Pyrenees Si Vous Please!

We've just arrived in the Toulouse airport on our way to the Pyrenees in the South of France, cycling for 10 days. We'll be going here...

Carcassone via

And here...

Toulouse, via

And then here...

Pau, via

So that's it, that's what we're up to. I know what you're thinking: "How the bloody hell is this woman not a famous travel writer!"

Very interesting stuff about this trip:

*I cycled for two to five hours most days for two months (our Pyrenees ride will be up to 60km a day over mountains) - and I didn't lose an ounce. Actually I put on weight - all my jeans are tight. How did that happen? I would have submitted myself for scientific research but then I remembered - every day I stopped for salt and vinegar crisps and a 2000-plus calorie sandwich involving bacon.  Every night I would treat myself to a carb and sugar "soup" of frosted flakes, tinned peaches and cream. Dang, shouldn't have done that.

* My parents are flying in from New Zealand to join us. Mum, 74, will reign supreme in the Support Vehicle and  Dad, 75, will be leading the Peloton. Wonder if he knows that?

* We had to bring our bikes and all gear, but in fact the most necessary thing was this goo stuff for girls called Hoo Ha Ride Glide which you slap on your undercarriage. Andrea the Fabulous from Mike's Bikes (best bike shop in the Bay) suggested I also buy a manly version for my husband Kevin but it's more economical if he uses mine. I'm just always looking to save money.

* Cycling is terribly glamorous here in Oakland. On my training rides I started on Pothole Avenue, went up Used Condom Hill and through Broken Glass Tunnel and up Naughty Boy mountain, swerving away from youths driving their mothers' minivans and throwing half eaten McDonalds at me. Plus the padded lyrca shorts are just beaut.

Bloppy back-arse view of my beaut shorts

I'm going to miss you - see you in ten days time!

Berlinale: First Fame

Have you ever watched someone become famous in a day...in 90 minutes? The fascinating thing about being with my sister Pietra  and her film Maori Boy Genius at the Berlin Film Festival is seeing the first, but sure, rays of fame, shine on her and 17-year-old Ngaa, the subject of her documentary.

Ngaa and Pietra, Premiere

Ngaa, me and Pietra

Pietra's film follows 18 months in the life of Ngaa who was chosen at birth to lead his people...at a time when young Maori men are over-represented in the number of High School dropout, arrests and incarcerations. As film reviewers are already saying: it is as if a documentary maker has tracked the young Barack Obama. Growing up in the language and tradition of the Maori culture, Ngaa only learned English at age four, completed a university degree at 13 and devoured philosophy while his classmates were talking about pop stars. At 16 he traveled to Yale for summer school.

After their first sell-out screening in the 1,000-seat theatre, Ngaa and Pietra were surrounded by people asking questions and wanting autographs. Within hours the word was out and I noticed passers-by taking photos of the two of them. Slightly disconcerting for Ngaa who at one stage put up his hood. They even attracted a mad-fan semi-stalker who had to be asked to leave! 


Of course this is not the fame of Meryl Streep, also at the festival, or Taika Waititi, Academy-nominated writer and director of Boy, one of the most gorgeous movies I've seen this year and coming to the US in March.

Pietra and Ngaa at the Meryl Streep premiere

and with Taika Waititi

"I really would like to meet Ngaa" an NZ Embassy staffer told me "but I don't want to interrupt him, could you introduce me?" Normally this recognition is reserved for the subject of documentaries, not for the directors. But you can't miss Pietra, 6ft and that's without her usual high heels, with loads of red hair, bright red coat and blue faux fur neckwarmer, and it was great to see many young women asking her advice.

To introduce the first screening Pietra gave the traditional Maori call "karanga" and she and Ngaa sang a song written by Maori soldiers stationed in Germany about missing their loved ones. The audiences here laugh more loudly and cry more profusely than any I've seen.  Ngaa too wept, overwhelmed by the film, which he had seen for the first time. Afterwards, wiping away tears, he thanked the audience and explained that it was not only he standing before them but his family (whanau), his iwi (tribe) and his ancestors, who were always with him.

