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Hot Chocolate 03/20/2010
 
“It’s the voluptuous inner-thigh quiver that does it”. 

 I pour scalding water into a row of grubby candle holders. One cracks, spitting hot water all over the counter. I hastily dab at the waxy mess with a crumpled napkin and scoop the shards into the bin, hiding the evidence with an empty meringue box. By the window, two young women stir mugs of hot chocolate. One wears a low cut v-neck. The other wears a jumper. Vee and Jay converse. 

 VEE: ‘She has a talent, that woman. There’s no denying it.’

 JAY: ‘Hmm. Lucky lady’.

 VEE: ‘Nah, there’s more to it than just luck. She’s skilful. She’s dexterous. I mean, I’ve tried to make Passion Jellies four or five times, and each attempt has been an utter slump. Surely if luck had any part to play it would have intervened by now?’

 JAY: ‘Aww, I’m sure your Passion Jellies weren’t that bad.’

 VEE: ‘I served the first and second attempts in a communal bucket with straws. The third had to be carved. Conclusion: I don’t have what it takes.’

 JAY: ‘Still. I bet they tasted lovely.’

 VEE: Shakes her head. ‘Not really. The taste buds can only handle so much gelatine.’

 JAY: ‘Ah, Nigella. How does she do it?’

 VEE: ‘I wonder. You know what else she does? She boils ham joints in cola.’

 JAY: ‘She doesn’t!’

 VEE: ‘She does. And she mashes marshmallows into her spuds.’

 JAY: ‘She doesn’t!’

 VEE: ‘She does.’ 

 Both girls spoon cream pensively. 

 VEE: ‘When you get the munchies at night, what do you normally eat?’

JAY: ‘Erm, I don’t know… fruit?’

 VEE: ‘Really? You’d honestly opt for vits over carbs when the midnight munchies hit?’

 JAY: ‘Well, maybe toast. Or pizza. But sometimes fruit. Usually fruit.’

 VEE: Dubious. ‘Whatever. So I was watching this episode where Nigella got the munchies, and you know what she did?’

 JAY: ‘What did she do?’

 VEE: ‘She put six croissants in a dish, then slathered them in melted butter, sugar and an ENTIRE TUB of double cream. And then she baked them. And then she ate them.’

 JAY: ‘What, ALL of them? All by herself?’

 VEE: ‘Yep. I saw her do it. It was live. It was real.’

 JAY: Sadly. ‘Croissants make me fat. I’d get fat if I ate six croissants.’ 

 Vee slams down her mug. It slops. Jay jumps. 

 VEE: ‘You know what? We shouldn’t have to worry about getting fat. We shouldn’t have to care about getting fat. I’m SICK of people STRESSING OUT about being FAT!  Take a look at Nigella! She’s no slimster, but she’s happy. Why can’t we eat six croissants and be happy?’

 JAY: ‘I think six croissants would make me feel sick’.

 VEE: Sighs. ‘You’re missing the point. It doesn’t necessarily have to be six croissants. It could be two. It could be three. It could be anything, anything that breaks the ‘half-a grapefruit-and-a-glass-of-water-at-room-temperature’ norm. Don’t you see what’s happening? Society has been shackled! Where is the FREEDOM? Where is the JOY?’

 JAY: ‘Hmm. Shackled. Totally.’

 VEE: ‘I asked myself: why don’t we live more like Nigella? Why don’t we eat pie when we want pie, why don’t we embrace our ripples and rolls as Mother Nature intended?’

 JAY: ‘Hmm. Rolls. Totally.’

 VEE: ‘So you know what I did? I cooked those croissants.’

 JAY: Gasp. ‘Oh. My gosh. You did?’

 VEE: ‘Yeah. For Gerald and I. Figured I’d whip up an after-work treat for both of us.’

 JAY: ‘The whole butter, sugar and cream shebang?’

 VEE: ‘The works. Baked, bronzed and bubbling to perfection’.

 JAY: ‘Crikey. I might have to make this for Trev.’

