While going to work this morning, I passed by a rather interesting building nearby my house: a holistic pet products shop. As a friend of mine mentioned a few weeks ago that I was lucky enough to live near the most sought-after "doga"-shala in NYC (Doga meaning yoga for dogs - I am not kidding. I wonder how a dog may feel if you ask it to get into frog or cobra pose - although I guess it should master easily downward facing dog) - I thought this was a clear sign I should write again about my animalistic passion. And during the Holy week - I decided to pick one with a name in tune with such a spiritual subject: the Praying Mantis.

At a time when the Catholic Church is becoming the centre of attention for all sorts of sexual revelations, such a name for an animal with a rather arguable sexual behaviour could be taken as an ironic joke (it actually has the same religious type of name in French, ie: mante religieuse). Let alone the females' habit to eat their partner while having sex (interesting to note that the male can carry on copulating while having been beheaded), this animal is also the best example of a matriarchal system - far from all catholic conceptions where women were considered up until the 19th century as having no soul. Furthermore, as living in a city where the proportion of males and females is clearly unbalanced, eating sexual partners does not only question castration as such but moreover  the concept of faithfulness (needless to say that no praying mantis ever has sex twice with the same partner) and the point of getting a partner for life - could it be God himself.

To be fairly honest, I am not trying to open a debate here, take part in the story or be the devil's advocate (although I am pretty good at it most of the time) - and saying who is right and who is wrong. Even if I have been brought up in a catholic family - with a communist mum and a dad traumatised by attending church every morning for 5 years when he was little, my perception of religion has always been pretty complicated and I am not interested in being judgmental. - those of you who know me already know where I stand. Having said that, I never quite understood why for a dogma dating of the 1000's (and not earlier when catholicism was founed) catholic priests could not get married and why the pope clearly refuses to even question it nowadays. As even if this keeps men of the cloth (funny expression really) out of the fact that the term "couple" rimes with "trouble" - the scandals we hear about every day clearly shows that celibacy is a problem for most of them - and might even lead them to commit crimes that will surely get them to burn in hell, in other words, makes them loose their sanity (who more than a priest is aware of what will happen to him in hell, and yet, make him commit such a horrible act?).

Sadly enough, I don't really think sexual abuse is a brand new thing and such horrible stories have been hushed up by the victims sometimes for years, scared to be blamed for making such accusations against the representative of the Holy Spirit itself. The real shame in this all is that in many countries still, the priests are considered as being above suspicion and many children are surely under threat of such crazy individuals. For all these kids, no redemption, forgiveness nor resurrection will ever make it up. And Benedict XVI will just be one more Easter bunny having lost its ears. 

"When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad. That's my religion." - A. Lincoln

No later than last Monday, I celebrated my 5th year out of motherland. No need to say that after 5 years of working hard on learning English and trying the make the best out of the Shakespeare language, I still encounter troubles and more so since I moved to the USA. The title of this post is actually a rather clear hint of how people can read things and how confusing this may be from one side of the pond to the other - let alone for someone who is not a native speaker...

Besides the fact that after 5 months, a lot of my co-workers are still trying to avoid calling me - in other words avoiding to pronounce my name, really cute are the smiles I see appearing because of my Britishness. As a matter of fact, a lot of my British friends (not to say all) consider my accent as being foreign - and for the most bloody-minded even French :) For a lot of Americans I actually sound Brit... Whether they are referring to my vocabulary or my manner of speaking - to them, I speak like an English person. Or maybe this is linked to the low volume of my voice as this is not only a "touristic effect": a lot of Americans have loud voices even in their own country. I am still investigating on why - I suppose for now that they all got raise by a deaf grandma' - the healthcare system over here being quite bad... No big headline on that.