One man stood up in the audience and was actually sobbing. He said he was moved that Ngaa stood so proudly with his forebears behind him. That has been taken from us, said the man, because of the atrocities committed in WW2. They could never again be proud of their forefathers. Another man stood up and echoed this.

From the QandA it became evident that that even the children in the audience had done a lot of research before they arrived. It also became clear that some thought it was a film and Ngaa was an actor. "What is your next film?" they asked.

Question and answer time for Pietra and Ngaa

Pietra and Ngaa got off the plane with a one paragraph in a Wall Street Journal article and two requests for German radio interviews.  But after the first screening there followed a great review in Variety, more requests for TV, print and radio interviews and an interview with Pietra for an art installation in a top Paris gallery.

Being with doco makers from breakfast till the small hours I noticed how they supported each other, sharing contacts and information. (That apparently is not true of the movie industry) "If one is successful, it makes it easier for the rest of us." says Pietra. Like Pietra, many of them have to use their own money, re-mortgaging their apartments and maxing out credit cards. Even the most famous of doco makers often do their own filming, editing and marketing.

It's been refreshing to walk around Berlin with Ngaa who has never seen snow. There are not many 17-year-olds I would hang out with all day and all night but he was great company and always very appreciative. Brought up by his grandparents - as is the Maori custom - he has an innate respect for his elders. As I am an elder - one of "the olds" - this is awesome. But because he's so polite we often found him cornered by someone and in need of had rescue.

Getting out of cabs he called to the driver : "Good night, thank you and have a good sleep, sir!" Looking down at his black slip-on shoes he says: "I have to polish these with nugget before I go out tonight."


Ngaa had never been interested in clothes but started noticing the classic style: "I really like those coats, whatever they are called" he said pointing to a trench. The morning I left he was heading off to budget store H&M to look at trenches, leather gloves and dark wash jeans. Oh and pick up a Russian hat from the vendor on the corner. So off shopping, just like any other teen...just not for the usual teen hoodies and baggy sweats. But that's how he rolls.

Whakaneke

I had intended to write an inspirational "wings beneath my feet, lead and I will fly away" post with a soupcon of wisdom gleaned while home in New Zealand. But nope, nuttin. Oh there is something. It's a wonderful Maori word we learned while tramping (hiking) for four days in the old gold-mining Coromandel Peninsula now home to hippies, boaties and tree huggerlovers.

Kevin and I on the trail to Stony Bay

Doing what the locals do....hugging a 1000-year-old Kauri  tree

The word is Whakaneke. The "wh" in Maori is always pronounced "f" so say it now: "fakaneke." Very rich and satisfying, it means to move or shift over. In the context of our tramping it meant to keep going, but make way for other trampers.

While we were walking along the green trail wrapped around the remote white sand beaches, it occurred to me that this was a good metaphor for journalism; which is how I made money in my old life and blogging; which is how I don't make money in my present life.

Driving back to Coromandel Town

At journalism school 25 years ago our tutor made much of competing, always pitting us against each other. You have to get that story first, we were told.

But working as a journalist in London, I realised there was another way of looking at it. The person sitting next to me and I could pitch different stories on different things or different angles on the same things and we would both get published. There were many, many stories to be told and there was room for us all.

Kevin in Coromandel Town

In blogging it's the same. And I've been touched by how generous people are to each other, helping each other along; commenting, linking to each other. (Except for the odd incident like the one I read about the other day where someone objected to a blogger linking to her, claiming she was "trying to steal her readers").

When I wrote my first post 18 months ago I thought delusionally that I would just go viral. Just like that! Someone said to me to me at the time: surely if you don't go big it means no one wants to read your stuff? No, I think it means not enough people know about your stuff.

Dad reaching The Pinnacles' summit

Anyway the viral didn't go and I'm still here plodding along. I'm hoping the blog will somehow lead to me writing for other publications and it has, but slowly, slowly.