 VEE: ‘I followed the instructions in her book. She recommended you eat half the dish, then lug it up to the bedroom and work up an appetite for the rest later’.

 JAY: ‘Oooh, she says that? Goodness, she’s such a vixen!’

 VEE: Grimly ‘Hmm. It’s all very thrilling in theory, isn’t it? All that cream. Such romance. Such passion. Anyways, there never was a ‘later’ incidentally.’

 JAY: ‘Oh?’

 VEE: ‘Turns out Gerald’s bloody lactose intolerant, doesn’t it? First he lost his fluids, next he lost his consciousness. He spent five hours in A&E having his bowels stitched back together.’

JAY: ‘Golly.’

 VEE: ‘And that’s not even the worst of it - I gained seven pounds over night!’

 JAY: ‘Oh dear! I am sorry.’

 VEE: Perplexed. ‘I just don’t know how it happened! I mean, I only ate two croissants!’  
  


 JAY: Sadly. ‘Croissants make me fat. I’d get fat if I ate two croissants...’  
 
 
 
Life enhancing versus cash depleting; can impulse buying ever be good?  Discuss. 

 Case Study; the bicycle of revelations...      

 The opportunity to impulse buy in St Andrews is generally (and thankfully) limited; unfortunately it’s not impossible.  My latest impulse buy? A bicycle.  I told myself I needed one, and I did, but there are problems with the bike, my bank balance and the implications.  However, there are several upsides.  Unexpected purchases have led to unexpected revelations about the Bubble, the precariousness of my bank balance and life in general.  The question is, was it worth it?      

 Things are never as they seem; initial cost, plus helmet (yet to buy ... dilemma of helmet hair versus concussion) plus lights, locks and general shiny things so motorists can avoid (or target) me.  I feel, though, that this is a somewhat symbolic embodiment of pretty much all of my decisions so far this semester; a series of unfortunate decisions based on lack of thought / knowledge about what I was getting myself into.      

 St. Andrews one way system makes absolutely no sense; buying a bicycle not only goes against my cash flow, it also brings me into conflict with traffic flow around town.  This is an unexpected and very unwelcome discovery.  I get the impression that the police force in St. Andrews really doesn’t have anything better to do (unless it’s Raisin Weekend) than a) tag bikes that are left in one place for too long and b) catch cyclists breaking the law.  All routes/shortcuts/timings are therefore currently being reconsidered.        

 Being the proud owner of a not-so-shiny-and-new bicycle has added several new layers of complication to getting around, including, but not limited to: how do I get to X making the least number of left turns possible?      

 There is also the additional and unforeseen problem of parking.  And then remembering where exactly I put it.  Unlike a car I can’t walk around clicking my key fob till I see the headlights flashing ... and I can’t for the life of me remember what the thing actually looks like in detail (am considering taking a photo of it just in case ...)      

 On the plus side this particular impulse purchase has solved the problem of moving faster than walking pace whilst still sitting down (absolute genius!) and going downhill has never been so fun...      

 So, several revelations about me, the bubble and life in general later, I have to say that the bicycle is in the end only a means to an end.  Conclusion ... living impulsively is the only way to live, and at the end of the day if your semester is going rapidly downhill, you might as well have fun...
 
Too Much Drama? 03/20/2010
 
Student life is full of addictions. For some people its work related; compulsive note making, email checking and colour coding, others are social animals; drinking, dancing and indulging in general debauchery (which is always documented on facebook by the next morning), most obsessions at University are food related; I am yet to meet a student who does not succumb to dietary trends, whether its healthy; goji berries (what are you meant to do with them?), or horrible; post-bop cheese and chips. My addiction is drama and though its impact is far less obvious, it can be just as deadly as anything you would find in Empire.       

 You may think that I am exaggerating, I am after all a 'thesp', but I can already see the signs starting to emerge. I am becoming withdrawn from my friends and social life, 'Sorry I have rehearsal' and 'I am going to an audition are stock phrases in my vocabulary, I have elected to study 20th Century American Drama as one of my module choices and I spend a worrying amount it of time in darkness (the Barron is quite cosy really).       

