I Thought it would never end ...

  

Sarah Page story

I thought it would never end  1 – sky my husband
(28.03.2024)

When my friend Milla suggested we go to the Franco-English literary conference, I said to her, "Not on your life!  I've been once, and that's it!"
"Oh, Sharon, don't you want to meet some French people?  Don't you want to see what people are writing these days?"
"I would have loved to find a person to talk about books, English-language books," I said.  "It's the French I don't want to meet."
"Oh!  That's harsh."
"It's because of last Thursday evening.  I was there at the opening."
"And it disappointed you?"
"That's not the point.  Because I speak a little French, Mrs Carruthers asked me to take a French writer in tow for the evening.  I said I don't know French that well.  But she said, oh no, this woman has a wonderful command of English, she carries a dictionary around with her everywhere and she works at it constantly, so they say."
"What's so bad about that?" Milla asked.
"Yes, but I hardly understood a word she said."
"She spoke only French?"
"No, it's her English that drove me up a wall.  And indeed, she refused to speak anything else all evening."
"Well, that really doesn't sound too difficult, Sharon."
"Wait till you hear.  I have an excellent memory and though I hardly understood a word,  I can give you our conversation almost verbatim.
"First of all, she whispered to me that she was not in her plate1  and hoped she would not be bearding2.  I must have looked puzzled, because she immediately explained that she had a little the cockroach3 and gave me a wink.  When I didn't reply, she said she hoped she hadn't done a hook4. I must still have looked rather blank, for she hastened to explain that she was afraid a certain man she had met there once before was going to bring back his strawberry5, and then she said we were not out of the inn6 because she could see him already.  'There, she said, see the guy on his thirty-one over there7, fifty brooms8?" She said she had a tooth against him9.
"'What?' I said.  I was lost already.
"'He has dog10, has he not?' she said then, beaming.  'Of course he's a big vegetable11.'  
"As I had no idea what she was talking about, I merely mumbled something non-comittal.  'You don't think so? she asked.  Look at his costume12, is it not of good invoice13?  A mantle14  like that does not run the streets15.  But of course, she continued, I am very old game16, and at first I saw only blue17.  There was a dance and I was afraid of making the tapestry18, but he came up and asked if I would like to go out and break the crust19 at a little place he knew.  He seemed such a have you seen me20 and it was a time of dog21, but he said he had a car.  I saw he was a little buttered22, but I had nothing to polish23; I was ready to take my foot24.  And yet, it was big like a house25, as soon as he put in step26 the motor.  He pushed on the mushroom27 and I thought I was going to pass the weapon to the left28.'  
"'Wait, stop!' I said, but she only smiled at me more archly," I continued as Milla listened, rather perplexed. "She must have thought she was doing a great job, impressing me no end, because she became even more animated, as she went on with her story.
"'He picked up another man, she said, they were friends like pigs29, but the place they took me to didn't break bricks30.  They suggested we eat at the map31, but I was rung32 when I saw how much they were ordering, especially when the other man said, at my nose and my beard33, she's the one to helmet.34  The waiter touched me a word35 and I soon had the flea at the ear36: they were hoping to make the bomb37 at the cool of the princess38.'  
"I interrupted again, 'What princess?'
"'Me, she said, I am the princess.  By now they were round like the tail of a shovel39 and I could see they thought it was all cooked40, that I was going to pass in the pan41 and all.  But it's not tommorrow the day before42 that I will settle for something like that.  It is not pie43 to fool me and they were going to fall on a bone44.  They were going to make white cabbage45.'   
"'Stop, stop, stop!'  I said, 'I don't understand a word you're saying!'
"'Oh, she said then, you are hard of the leaf46?'  
"By then I'd had it with this mad conversation.  I thought it would never end.  But she grabbed my arm and went on with her tale. 'But I am passing some, and of the best 47 !  He had the hands going for a walk48.  In fact, he only thought of that49.  That was the end of the beans50!  But I had a map51: I said I had to do my needs52, you dig into me53?  So I went to the little corner54, and when I pulled the hunt55 I made myself the suitcases56 and out the window I went.  That corked them a corner57!  I had made to them wrong jump58!'"
Then my friend began to laugh, in fact she was soon holding her sides.  "Oh, Sharon, good lord, don't you get it?"
"All I got was that she was mad--"
"Hammer 59, you mean, stamped60 in fact."
"What?  Now you're as bad as she was."
"Sharon, you just don't see it—she was a walking internet translator.  Taking every expression literally, using any old word that comes up in the dictionary, and of course it all comes out nonsense.  But if you want to know what she was trying to say, I've got a little book for you—have you never read it?  Sky my husband61, by Jean-Loup Chifflet.  Try it out, it's lots of fun."
So I got the book, and she was right.  It's just like internet translation!