The other day Cy, seven, was asking how my blog was going and I told him this. He said: "But Mum, you've been doing this for a while and nothing has really happened. Why don't you just get a job in sales?" My friend said: tell Cy that most people have to work at things for a long time.

Image The Pinnacles

Reaching the summit of The Pinnacles

So I'm happy to keep on keeping on. And I'll make sure to look out for you on the path. Whakaneke. I can step aside to make way for you or we can walk together and talk awhile.... Arohanui (much love) and thank you all for visiting, through all the great views and the dirty boots.

The Kiwi "We"

Seeing old 'Varsity (Uni) friends in New York last week reminded me what it is to be a Kiwi.

Guggenheim's "All"

We talk with a but of an accint. And as my old boss used to say: You Kiwis never say "I" -  it's always "We." It's a crowd when Kiwis are out. If inviting one person is good, getting ten to turn up is better.

For example meeting my Kiwi friends who had just run the marathon for the CatWalk charity: as if it wasn't enough for someone to organise 13 of us to go from bar-to-bar-to-restaurant, we picked up seven more bods - and were happier for it.

The cast of characters included Helena, whom I first met at age four on my first day at Big School. We were going to be nuns together, but with seven kids between us now, maybe that's not going to happen after all. We were also pupils of the Mrs Shirley Dibble School of Ballet, Helena danced the Scarecrow to my Tin Man. Turns out her husband, James, is rather famous on Youtube for finding a cute baby Kiwi under some pine needles. As you can imagine, I was green with envy. Not being competitive, but has Helena won the husband prize?

Sipping happily at the Ace Hotel, we were all quite pleased one of us had secured a big table next door at Michelin-starred The Breslin, so in-demand with the likes of Chelsea Clinton, Liv Tyler and the Z's that it doesn't take bookings.

We were waiting for our Kiwi friend Angus who lives in New York. He's the mavericky off-the-grid sweary bloke you might have already met on my blog.

Kiwis are far from being a bunch of sheep, but we try to be accommodating. "Where should we go? Oh don't mind...whatever everyone else wants..." I notice Kiwis say "Oh yeah" a lot and even "No" becomes: "Oh yeah, better not...if that's okay." (They also say "absolutely" and "gorgeous" heaps.)

Someone might point out that we're a good target for old sheepdog Angus who arrived scattering our plans to the back paddocks. A "spanky feed" (posh dinner) was not for us, said Angus who is anti obvious-cool. Let's go. So we all hopped into a convoy of cabs down to Soho to a delicatessen called Katz's.

Kevin, me and new Kiwi cab friends Sarah and Catherine in front of Katz's

Kevin and I caught a taxi with two gorgeous journalists from Wellington, NZ. The cab ride was too short to find out if we had mutual friends and relatives but I'll bet we did.

The first thing people say to Kiwis: "Oh I met a New Zealander ten years ago - called Sue - do you know her?"At this point we Kiwis get unnaturally huffy: "Heck, there's four million people in New Zealand! Why on earth would we know this person?"  Of course it turns out the person was our cousin or next-door neighbour for 20 years.

Skiting - or showing off - is positively unpatriotic. Resulting -  in my case - in being clueless about "marketing" myself. At a recent party a literary agent asked me: "What is your blog about?"  Although people ask me this all the time, I answered as though this was the first time I'd ever heard it: "Oh, whole bunch of stuff about the rubbish I do in my day: kid nonsense, travel nonsense, oh you know usual ramblings..."

At this point the agent glanced furtively towards the nearest door.  I pressed on: "It's about nothing really...just bits and bobs about my day." And the final nail in the coffin: "My friend calls it Funny Ado About Nothing, although it's not always funny. " At which stage I could see her mouth forming the ultimately damning words: "Oh well - At Least You're Having Fun With It" as she turned heel.

Our taxi dropped us in front of Katz's Deli.  Sandwiches??? Under lights so bright you could have performed surgery on the tables? When we could have had a "spanky feed" and maybe spotted Jay Z and Beyonce?