Anyway – back to the subject, funny story for Lost in Translation fans, as promised above: I was looking for something in the office the other day - up until someone came to me offering his help. Not being sure of how to name the item I was after - my sometimes logical brain went for the verb - added some strange suffix and went for the term rubber (I wanted to rub, indeed). Looking rather amused, this person whispered in my ear while giving me the item in question that in the US, this was called an eraser. I was not sure why this needed to be called by any other name until I looked it up. Amongst all the confusing terms I could have used in front of somebody – I obviously picked the one that is clearly sexually related… Considering the rather hot reputation French ladies can have over here (as far as I have understood, not only French actually!) – this was obviously a quite comical situation… To enhance this all, a few days later, that person came to my desk while I was reading a postcard a friend of mine had sent from Paris. I let you admire the  picture on the front of the card below... No comment needed really...!

“Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow.” – Oliver Wendell Holmes

Sorry but this title does not means I am going to leave the web to write elsewhere - this is just to mention and explain my recent silence as I recently moved country and even continent. And nope, I did not decide to go back to the old and so-called continent where is motherland but I crossed the pond to live in NYC. So I can wave to the place I was born straight from the bottom of the new island I decided to live in - same ocean, all good.

My neologism will now have a pinch of ketchup then - as I already swapped lifts for elevators. Some things though will remain the same and be sure that my water will remain sparkling... 

Don’t worry, I’m not going to go on about the quality of the press in the UK as I’m aware I’d sound like a broken record. But I have to admit that every now and again, I really miss reading about French politics, even those issues which I wouldn’t really care about if I was still living on the continent.

On a trip to France last June, I read in the paper that Nicolas Sarkozy had ordered a parliamentary commission to look at whether to ban the wearing of burqas and niqabs in public. Who knows whether it’s being married to an ex-super model that’s made him take an interest in what his public is wearing, but I have to admit that I was in shock. I have never hidden the fact that I think Mister N. (yes, that’s right, I’m comparing him to Napoleon) is the worst fascist France has ever seen (mainly because he does such a good job of pretending he’s not). But in a country where liberté, egalité and fraternité is supposed to reign, and where you should be able to practice your religion as you wish, I really don’t understand the logic of forbidding a certain type of outfit just because it doesn’t correspond to traditional Christian values (even if you don’t see that many out and about these days, nuns can wear their full outfit without bothering anyone).

Even though this law hasn’t been voted in yet, you don’t need to be a genius to realise that the move will turn France into a potential bomb target for some extremists. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely do not support such barbarian acts and think taking innocent people’s lives for religious or political reasons is the worst thing that’s happened since the H Bomb – and keeping our mouths shut and trying not to step up because of the fear of reprisals is nothing short of blackmail. As a woman, I have to admit that I am not particularly keen on the idea of respecting a dress code because of a religion – but then this is up to each and every individual to decide for themselves. This is their own right.

But to be honest, in such a dodgy economic climate, bringing up a debate on religion reminds me of a certain Mister H. in 1933 … Trying to get people to focus on something other than the downfall of the economy – especially by making them think about religion (a topic that’s bound to get chins wagging across the whole country) – all just seems a bit too easy to me; especially considering that France seems to have just found some stability following the mass debate about the wearing of the burqa in the civil service a few years ago.

Over here, on the other side of the channel – where the memory of 7 July is still very much alive – Nicolas Sarkozy’s actions send a crystal clear message that he is just provoking extremists to blow up Paris. Again, I must stress that I don’t agree with these sorts of practices, but I can’t help but wonder what on earth Sarko is hoping to achieve:

• Does he want to become France’s saviour and secure his seat in the Palais de l’Elysée by coming to the rescue of traumatised people after a series of bombing? (he would not be the first one to use this strategy)

• Is he thinking of carrying out further economical reforms and hoping no one will notice as they are all too busy discussing the burqa issue?

• Does he just want to secure the vote of his fascist supporters?

Whatever the case, I wonder where the interests of the French population really are in all of this. And I reckon that risking the lives of millions of Parisians who could soon find bombs in the Métro all to satisfy the ambitions and megalomania of a French President with a height complex is not really normal. As far as I know, there is only a small minority of Muslim ladies who wear the burqa in France anyway and it doesn’t seem to bother anyone. And it’s probably worth mentioning that when one is married to an ex super model, i.e. someone who used to make money out of her appearance, I seriously doubt whether they can talk objectively about the importance or abolition of any kind of dress code.