 The trouble is, St. Andrews has just too much drama on offer. In the last week alone I have cast a show, seen two plays at the Byre, auditioned for 'Julius Caesar' and attended three Mermaids meetings. But what's a thesp to do? With so much going on how do you decide how much theatre you can handle?       

 For me it has been very much a process of trial and error. In first year, as a nervous fresher I only had the confidence to take part in one play. By second year, I realised that being in 5 shows a semester was a great way to procrastinate, however I often found myself panic-writing 2000 word essays the night before they were due. Now that I am a third year, I think I have found a healthy balance, Okay, I still have an addiction, but it's under control, and strangely enough, having too much drama in your life has lots of wonderful benefits. Firstly it looks great on your CV; you meet lots of incredible people along the way; and unlike most addictions it rarely proves fatal! 
 
Change 03/20/2010
 
Change is an invariable component in anyone’s life. There will always be an array of new people to meet, unfamiliar places to explore and strange challenges to overcome, but no matter what the location or surroundings are, there will always be food. From a tiny newborn consuming its mother’s milk in Russia to an old man in Vietnam chewing on bean curds. Humans need nutrition to survive, and food is the unique solution. Yet though this process is understood and practiced everyday, why it is a celebrated occurrence? Eating has been transformed from a normal to a revered event. Most people do it not just for the sake of subsistence but treat it like a cherished celebration with a host of traditions.        

 Like the rest of the world, India takes food very seriously. Festivals such as Ramadan are an opportunity to give thanks and also a chance to eat. Food is a central part of the celebrations bringing together family, friends and religion.       

 In North America every Autumn, Thanksgiving takes place. Marked as a public holiday in Canada, most families take the chance to gather round the dinner table and stuff themselves till their stretchy pants will extend no more. Though it is viewed as a chance to have a family gathering, the onus is on the food. Turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, pumpkin pie, gravy, beans, and apple pie are set out on the table in excess. Without the cooking it is hard to imagine Thanksgiving.       

 Even here in the small bubble of St Andrews food is looked on as a celebrated event. From such eating-orientated gatherings as the Scandinavian Society’s Crayfish party, to foodie clubs like the VegSoc, it’s an important part of our day. Even meals in halls are a celebration, a chance to hear about our friends’ day, and gossip about who got a little too drunk the night before. A meal is a social gathering that brings us together.       

 Food is more than just a necessity, it is an idolized affair. So why do we take the time and make the effort to carefully prepare our food, and deliberately choose with whom we will share the meal? Food has more than a nutritional value, it has an ability to bring people together, show us our similarities rather than our differences and give us that happy full feeling. 
 
 
One street, two lives. At number 48 the inhabitants roll out of bed casually at their whim, sip tea and stroll to lessons with bed hair (and often in lounge pants). At number 50 Mum religiously leaves the house at 8am with two children, two packed lunches and work heels. It is often hard to conceive that we live amongst people who use the local schools, who don’t have hours to while away in coffee shops and for whom a 9am start is every day, every week all year. Living out of halls in a neighbourhood and receiving the local newsletter through the post brings this home to me. 

 Student towns really are a specific lifestyle- the adage that you can’t explain St Andrews to someone who hasn’t experienced it certainly is true! Even the local inhabitants themselves make up part of our experience: mention the words ‘Madras’ to a fellow student and they will know exactly what you mean! If St Andrews were solely a student town, we would have all the late night licences we wanted as it’s the normal inhabitants of the town that try to retain some of the quaint character of the place. Many students seem to resent the townsfolk, and the term Town and Gown relations always seems to carry a negative tone. But students certainly aren’t the best of bedfellows, though I should imagine we are rather amusing to be observed. I have certainly seen our neighbours watching from the windows as we take out the glass bottles after a party, or as a friend with a car pretends to run down a guest who had outstayed their welcome. On Raisin Monday 2009 I definitely witnessed old couples standing on North Street enjoying the spectacle! St Patricks day brought its fair share of amusement, and the morning afterwards a trip to Morrisons (in pyjamas, for fry-up ingredients) drew many shocked glares. Not to mention when in the early hours of Saturday morning students can be seen carrying trophies home, from road signs to bins and bus timetables. The Scottish people with whom we share our town are, in reality, fairly tolerant of what the students bring. The vomit in the streets, the raised rents and the Empire rubbish probably grates after a while. But perhaps we won’t be living in conjunction much longer, as the University expands and housing demand increases. Becoming solely a student town would loose some of the character of the place, and despite the (at times) tempestuous relationship of Town and Gown it appears the two really do rely on each other.
 