Angus showing his corned beef sandwich

We noticed a sign saying this was the place in Harry Met Sally  -  there was even an arrow pointing to where Sally famously faked that orgasm. "This is a tourist spot" I said "I'm going to give Angus heaps about that."

The sign

Katz's may have survived two World Wars, a Depression and hosted Meg Ryan orgasming (is that a doing word?) but the Kiwis were a little "eh" about the pastrami and corned beef sandwiches.

Kiwis in Katz's

Helena and most of the others flew home the next morning. I emailed Angus to see if he was up for going out again: "Nope" he emailed back: " Will be staying home tonight. Just had a wee jab in my shite hip flexor and am sore as bugger."

In other words Angus was spadanged (knackered) and piked (dropped out).

Just the two of us then. Better get on the blower to my other mates.

Do the Snuggie

Are we all agreed that whoever invented the Snuggie was a bloody genius?

How many times while watching the telly have you pulled up a blanket and thought: "Oooh so very comfy and warm...and yet my ankles-arms-knees-feet not covered and so really could be bit more comfy?" You pondered how a wool blanket could be sewn leaving a hole for your head and your arms free for reaching the choccies. But dang it, Snuggie genius got there first.

Madison Avenue

This week I was in New York hanging around with some Kiwi friends who had run the marathon, and I noticed that whole streets were filled with people wearing Snuggies. Some wildly furry, some glamorously woolly, but yes, essentially they were Snuggies.  Many were posh, like the one above which was $1,800.

Then I realised I was wearing a type of Snuggie too from my new favourite, Wilfred.

Kiwi friends James, Helena and me at The Frick

As was my friend Helena - a beautifully chic one from Rex Royale, in Wellington, NZ.

Helena and Mike at The Ace Hotel

All in keeping with the new cosiness: like the tartan couches at the crazy-hip Ace Hotel and the dark pinks and greens of The Greenwich where we also had drinks.

Kiwi friends Helena, Mike, Leigh and Pip at Ace

Ace Hotel, Soho

The Greenwich Hotel, TriBeCa

And there were some, like this frightenly life-like woman in the hanging exhibition at the Guggenheim, could have done with a Snuggie. (Sorry that was a bit random, but had to sneak the exhibition in)

Maurizio Cattelan's "All"

For a few days the weather was unseasonably balmy. It suddenly turned chilly one night and I could almost hear some New Yorkers breathing a sigh of relief - it's Snuggie time!

52nd Street and Lexington

We just did the random draw for this month's Giveaway of a greenstone necklace. The winner is - Sarah of the St Bloggie de Riviere!  Sarah is a Brit who writes about her life near Montpellier in France. Congratulations Sarah -  email your address to me at jbrettkelly@gmail.com and let me know which of the eleven styles you prefer.

Angus' Gonzo Guide to New York

In New York I met up with an old university friend, Angus Vail. I hadn't seen him in 25 years. He was with another Kiwi, Giarna and we immediately bonded upon agreeing all our jobs entailed "organising other people's shite." Angus is a rock manager.  Giarna, a former actor, is now a personal shopper and assistant to the super-wealthy. And I am a mother. See the similarities?

Me, Angus and Giarna

Angus did the business management for  INXS for five years from 1988 and has managed the business office for Kiss for the past 16 years. He is also currently helping out a group of Kiwi DJs called Mt Eden.  His email to me about them: "Was utterly shagged today after seeing them play at 2am. These 21-year olds have 22 million hits on one song on YouTube. Even they have no f...ing idea how it happened!  View and weep." He has made a TVseries on food and restaurants in NY (pastrami-making without a shirt and the like) produced by a Hungarian company and sold to various markets. Exhausted yet?

How did he get the job with Kiss? Answered an ad in the back of the New York Times.
He was led to an anonymous room and told:
"I can't say who the group are, but they wear make-up and big boots and were big in the 70's."
"Kiss?"
And so it was that Angus became their biz manager.