+ 1015 wds


Glossary:
1 ne pas être dans son assiette       to be out of sorts
2 être barbant            to be boring
3 avoir le cafard            to have the blues
4 faire une gaffe            to make a blunder
5 ramener sa fraise        to show up
6 ne pas être sorti de l'auberge       to be just at the beginning of one's troubles
7 être sur son trente-et-un        to be dressed up to the nines
8 avoir cinquante balais        to be fifty years old
9 avoir une dent contre quelqu'un    to hold sth against s.o.
10 avoir du chien            to be sexy
11 un gros légume            a V.I.P.
12 costume            suit
13 de bonne facture        well made
14 manteau            coat
15 ne pas courrir les rues        to be rare, not easily to be found
16 vieux jeu            old fashioned
17 n'y voir que du bleu        not to suspect anything
18 faire tapisserie            to be a wallflower
19 casser la croûte        to have a bite
20 un m'as-tu-vu            a conceited person
21 un temps de chien        bad weather
22 être beurré            to be a little drunk
23 n'avoir rien a cirer         not to care
24 prendre son pied        have a blast
25 gros comme une maison        obvious
26 mettre en marche          to start (eg. a motor)
27 appuyer sur le champignon         to accelerate
28 passer l'arme à gauche        to die
29 copains comme cochons        great friends
30 ne pas casser des briques    to be not much to talk about
31 manger à la carte        to order from the menu
32 sonné                stunned
33 au nez et à la barbe de quelqu'un        right in front of s.o.'s face
34 casquer            payer
35 toucher un mot            to mention, or to hint
36 avoir la puce à l'oreille        to suspect
37 faire a bombe            to paint the town red
38 au frais de la princesse        at somebody else's expense
39 rond comme une queue de pelle    completely drunk
40 c'est tout cuit            it's in the bag
41 passer à la casserole        to get laid, or, to be killed
42 ce n'est pas demain la veille que je ...    I don't intend to ...      
43 ce n'est pas de la tarte        it's not easy
44 tomber sur un os        to meet up with a problem
45 faire choux blanc        to fail utterly
46 être dur de la feuille         to be deaf
47 j'en passe, et des meilleurs!       that's not all!
48 avoir les mains baladeuses         to have wandering palms    
49 ne penser qu'à ça        to think only of sex
50 c'est la fin des haricots        that's the last straw
51 un plan            a plan, or a map
52 faire ses besoins           to go to the toilet    
53 piger (slang)            to understand
54 le petit coin            the toilet
55 tirer la chasse            flush the toilet
56 se faire les valises        to leave
57 en boucher un coin à qqn    to knock s.o. for six, to amaze/confound s.o.    
58 faire faux bond à qqn        to stand s.o. up
59 marteau            crazy, nuts
60 timbré                round the bend
61 ciel, mon mari!            Good lord, it's my husband!

_____________________________

Paula' story

After a long Bourgogne winter of unending gray skies, rain and sleet, it was a joy to see the sunlight stream into the house through the front windows, to walk onto the deck out back and bask in the warmth of the welcome sunlight. To be able to spend most of the day and evening on the deck: reading, eating, drinking, conversing with friends, daydreaming, watching the stars: what a gift the late spring and summer bring to this hilly, green countryside.