 
I had an interesting experience the other night when I wandered into what I thought was an innocent pre-game. We had wine, we had heels and we had…the web-cam? What is essentially a chance to flirt and/or exhibit (all of) oneself via the internet, to whoever is watching, ChatRoulette is a growing online phenomenon in which you are paired with a random stranger and left to see what happens from this chance encounter. Sceptical? You should be. You aren’t going to meet your soul mate here and if you do, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Most of the strangers we were “paired” with were men who were shown from the shoulders down. When asked to show their faces, they suggested that we first take our tops off. We did not. We pressed “Disconnect” in haste. We had a nice chat with a bloke from Wales and a smiling competition with a lad from Turkey (who then quickly suggested we all disrobe). We managed to scare a young gent away purely because he felt outnumbered by the 7-to-1 ladies-to-man ratio. We were all under the impression, at this point, that ChatRoulette was in fact a very funny and rewarding experience. Sadly, the rest of our chance encounters were with an interesting mix of emo girls, old men and genitals, in close up. “Disconnnect”, next weirdo please, thank you. I won’t lie; it was hilarious, despite the voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like my mother telling me never to talk to strangers. Mother was right. Chat with strangers in any form is always going to be a gamble. But I suppose that online chat is just as uncomfortable as chat in person, and unlike online encounters, you can’t simply disconnect yourself from the awkward face-to-face ones. Hall breakfast, train journeys, lectures; they are all examples of real-life ChatRoulette. You can never predict the human capacity for chat and no matter how long you’ve played the game, it will always surprise you. Even if your surprise is not always good, at least there is a certain degree of fun to be had talking to sexy boy from Krakow you’ll never meet, as opposed to the standard chat of “at least it’s not raining!” you get from That Guy in your 9 o‘clock. Then again, I thought I had hall breakfast sussed until one day BOOM! an early morning chat about necrophilia and misogyny in the Middle East. Not that I’m whole-heartedly recommending ChatRoulette to anyone. It is definitely not to be taken seriously. It may be fine for the odd pre-game and when there is nothing good on TV, but you’ve got to be pretty desperate to sit at home, on your tod, on a Friday night, just waiting and hoping to get a glimpse of some boob. I’ve seen enough unclothed nether-regions and blokes that look suspiciously under-age to dare Chatting again, but, after all, that IS what you get when you play ChatRoulette. And at least the “Disconnect” button is always an option. Use it well.
 
 
There is an absence in St Andrews; there was a time when the mega-corporations fulfilled our musical needs. Fopp came and went, as did Unknown Pleasures, and in their wake St Andrews is faced with a void.

Buying music has always been what I've done in my downtime, whenever the worldly burdens have taken their toll I would walk into Fopp and visit my old friends. 

Spotify, Amazon, Youtube and Play.com along with a whole plethora of musical options available online is great, but there is a distinct lack of arbitrariness. That ability to go into a music shop and pick up the album of a band you've never heard of, buy it, then regret it solidly until next time. God I've missed that.

So I've found a strategy for coping with this new found absence, a couple of times a week I make a round of the charity shops and auction houses, and buy up their available vinyl. My somewhat eclectic collection stands at everything from the Floyd's "Wish you were here" via Johnny Cash Live at Folsom, a few Springsteen tours to original pressings of The Beatles "Srg. Pepper".

The Vinyl sale that frequents the Union is ok, the variety is phenomenal, but with prices sailing past the £50 mark it will never amass any grand scale popularity.