How did he get the job with INXS? Bored with his broker job in Sydney he sent hundreds of CVs (resumes) out to music companies. His favourite memory was of guitarist Tim Farriss, a joyful character who woke up every morning delighted to be a rockstar. One of his conversations with Angus:
"Angus mate, do I have enough money to buy a big boat?"
"No, don't buy a boat."
"Angus mate, I bought a boat!"

We met in the Greene Space near Soho to hear a classical group called The Knights  recorded by public radio. There was a light brunch nearby and being good Kiwis we positioned ourselves right next to the bagels, fruit, coffee and orange juice.

"Don't chomp too loudly" said Angus. I stepped away from the free grub - who wants to be immortalised on the radio in a choking incident?

WQXR host Jeff Spurgeon and The Knights

Angus remembered a Greek place round the corner which sold thick coffee and augolemono soup. He didn't remember the name or the street and we walked around for some time looking for it. "This is what he does" said Giarna "He gets a place in his mind and won't give up until he finds it."

We found the Greek place - it's called Snack - and drank the stand-a-spoon-in-it coffee and the sublime lemon soup. Angus talked about one of his life-long obsessions - Shakespeare. Who really was author of those plays? Shakespeare, an untraveled man? Or was it someone using Shakespeare's name like Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford. As a noble he would have been frowned upon for openly writing plays for the "plebs." Angus is planning to use his ArtBlocs (mobile art spaces made from shipping containers) to build a Globe similar to the one in London, but mobile.

Angus and Giarna

We mooched around Soho and I envied how Angus and Giarna both stopped at every step to talk to whomever: people they knew; people they thought they might know; and just randoms. We stepped into Icebreaker which sells Kiwi actionwear and I met it's trademark buff bloke wearing a sheep's head. Giarna is part of a voluntary team, Achilles NZ, which includes Frank Bunce (All Black) and Tawera Nikau (League Legend), bringing disabled Kiwi athletes to the NY Marathon. Icebreaker is donating items for a fundraiser and Giarna chatted to the staff about that.

Me and the Icebreaker bloke

We then stepped into Barneys so Angus could spend a $1,500 gift cert from a satisfied client. He has little interest in clothes shopping and was stumped. Giarna, ever the personal shopper, put together an outfit for Angus' wife to wear to Gene Simmons' wedding in LA, which funnily enough, was advertised around the corner.

Billboard in Soho

Angus had to leave to meet his wife at the Ground Zero 9-11 Memorial. Before he took off,  I spilled the beans to Giarna: "You know Angus was a cult figure at Uni. He had about six guys following him around all the time, from Tai Kwon Do to the caf'. It was Angus this, Angus that. He always wore black. We all thought he was so cool."
"No! No! No! That's TOTAL bullsh..!" said Angus.
"Oh don't tell me, Angus ..." said Giarna "but you felt so terribly alone, so misunderstood."
"Oh yeah,"I said, adding the final damning word: "In fact, he was....popular."

Angus winced as he headed off. I hope he's still talking to me when we meet up again in 25 years' time.


Angus' Off-the-Grid NYC:

1) Latin foods along 75th St and Roosevelt Avenue in Queens. If you look up "Piedad the Arepa Lady" you'll see a little bit what I mean.

2) Far Rockaway, Queens....great beach, my ArtBloc.....urban surfing....

3) Sleep No More,  an immersive theater experience.  Audience wears a Venetian mask and follows actors up and down stairs, encouraged to poke into corners and trunks ...just extended to Nov 11th. 

4) Irish Hunger Memorial, NYC

5) Polish delicatessens, meat markets and restaurants in Greenpoint, Brooklyn...esp the Lomzynianka Restaurant....the white borscht soup....

6) Museum of the Moving Image in Queens

7) Socrates Sculpture Park, Queens...and nearby Noguchi Museum  

8) El Faro restaurant, near Meatpacking district -  For 70 years run by same Spanish family- the garlic shrimp is legendary.....