But let me count, now. It has been, ummm, let me see, 137 days of straight sunshine. The constant glare and the heat are killing me. I have been suffering with headaches from the intensity of the sun on my windows, in my kitchen, when I drive to the grocery. I am tired of all the laundry that piles up because we are sweating through our clothes every day. My plants and vegetables in the garden are shriveling; I cannot keep them watered enough to sustain them.

I find I huddle in the house most days. Take a walk? What? And trudge through the hot, dusty countryside protected only by a pair of sunglasses and a straw hat? The glare and the heat make me so uncomfortable I want to scream. Go work in the garden? Are you crazy? There’s no protection whatsoever there from the sun, and I soon feel every bit as limp as the plants I am trying to save. Eat lunch outside on the deck? Who are you kidding? Even underneath the umbrella, the uncomfortable heat of the sun finds its way to me, and the brightness and overwhelming glare make the pages of my book so shiny that I can’t read the words.

Finally, on the 138^th day, a sprinkling of heavenly rain arrived, and I gasped with anticipation of another gray, rainy, gloomy Bourgogne winter. Because, quite frankly, although I had been so looking forward to summer, I thought it would never end.

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Jackie's contribution

I thought it would never end

I couldn’t put it down – 600 pages of romance, family reunions then squabbles and then the fall -       The death of the matriarch ruined and broke up the family home – personality’s changed and everything fell apart   The father, heartbroken, checked himself into a nursing home and never went back

Two of the boys left the family home – one to NY one to Rome and the third son stayed behind to manage the farm.    A classic story – an intriguing romance between the boy who had stayed home to farm and the local politicians daughter a beautiful spiritual child of 18.    An angel haloed by light with beautiful blonde hair cascading down her back – you know the scene she wears flowing gowns and silk dresses with delicate stockings and velvet shoes.            

The passion grew and developed between the farmer boy and this young girl – a beautiful couple – forbidden to see him, she sneaked out in the dead of night and he hid in his hayloft avoiding unwelcome visitors from the said family.  

The young beautiful girl is being terrorized by her rich politician of a father who could only see his own future at stake – his daughter to marry a local farmer?– the worst nightmare he could imagine.   She was destined to choose from a number of wealthy eligible men in the region and thus help him on his social climb;   but no she had to choose a local famers boy.    Ugh.     There were also three brothers protecting this girl – threatening rugby built boys who were afraid of their father’s wrath who, at the slightest contretemps, would raise the roof of their mansion and threaten to cut off their inheritance if they were disobedient.

The farmer boy, covered in hay and wearing rubber boots went to ask for her hand in marriage.    Driving up to the immaculately kept grounds in his tractor – lawns, flowers flowing into the distance and tall tall trees swaying in the wind the gardens matched the immaculate mansion   – he presented himself at the front door and the butler greeted him with disdain … the father refused him his daughters hand  …  He wasn’t good enough for them.  

Humiliated and sad he learnt that that the family had sent the young girl away – to where he wasn’t told and vowed there and then to find her.   His one wish was to hold her in his arms forever and build a family that he felt he had lost  

– the pain and passion bled off the pages into my heart making it unbearable to even think of putting the book down even for a while.

The story grabbed your tears and poured them into a mountain of  Kleenex tissues, part of me was the young girl I imagined being in the situation and it was totally absorbing – it  made me keep turning the pages and propelled me into a romance-devouring gluttony that lasted every moment of each day …..    my guilty soppy secret

Then the story moved on and the girl and the boy married eventually and had several children – he developed into the most powerful farmer in the region and thought about becoming a politician …. The children were under his thumb and he thundered and shouted in the house…..again I was gripped and entered into the story …

Wait a minute, hold on, this is starting all over again

It was then I discovered that this was a trilogy I was on a roller coaster of repeating passion and when would it ever end ?