Ghost Train was about to get a 4th season since as usual, the day before I go on holiday to Italy, the tube is on strike. 1h30 to go to work rather than 45 minutes... I tell you, it makes you really eager to go on holiday...

Anyway, let's talk about something more positive then... Holiday! Yeah! (can't stop saying it really). Nowadays it is actually quite pleasant to be able to check out on Google where you are going to go and check places before booking. With the latest version of GoogleMap, you can even work out how safe is the street where you'll be staying in Tokyo - with as many details as would provide the FBI itself. Particularly nice when you have nothing to do at work...  And it is not without a certain sort of fear that I have just realised what an important era we are experiencing now - seing such tools developing, and how much of a dinosaure I  will sound to my children (if I ever have any) when they will realise the word "Broadband" did not exist when I was born...

When I think again to the holiday I spent as a child - stuck between my two sisters in my parents' car, with the dog drooling in our necks, the cat getting sick, my teddy bear and no other tool to find the right direction than the sun, the hand-written itinerary elaborated by my father and the roadmap held by my Mum - arguable co-pilote who got the job in spite of her unability to remember where she parked the car when going shopping. Without being nostalgic, the family D.'s holiday were pretty Rock n'roll (even after Dad decided we would not listen to David Bowie's tape a 30th time). I have to admit, I remain admirative of my parents' bravery and their taste for adventure.

Since back in the days, there was no way to "Google" anything so we were going to our destination without really knowing anything about it - apart from the bad-quality picture seen on the brochure the cousins of the neighbours (who have been 6 years ago) had lent us 4 months before. That's probably why we spent quite often memorable holidays - and not because the sun was shining or because we met cool people... That was rather the opposite... The worst holidays we ever spent are most of the time the funniest ones and the ones we talk about the most...

Anyway, to get back to this beautiful new verb (not so new actually) "To google" (when will we have "to goolemap"?), it indeed offers us the opportunity to express how much of a control-freak we are... Trying to anticipate, check, plan everything we can. Even the time off when we should basically forget the existence of a watch... All these tools are indeed designed to help us to make the "dream holiday" come true (apart from the unexpected wasp sting's allergy while climbing the Etna ;).

But as any new word, I cannot help wondering about how long it will last and if it will be just a trendy-term that will disappear in a blink of an eye. In any case, the other day I actually heard it used with the past tense and realised that apparently it has been decided (God knows by who) that it would be a regular verb : I googled, you have googled, he/she/it has been googled, etc. So the next generations won't have to add this to the never-ending list of irregular verbs they have to learn by heart because of a traumatising English teacher. Thank you Google.

* Even though I am really excited about going on holiday, I could not help "googlemaping" my own house... And don't you dare telling me you did not try it too...

" To be on holiday is having nothing to do, and have the all day to do it. " - Robert Orben

After having been complaining so much on trains - just to prove that after 4 years in London, I am not sooooooo British just yet, - I came across recently the new ad campaign for Eurostar and I have to admit that from both sides of the Channel, creativity is something you can rely on - more than their trains. And the interesting fact about it is that rather than developping common campaigns - basic and dull- in both countries, Eurostar really makes an effort at developping clever campaigns separately, often manipulating cliches both populations have on each other, to keep the old rivalry alive in an effective and funny way. Cause after all, who can be better at taking the p*** out of the French than the Brits? And vice-versa.

*London for cheaper





* Spring in London




*Romantic break in London

"Advertising: the science of arresting the human intelligence long enough to get the money from it. " - Stephen Leacock

As everyone've noticed, it snowed in Londinium. And according to my previous post, three snow flakes on the underground tracks were enough to paralise the tube network and gave us all the opportunity to call our boss to explain we could not make it to work. And for once I have to admit I was quite happy about it.

Following my obsession (no big headline needed for this, I am a control-freak) for words, I looked for the appropriate expression in English for such a thing. In French we say "faire l'école buissonière" (litt. To make school in the bush), which is obviously a sweet expression and rather appropriate on a snowy day when the only thing you do is going to the park, making snowmen and snowballs fighting with your mates.