My old man possesses the equivalent of the Holy Grail of vinyl collections, and on my occasional journeys home I slowly but surely take more and more back here with me. Although the more desirable and reputable pressings (including all the original single pressings of The beatles) seemed to have been sold off early to supplement a much needed toupee fund, there is still an impressive variety.

Vinyl is obviously not as accessible as CD's; there is no way to convert them onto a computer or MP3 player along with the fact that very few people own vinyl players, but they are nevertheless unbelievably cool. I recently picked up some classic Rolling stones, Hendrix and Skynyrd at the auction house along with a vinyl player, all of which hardly broke into double figures.

Live music in St Andrews, although mildly deformed, is not dead just yet. The possibility of the last ever Starfields can be recovered by the birth of "Music is love", a promising collection of musicians breaking from the traditional open mic format to stage weekly mini-gigs, with the performers and set lists being confirmed days before the event. The black sheep were on hiatus from the lizards Sunday nights and relocated to One Golf Place midweek briefly before disappearing altogether.

The Scottish Festival brought an eclectic collection of funk-folk, With the bands trying to supplement a lack of enthusiasm with talent, which struggled against the wave of feedback that emanated with every note. I ended up walking out of the headlining act half way though the set, a combination of a harp and bagpipes, in the complete absence of lyrics was enough to disperse the middle-to-retired aged crowd.

Open mic's at the Union (every other Sunday night, v2) have always been hit and miss, as with most open mics there are some amazing displays of talent, supplemented with your mediocre-at-best drunk thinking their Dylan.

We're ever approaching the stage when the only form of music expression is the karaoke nights at the Rule and Vic, a punishment I wouldn't wish upon anyone.  
 
 
 
I often think that, as time goes on, actresses have become less naturally beautiful and unique; what with plastic surgery and style makeovers, we sometimes even confuse female stars with one another. Two days ago, on one of the "endless hours days", I stumbled across "Let's Make Love", an old movie starring Marilyn Monroe, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I could go on holding this opinion… 

At first, I couldn't really tell if it was her at all; the movie was in full colour, so her hair seemed to be too blonde, white even, to be as sensuous and lovely as Marilyn's. She had yellow teeth, undoubtedly an unwanted effect smoking sexy cigarettes, and...I don't know, I guess I had never looked at her so closely. The real shock came after, when she appeared in a scene dressed in a dance costume that was truly a huge mistake; Marilyn Monroe was chubby! She really was. I was looking at her, and all of a sudden it became obvious to me how much times have changed. I mean, nowadays all the gossip magazines would have pictures of Marilyn Monroe wearing that dress and tabloid would read “Monroe needs tummy tuck”, or some similar brainless statement.

But you see, back then every woman wanted to be her. And I can't help but wonder if it was as hard to become her as it is to become a contemporary cover-girl. Having role models such as Marilyn Monroe must have been much more reasonable; for one, it is a relief to see that sex symbols can have a normal figure, an attainable figure. The thing I thought was most surprising was that all these flaws made her truly beautiful; even if her hair looked a bit like a Barbie's from being so dyed, even if she wore a layer of make-up that could be distinguished from the actual epidermis, and even if she had the faintest beginning of a double chin, when she broke into singing intervals, I could not help but notice how truly beautiful she was as a whole. 

I think what I am trying to get at is that what made her so desirable and gorgeous was what she represented, and what she did, because she did it best. I can tell you I have enjoyed an old movie this much on few occasions, and all because of the passion Marilyn Monroe showed when playing her character. These days I think we all try to be beautiful, period. Beautiful constantly, no matter what we are doing. But maybe we don’t realize that we are most attractive when we do certain things, and not all the time, like Marilyn Monroe when she sang. I know that realizing that the concept of beauty changes through time is no last minute discovery, but maybe realizing that we can be more beautiful when we do what we like is. And maybe this is even harder than becoming a size zero model, because you can diet and work out until your body disappears, but doing these particular things that bring out our beautiful sides often involve a bigger amount of sacrifice. Don't they?
 