9) Red Hook food vendors around the soccer fields

10) Inwood Hill Park Old Indian caves and the supposed location where the Dutch bought Manhattan from the Indians for 50 or so guilders.

La Colombe d'Or: Picasso Ate Here

I intended to write about our most memorable meal in France - but let's be honest - isn't it the loos in restaurants that you really remember?

Naturellement, it was a dream to eat at the legendary La Colombe d'Or, a restaurant just outside the ramparts of the hill-top town of Saint-Paul de Vence overlooking the rolling Provencal hills. This is a place where you sit where Picasso sat, where you eat within olive-spitting distance of a Picasso painting and where you can almost hear that famous row between F Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald over Isadora Duncan.

Picasso in the bar of La Colombe d'Or Image: 

But today reading the ever-hilarious Trish of "Mum's Gone to..." I was reminded that the toilets are the thing. Whether they're old, dodgy, sparkling, plentiful or palatial, they are all part of your memories.

Through the years, this leafy place was the daily watering hole and home-from-home for a score of artists including  Picasso, Modigliani, Miro and Chagall who met with their contemporaries and presumably chatted about how brilliant it would be to draw stuff that was "scribble scrabble" or "wobbly" as my kids would say. Or painting people with huge noses and disembodied hands coming out their tummys.  Pablo and his mates were poor and they paid for the meals with paintings (this was before they realised the big nose and hand-sticking-out-of-the-tummy thing would take off). The result is a small, intimate restaurant which has more major artworks than most world-class galleries.

Image

We assumed we had to book months in advance but the streams of paparazzi and stretch limos from Cannes had vacated the streets and we were willing to take a 7.15pm table (horrifically early-bird by French standards).

Walking up to Saint-Paul de Vence

Like some before and given the portentiousness of the place, I thought they would spot my grubby traveller's feet and red-rope barricade us from the chic Nice crowd. But they could not have been more welcoming and it was like attending the dinner party of a fabulously wealthy friend except for the small inconvenience of paying at the end of the night. And they wrote and pronounced my name "Jeudie" which I will be insisting on henceforth.

Our waiter, Cedric, could not have been more solicitous. We warned him about our rubbish French and he took us through the menu with painstaking clarity describing the potatoes: "Excuse me for my English" he said "but how do you say Dauphinoise?" Oh that's the same in English, I explained, like Salad Nicoise. "Ah" he said, making me feel terribly clever.

I love how the French speak English - with a lilting formality that makes you feel like you are negotiating a terribly important EU treaty:  "If you are in agreement" suggests Cedric: " I will move this alternative table here."
"If I may ask" Cedric enquired later: "How is the meal progressing?"
"Parfait!" I enthused with a couple of glasses of local champers under my belt, fully embracing my Franglais and barely resisting kissing my fingers.

Halfway though my excellent fish, I croaked to Kevin: "I have a fish bone stuck in my throat!" I chugged loads of water but it was still there and I was starting to get panicky. I'll have to go and choke it out in the loos, I explained to Kevin who looked quite stricken. I have never been able to make myself throw up, but needs must. On my way down the stairs I did consider asking for advice at the front desk but I suspected they would call an ambulance or at least a doctor.

I walked down the stairs with a heavy heart and disappeared inside one of the two toilets. I won't go into details but suffice to say there was choking, wee bit of howling and maybe a few tears resulting in a tiny errant fishbone in the palm of my hand. I emerged to the handbasins victorious under the gaze of two glossy Chanel-ed madames. I held my hand to my throat: "Piscine! Piscine!" I croaked. They both clutched at their silky pearls and in unison their CCed ballet flats took one step back.

I gave a joyful "bonsoir" and what I hoped was an elegant wave and returned to my half fish and refreshed glass of champers.
Cedric swept up to our table: "And...the meal's progression?" he enquired.
"Tres bon. Still parfait! " I answered again
He was like the proud Papa witnessing his first child's sentence: "Ah, so you can speak French" he said. It really was the best meal ever.


