare I say it, but it’s better even than France,’ I retorted, only to be met with boos and splashing.
‘But Emma, this is France,’ replied a radio journalist, insistent that this Carribean haven is as much a part of the Republique as Le Havre or the medieval villages of Bordeau.