 
“I don’t mind it once they’re dead – it’s just the dying that’s a drag”. 


I slosh a glug of vinegar into a bucket crammed with steak knifes and soup spoons, top it up with hot water from the coffee machine and haul it into the cutlery cupboard. The steam puckers my fingers. I tease out a handful of spoons and begin to polish them as a couple of diners enter the restaurant and sit down at a table just within audible range of my station. 


HE: “I know love. The prolonged pain, and all that. It can’t be a pleasant way to go.”

SHE: “No, no, it’s not that. It just takes so long. Pain aside, you have to play the waiting game. Even if you were sure that they had eaten the poison, you wouldn’t know if they were truly dead. Then you’d have to find them after they’d died. And they’re never easy to find, you know. You have to wait for the smell. It isn’t practical” 


She takes a slice of bread from the basket and draws the butter dish towards herself. A dull clunk resounds as knife meets butter, testimony to the fact that it had only been removed from the deep freezer half an hour ago.  Upon attempting to spread butter chunks, the bread tears and crumbles. Instead, she slices the butter as one would a block of cheese and makes a sandwich. 


SHE: “Besides, it’s messy.  Remember when Sid used warfarin on the beast that ate his neighbour’s kittens? The fat brute slunk away to the warmest place he could find to die. They found the decomposing carcass fused to the hot water pipes in the attic a fortnight later. Can you even BEGIN to IMAGINE the STENCH?”  


The man shifts in his chair, picks up his fork and studies the prongs.  


SHE: “It smelt like sewage apparently. Putrid, fermenting carrion. Half-cooked, you know? They had to scrape it off the pipes with a…”

HE: “Yes, yes, dear. Very nice. But it just doesn’t seem – ethical. Having your insides corroded away like that. It’s not nice. I wouldn’t fancy being poisoned.”

SHE: “Nobody is going to poison YOU, silly! It’s rats we’re talking about.”

HE: “Yes, but still.”

SHE: “You know, Diane went into the pantry on Christmas morning to find her marinated ham mauled to shreds. The blighter had munched right through the cling film. Looked like a prehistoric carnivore had been at it. That’s not right. Are you telling me that’s right?”

HE: “No, no, of course not dear, but the difference is that ours aren’t domesticated. They seem quite happy in the compost heap. Plenty of food, adequate shelter – what more could they possibly need? Our house must hold very little appeal for them.”

SHE: Absently. “And then there are traps, I suppose. A bit of gorgonzola, and CRUNCH! Bob’s your uncle. Saying that, you can never be too sure. They might get sneaky, and figure out a way to swipe the cheese with their spines intact and their skulls in one piece. Always best to be thorough, don’t you think?”

HE: Puts down fork. “Jenny. I refuse to poison the rats.”

SHE: Blinks.“Oh, there will be no need for poison, dear”.

HE: Exhales, relieved. “Brilliant. You know, we can always move them elsewhere if it would make you feel better? Besides, the female looks heavy – I think there might be a litter on the way.”

SHE: “She had them already.”

HE: “Really? That’s wonderful! How many?” 


She softens a piece of butter on the side of her plate and spreads it onto a crust. 


SHE: “Five.”

HE: “Ah, see! Now we shall have a proper mischief of rats – for that is the appropriate collective term, dear, a ‘mischief’. Five adorable babies! Lovely! And to think you were considering POISON only a second ago…”

SHE: “I told you – poison won’t be necessary”. 


He fidgets with a corner of his napkin. 


HE: “Really?”

SHE: “Yes.”

HE: “Not necessary?”

SHE: “Nope. I used your spade.” 
 
 


“The kidneys, ma’am?”

“Ah, yes – for my husband. Mine was the basil and aubergine terrine.

Thank you so much.” 
 
 
2 a.m. and I’m suddenly awake, clammy and feverish.  My head floats around the room in exploration as my fingers creep along the flock yellow wallpaper, one foot steps onto cold tiles and the other tentatively follows.  Leaning slightly to the right I step towards the window; something silvery seems to be swinging, making whooshing noises.  As get closer, I can see that the swinging thing is part of a much bigger shape, flat and opaque, that seems to radiate a kind of heaviness, yet at the same time a sweet softness.  My face goes into the night, towards this mysterious being.  And I realise, is it?...no it can’t be... 