_________________________________________ 

Annemarie's story

I Thought it Would Never End

Moho wa' Kepiro, a Gikuyu medicine man, once prophesied that “ the colonialists would bring an iron snake with as many legs as a monyongoro (a centipede). This snake would spit fire and would stretch from the big water in the east to another big water in the west of Gikuyu country.”

And so it happened.

 

I am six years old clutching the Spanish dancing doll, still in her presentation box, the present from my parents for my first day going to school. I am hiding in the compartment; the  moquette seats have a rough velvety texture I had never experienced before. In fact I had never seen a train before, let alone the monstrous steam engine at the front. This is the E.A.R.& H. mail train which will take us on 250 mile journey to our boarding school. Going at 25 - 30 m.p.h. it takes a minimum of twelve hours - if no unforeseen hiccups occur.

I don’t know any of the other girls or boys who are all hanging out of the windows,  waving wildly and shrieking goodbye.  The wail of the whistle blares as  the train rumbles and chugs off from Kampala station - clunkety-clunk, clackety-clack, a rolling cloud of steam blowing in its wake. There are no barriers where the rail line crosses the roads. Through the dusty windows I can see women in brightly coloured clothes, bandanas round their heads which are topped with baskets of fruit, bananas and sweet potatoes. They  scatter and jump out of the way, the dust swelling up around their bare feet. I look at my new sandals bought from the Bata  shop and at my blue-checked frock and  sleeveless pullover (for the cold evenings). This what I will wear all the time except at weekends when I can wear the dresses mum made for me.

We cross over the Nile on the iron bridge and some of the boys are hanging out of the window with homemade balsa wood propellers which whizz round and their hair blows back leaving open, breathless faces.

As we go round a bend I can see the engine far away in front dragging our carriages and slower and slower as it chuffs up steep inclines At every country station the train stops to take on water. The brakes hiss and screech when the train slows down to a stop.  The verges and platforms are crowded with hawkers shouting and selling their wares, baskets of naartjes (tangerines), bunches of sugar cane balanced on their heads. The two escorts (generally two mums) accompanying us, shout at the giggling  boys who have made water bombs to throw at the hawkers. Early evening, the sun sliding quickly behind the fields of maize and grazing ankole cattle with their huge arching horns and big dangling flaps under their throats. It iis time for  the compartment to be transformed into four beds. I get the top bunk, held in with a webbed fence. I am numb, with no knowledge of where I’m going, when will I see my mum and dad, my brother and sister again, this clunkety-clunk, clackety-clack journey …I think will it never end? Silently sobbing I hold tightly the hard Spanish doll, feeling it’s swishy, shiny red tarantella dress and the long black nylon hair tied in a sophisticated bun.   Some of the girls get tubes of condensed Nestlés milk out and start sucking the thick sweet cream leaving dreamy looks and sticky marks on their faces. They are making fortune-telling paper games and playing hangman until the escorts tell us to go to sleep. I will learn these tricks on future journeys.

 The train arrives at Kaptagat station at 5.30 in the morning; I don’t know where I am and I'm still so sad and sleepy as we are driven off to my new boarding school. I thought it would never end. But… the girls are friendly, the teachers, mostly, kind and in twelve weeks I will be back on the train going home! Hooray!

Looking back, the going-to and coming-back train journeys from school were one of the highlights of the school term. In 1999  when we had a family holiday in  Africa. I wanted to take the family on a nostalgic trip on the Lunatic Line. However the infrastructure was down. The railway line, administered by a single body, the East Africa Railway and Harbours, became non-operative when the East Africa Community broke up. The break-up meant each country ran its own railway systems. The railway, which had now been expanded to span three countries - Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania, - had slowly collapsed in each country. From 1970’s the Uganda line deteriorated so far that the service barely existed, the route was unusable, vandalised and tracks were buried.