I looked up of course for the equivalent in English and I have to say I was a bit disappointed the Shakespeare's language did not have a sweet equivalent too... "To play truant" sounds a bit violent for afterall, an activity that is rather nice and meant to be fun. Is it to emphathize the feeling of guilt? It would therefore explain the fact that the frogs are perfectly fine with missing work to be on strike while English don't? Hmmmm.

Anyway, if anyone has another expression to suggest, please do let me know, I am desperate to find a nice imaginative expression for this :)

"Cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sled through snow." - Jeff Valdez

If there are a few things I would have to admit, Brits are really good at, I would say beer, crisps (especially the packaging) and saying they are sorry (I find it sort of annoyingly sweet). - I could obviously make it longer but it would be boring afterall.

BUT there are also things they are really bad at and one thing in particular would be trains.

And I actually think that the real reason why the British Islands were so reluctant at getting the Eurostar was not due to the fear of loosing their insular status, but because they would have to admit their uncapacity to manage anything moving on tracks and leave it to the eternal ennemy - i.e. the French.

As a matter of fact, I take the Eurostar on a regular basis to get my montlhly overdose of stincky cheese and grumpiness and I NEVER experienced any delay from Paris to London (and I would remember it since I always catch the first Monday morning train to turn up on time at work so my boss would point it out) while on Friday nights from London to Paris I can expect at least a good half an hour delay, to be able to enjoy the freezing temperatures of the coaches and arrive fashionably late which is anyway, a Parisian trademark.

Even a friend of mine - English and proud to be - recently admitted in front of me that the British railway has certainly one of the most obscure working system. And for a simple reason: the British rail network refuse to have the minimum of organisation that would provide as a result an efficient service. I actually experienced it on a daily basis (before I eventually decided to cycle) that a train going EVERYDAY from the station A to B was NEVER stopping on the same plateform... I appreciate the surprising effect of such a system that can make your day eventful while being stuck in the coach, wondering when the hell you are gonna be able to step out at least 3 times a week (Especially on summer days, when you have to enjoy the guy's-who-doesn't-what-perspirant-is 's armpit stuck upon your nose).  Especially when you think that the price of the monthly travel card would be able to feed a family of 5 for a year in Sudan... But that's becoming too political to be mentioned.

The funny thing is that I recently travelled to India where I have to say - I was expecting chaos since their railway service was set up by the Brits. What a surprise to see that on top of being dead cheap, the India railway is far more efficient than anything I have seen in my life...

Anyway, let's stop mourning for a sec and enjoy the freezing temperatures that at least makes a 45 min-journey in the underground handable and I wish you all a Happy New Year!

"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train." - Oscar Wilde

For the real animal-lover I am, travelling across a country with a religion based on animals is a blessing and really gives you other prospectives about life without reading any self-help-book-bullshit. It might also explain why India is heaven for veggies. The hollyness of most animals makes that there is hardly ever meat on the menu and in some pilgrimage city you cannot even have it (neither alcohol which is easier to understand. Gods can't be bothered listening to prayers of drunk people). It is by the way in this city that it took me 10 minutes to be able to step into a café because of a cow standing on the doorstep and that did not want to move its arse.

Anyway, since my belief in religion is fairly limited (even if I have to say, I found fascinating the devotion displayed over there), I will not extensively explain the deep meaning of such an animalistic loving faith. No way. I will as usual get back to desperately down-to-earth considerations that some of you may find of the highest importance. Especially the coprophilic children who sleep within each of us. I obviously want to talk about the cowpat.

As a matter of fact, I was expecting the Indian city to be stinking cow shit all over since the number of animals probably overcome the number of inhabitants (there are over a billion now so I let you imagine). And what a surprise to realise that not at all. I was nearly disappointed. Either in the heat of the coast, the dump mountains, nothing seems to make stand out the fragance of such a holy substance (because indeed, hindous spread the ashes of cowpat over the heads of status, especially Ganesh... I did not know that elephants and cows had such deviant practices but anyway...)