So there I was face to face with a mountain cow, about to perform what can only be defined as an act of desecration.  Staring into the cow’s deep eyes, I had a horrible vision of myself in 20 years time, bovine and ignorant as any last traces of life were removed by my bowels. The first day of my year abroad and I’m already hallucinating.  


A few hours later, the cow had gone but not without leaving me a fragrant little present.  I couldn’t remember if animal merde was a good omen or not but I went to meet my mentor, who I secretly hoped to be Mr Myagi, and take a tour round the Lycée where I would soon be teaching.  LPO Victor Duruy turned out to be a palatial 17th century building with its own courtyard preserved, like the rest of the town, in a pre-Revolutionary jar labelled Golden Age.  I felt as if I were walking towards a guillotine except that my executioner was a non-Japanese woman of extreme generosity and understanding.  Immediately I appreciated the pat outside my window, the teachers seemed interested in whom I was and the students didn’t carry knives.  The muscles in my chest loosened slightly as I realised I wasn’t about to be in a French remake of kidulthood and so far, so true.  


That night, to prevent more near-misses of hallucinations my mentor took me to a rock-electro concert in a nearby village which had its own Salle de Fête, despite having a population of less than 300 people. These party halls are compulsory in every village in France along with a Boulangerie so that people can get pissed and do what they will with a baguette.  My mentor knew the organisers so I became a helper, supposedly manning the projector but actually drinking free beer and inadvertently smoking with the other volunteers.  Back in my room I couldn’t find the cow but the unsurprising loss of inhibitions saw me introduce myself to the other boarders of the Lycee (all-male and all-hormonal-adolescent) as sugar mama/English assistant. Another night of dodgy behaviour and I just couldn’t help myself.  


A day of recovery and teaching began in 30 degree heat trapped in the valley by the strangely luminous mountains.  The kids could tell I was nervous, and my perspiration was off-putting.  A big part of me wanted to run away but I remembered the cow and started to laugh which at least got the attention of the class.  Articulate and ‘Pob’ Quiz were the most successful activities and saying that I go to Uni with Prince William made me appear sort of interesting.  An American assistant later told me that Uni means either hermaphrodite or something that resulted in a gesture towards his genitals, which may explain the looks of curiosity from the students. 


A week later and I seem to have settled into my role as perhaps not-so-cool student teacher.  Socially however, I’m lost.  I’m smoking an inordinate amount and the days continue in a haze of petit café, staring, harassing and introducing, Le Monde, Asterix and margaret de canard, drunken old men, chestnut yoghurt, other assistants and many teenagers.  Friendships formed are in that weird beginning phase between reserve and assertion, the evenings are lonely and I’ve yet to believe that I’m really here, in this town that is so incredibly French.  Each time I venture into town I pass the Pharmacy which has flashing lights like a brothel, and inside the man who sells cheese in his giant beret buying Minceur to keep his weight in check.  On the corner, the accordion player with one arm.  The whole town taking a break.  I’m a cultural pariah. I find everything around me ridiculous, I find myself teaching 20 adolescents ridiculous.  And I’m scared because this year has to be the best of my short life.  And I’m even more scared because I know that it probably will be.  


Spending so much time on my own I’ve had lots of time to talk to myself about the pressure that 21st students put themselves under; achieving the best marks, making the most friends, being the best looking, being the most liberal and witty, reading the most obscure materials.  There is a palpable sense that we are all running out of time.  Before I’ve even really begun this year I’m trying to squeeze it into the category of ‘positive experience’.  My first French lesson for you is this: chill out.  The pace of life here shuffles along stopping to air kiss the world of work; yet everything functions.  Cynicism and paranoia are scarce, rather than rife, and age is really neither here nor there.   Buddha knew it, Frankie goes to Hollywood knew it and now we all know it too.