And don't forget to enter our Giveaway, a Lesley Evers dress which retails at $225. The winner will be drawn randomly this Friday 8th July.

Do French Women Get Fat?

Kevin and I skipped off  to the South Of France for two weeks - and we now know the answer to the eternal question - Do French Women Get Fat?

Photo: Alamy 

Yes, Kevin and I have slipped away again by ourselves.... ever so quietly - this time to France for nine days. For the last four days we've been staying in the tiny hillside town of Saint-Paul de Vence, near Nice. Tucking into huge blocks of cheese and French bread over the weekend (as you do) I had many questions about the French. And the best person to answer is our host, Linda, an Australian who lives here with her children Madison, 13 and Theo, 11. As this photo shows, we knew them ten years ago in London when Madison was best friends with our son Harley.

Linda with Madison and Kevin with Harley, Ladbroke Square, London

Ten years later: Linda with Madison and Theo and I at their 1770 home in Saint-Paul de Vence

Linda and I in the village square

Linda has lived in France off-and-on for 20 years and full-time for the past eight years in a 1770 former farmhouse. Needless to say both she and her kids are bi-lingual.  Linda explained that French food is not normally smothered in sauces and the custom is to eat one dish at a time.  Accordingly, we sat outside eating loads of melon, barbequed pork chops, cheese bought from the markets in Italy where Linda shops most weeks and lashings of Madison's tabouli with chopped-up everything from their garden.  But how civilized, one dish at a time.

Linda puts on a barbie for us at her home

Linda's home in Saint-Paul de Vence

We never stay at anyone's house with the kids - that would produce fear and loathing from even the most tolerant of hosts. But because we were by ourselves we accepted Linda's generous invite to stay and it was a great chance to pick her brain. What are five things we may not know about the French?

Linda's Five Facts:
1. Quelle horreur! French women do get fat. The ones that don't get fat eat an apple and a low-fat yoghurt for lunch, a salad for dinner and drink coffee and smoke lots of cigarettes all day long. French women who get fat eat cheese and bread and wine and ham and pate and pastries and croissants etc and this shows they enjoy life. French women who are skinny and hence do not eat are miserable (and never speak in English). See number 6.
2. French women wear beautiful and expensive underwear. Once could speculate that the health of the French lingerie market is directly linked to the high occupancy rates of hotel rooms between, say, 3pm and 5pm on Friday afternoons.
3. Single men and especially single women do not get invited to seated dinner parties unless it is to make up numbers. The general rule is that there has to be an even number of men and women at the table. The perceived threat of a single women is directly proportional to her lingerie budget (see no 2).
4. There are rules for everything in France including how to cut cheese. There are more than 360 cheeses and a certain way to cut each. The general rule is that you cut to ensure you share the best part, whether it be the centre or the mould.
5. You always kiss friends on the cheek as a greeting and when you say goodbye -  most people know that. But each area is France has a different number of "bise" or kisses. In Paris it's four, along the Atlantic it's six times.
6. And a bonus fact from Madison. We think of French as the language of love, but Madison says it's perfectly suits anger. Madison, 13. "I find it easier to shout at someone in French. When I get mad at my brother it's always in French. When I'm happy, I speak in English." Linda agrees with her daughter, and adds: French is also very good for complaining.
 
Au Revoir Linda, Madison and Theo - merci beaucoup! mwa, mwa, mwa, mwa.

 Please feel free to add to the list!

Wot's Posh!

As the Princess formerly known as Kate honeymooned in the Seychelles with her new husband, the London newspapers continue to ruminate on whether her family is acceptably posh or "yew", a reference to trees grown on ancestral estates.

The Middletons 

One source sniffed of the "middle class" Middletons: "For goodness sakes, they have a tarmac driveway!" And I heard a rumour in London that - quelle horreur! - Kate keeps her tomatoes in the fridge. (See below if confused about tarmac and tomatoes).