So to explain this strange phenomenon, several solutions came to my mind:

- Cows over there don't shit (and since there are all really skinny and don't seem to eat that much, that would not be a surprise) and suffer from a chronical constipation

- The fact to be a sacred animal makes their excrements smell-less

- As self-conscious animals, they consider shitting in the street inappropriate for their own self-esteem

- I got so used to it that I did not even notice  it after a couple of hours.

As far as I have understood, cowpat does not necessarily have the reputation to be one of the most horrible substances smell-wise in England. You can't even imagine how luck you are, guys. Cause I promise that this smell in the countryside where I was brought up in France inevitably made me become a city-lover. But since I like to find explanations to everything, I reckon this is the price to pay to produce the stinkiest - therefore the best - cheeses in the world.

Due to fermentation reluctance, India has bannished any sorts of cheese so the real explanation might be there then. They will never have the pleasure to discover the smile of the Laughing Cow :)

"Who was the first guy that look at a cow and said: "I think I'll drink whatever comes out of those things when I squeeze them?" - Calvin & Hobbes

A little post for September! Yeah! After the heat wave that we have all experienced again this year my brain needed a bit of rest indeed! And since I mentioned already a long time ago, I am going to explain to you the strange experience a proper continental lady can face when it comes to... Cricket, of course (since beer is actually fine now).

And since I am lucky enough to live next door to one of the biggest cricket grounds in the UK, I am really ashamed to confess that I never managed to put a step in, in spite of my well-known curiosity. But then, I have to say I have really good reasons: first of all, cricket tickets are actually really expensive (just have a look at the guy counting his money out of the underground station when a game is on and you will understand), the  facetious weather (yes, I still love using personifications, even in English) and of course my complete un-understanding of the rules of such an activity  ('cause can you really call it a sport, honestly ?)
It has been 3 and half years and half yesterday that I moved to London therefore I consider my level of britishness quite high (I even put milk in my cup of tea now... And like cheddar cheese) I have to say that cricket is definitely the most obscure thing I have ever come across. Since even after having had the rules explained a few times, I still don't understand anything. So I investigated a bit further to understand the reasons of my persisting ignorance so here are the potential explanations:

1/ I am particularly stupid

2/ I am too continental (none of my parents comes from a Common Wealth country which might explain it since I have noticed there are ONLY countries from the Common Wealth that seem to find it an interest, and NO! France has not been part of the British Empire!)

3/ I have better things to do than trying to get the point of such a ridiculous game

To be perfectly honest, I think the real reason is the 3rd option. Even though it is "a nice day out" according to my flatmate (answer to the question: what is the point for me to go and watch a game if I don't understand the rules and for the 20th time you failed at explaining them to me?). I can understand that (considering that you have to rely on the British weather, I think that it is a bit insane, but well) but spending 80GBP to get sunburnt or drenched (tick the appropriate box), drink beer, read your paper (nothing can happen for 3 hours and a game can last for several days, so every now and again you need to DO something slightly productive), to have a nap on a rather uncomfortable seat, and from time to time, take a look at some guys running on the pitch in a rather strange outfit, apparently made to collect the honey from a  beehive or something like that, I think I'd better give my money to a charity. Since for doing the same activity (including the beehive collection part), I can do that while lying in the park next door. It costs me nothing and on top of that avoids me to loose a few brain cells in the company of fans full of beer (my adventurous trips our of the house after a game can prove it, this is NOT a gentlemen's sport.)

Every now and again I try to get a new set of explanations to eventually understand why I actually cannot get in the tube station when a game is on(generally after a game therefore after having been pestering that I cannot  even leave my house), none of my cricket-fan-friends is able to simply and clearly explain me the rules. I therefore came to the conclusion that the level of understanding of the game was going lower and lower  meanwhile the level of beer consumption was getting higher and higher. In other words, by 2:00 PM, only a very few people in the audience are able to follow up what's going on the pitch.

But isn't it really British at the end to design a sport during which you can have a beer, read your paper, talk about the weather with your neighbour, without getting disturbed by too much enthusiasm? Indeed my dear...

“The art of spelling is to French people what is cricket to English. There are indeed similar since they are both impossible to understand by foreigners, as well as by natives.” - Alain Schifred