Last week in London I decided to embark on an anthropological study. Does the complex and tricky class system still exist? Skip to the end: yes.

I asked all my Brit friends: "Wot's Posh?" On the last night we saw Clare who lives with her family in a tiny Herfordshire village of Whitwell which is complete with knobbly church, scary one-car lanes, high hedgerows and Vicar of Dibley-like town characters. (All pictures below are of Clare's house.)

Clare cooking on her Aga

Clare's home, a 15th century "Meeting House"

Their home is a 15th Century former "Meeting House" set in eight acres of wild pastures where their three children roam free with the neighbours' broods. Some would call their home properly "Yew". Old, natural, never overwrought and with a deep old well and statues that have been there forever. A smidge of scandal never goes astray too. In the Sixties, this house was part of the Profumo Affair involving  MP's, judges and call girls.

Of course the origins of most etiquette and customs are based in practicality and politeness. Eat: oysters from their shells, asparagus with your fingers, your soup immediately and all courses immediately if you are seated at a table of more than eight. But sometimes those rules get subverted by snobbery. Alan Clark MP once said of someone they "bought their own furniture", the implication being they didn't possess family heirlooms.

One recent article in the London Evening Standard : "The process of social acceptance is, it seems, glacially slow as research by economic historians confirms. Professor Greg Clark demonstrated last month that although Britain is socially mobile, it takes 350 years for a rich family to return to average income, or for a poor one to rise to it. Families whose ancestors were wealthy in 1858 are still four times richer than those whose ancestors were poor at the same date."

"Codes of behaviour are how the privileged defend themselves against the competitive intrusion of newcomers."

While she cooked steaks on her Aga, I asked Clare, a former barrister and the least pretentious person you will meet, if she could list a few more "yew" things. Clare laughed: "In truth, I don't have the right credentials to advise you on what's posh and what's not. "

Arthur and Clare

Walking through their house though, we had a great laugh musing on what you're "supposed" to say. Sofa (never a settee) in the drawing room or sitting room (not a living room!)

Clare says "I also heard once that the word "den" conjures up different images depending on one's social standing. "

"To the average person (the exception being crack addicts) the image involves a tarpaulin, a few sticks, logs and that kind of thing but to posh people the "den" is the cosy room that one retires to after dinner with a glass of brandy. " She continues tongue firmly in cheek: "It will be filled with comfy armchairs upholstered in faded fabrics, books, the odd tartan throw and a open fire of course! Unfortunately, we haven't climbed the ladder beyond the logs and sticks variety yet! "

Clare added: "For a better authority on the subject, you should consult Debrett's (books of etiquette).......a family connection I assume?"

Milly's harp

To which I replied: "Clare, one would assume so, but they keep refusing to acknowledge the connection, jolly tiresome of them."

Of course Debretts has again become part of the Zeitgeist with pronouncements on man management including flirting, one night stands and breaking up as well as the ins and outs of using private jets, Blackberrys and petiqutte. But I still get a kick out of the old school ones.

Making You Yew:

1. Pea gravel on the driveway rather than tarmac. In the olden days your gatekeeper or butler would hear the scrunch on the gravel, signaling an approaching carriage. In contrast the silence of tarmac necessitates installing nasty new plinths with video cameras. (If this blog post pushes up the price of pea gravel then so be it. I just want a cut.)

2. Keep tomatoes on the counter and cheese in the pantry. Infestation of mice ensues? As I found on my Skinny Minnie Mouse Diet - at least you'll lose weight.

3. Sofa, sitting room or drawing room. Never settee and living room.

4. Ask for the lavatory. Lav or loo if you are better acquainted with your host, never the toilet.

5. Eat asparagus with your fingers and oysters from the shell. (Tricky this: like knowing to pronounce the "t" on Moet. You look like a chump is noone else knows).

6. Toilet paper, towels and sheets are always plain, soft, white. As are Christmas fairy lights.

Please add to the list. Or, even better,  just make something up!