In 1893 a plan for an exorbitantly costly railway from the coastal port of Mombasa in Kenya, to the inland towns of Uganda was conceived.This metre-gauge railway became known as the ‘Lunatic Line’, so named by the British politician Henry Labouchere. He considered the line directionless and an irresponsible use of public money, money which was granted following a campaign that portrayed the line as necessary to the aims of the British Empire. Between 1895 and 1903 a total of 36,811 workers were recruited, mainly from India. During the construction between 1895 and 1903, out of these the Indians, 6,500 were badly wounded, 2,500 died of malaria, black water fever and other tropical diseases and an estimated 100 were dragged from their tents and devoured by the Tsavo man eaters, two male lions.

 The number of Africans who died or were wounded was never recorded.

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I THOUGHT IT WOULD NEVER END

by Geraldine C.

 

We had been sitting in front of the chalet watching the sky, trying to guess where and when the next thunderstorm would hit, and hoping for it to clear as there was this lovely walk to the Refuge above that we had planned for the afternoon.

The chalet we were staying in belonged to friends who had fell for it, just as they had had a small heritage from the latter grandpa.  With this little sum of money, they could easily have bought a bigger place to live in for themselves and their 3 children, or acquired a better car that wouldn’t break down every now and again, but they fell in love with the little « alpage chalet » in the Alps.  And that was also bliss for their friends…

It was one of these places that you could only attain by walking at least an hour on a small narrow path : if you were invited, you would come with heavy rucksacks with warm clothes for the evenings and nights, duck feather sleeping bags and a lot of fresh food : meat, charcuterie, cheese, butter, eggs, vegetables, fruit and so on.

Alain and Christine, the owners, would have all the other stuff heliportered at the  beginning of the season : gas bottles, booze, coffe, tea, chocolate, flour, canned food, lentils, tinned sardines, potatoes, corned beef….and don’t forget the matches and candles as there’s no electricity up there.  It was a place for Heidi or « The Small House in the Prairie » kind of « you all do it by yourself ! « 

The cattle would be moved up there as from the end of May and stay for 4 months without fences,  grazing the wonderful grass and just looked upon by a local herdsmen who would also climb up for a very frugal but fullfiling life during the summer months.

The little bench in front of the chalet was just the most wonderful place to sit, watch, hear and dream.  You could hear the water dashing down nearby, see, if you were lucky, the chamois hopping here and there and, sometimes, way accross, a Royal Eagle would fly in the distance. The sky was mainly deep blue except on this particular day where big white cumulus were coming and going without either settling or bursting.

I had proposed to Claire and her friend Mary, both iddle 14 year old teenagers not knowing what to do with themselves, to take this walk to the Refuge on the top which meant a 3 hour run which would help them use the energy they couldn’t really cope with…  A few loud rumbles came accross and the sky finally cleared.  So, after a little pow wow and scanning the horizon, we decided to set off. 

You couldn’t really see the Refuge from the chalet, but it was upwards and that’s where our steps took us.  As we climbed, we left the trees below, came accross more grass and the smell of the mountain flowers was strong.  The grasshoppers were happily chirping and dancing around us. We had taken a solid pace trying to avoid the muscular cramps that usually assault you when climbing.  We were breathing in unison, looking up from time to time and when the Refuge appeared in the distance, against the purple sky we knew we weren’t far and hasted the pace.

Like in a film, the Refuge became bigger and bigger as we approached : it was a large wooden lodge made with logs, surrounded by a wide wooden terrace with bright red geraniums hanging down from it. The big large groundfloor room was a place where you could shelter, but also order fresh drinks, hot drinks, icecreams, and a few treats.  And apparently above were the dormitories where the hikers could find elementary beds to soothe their bodies and feet and spend a night.

As usual, when hiking in the mountain, we were happy to get to the top, knowing the return would be steeper but faster.

The view from the terrace was fantastic with all the peaks  to bee seen in the distance.  We couldn’t see our chalet, but could easily guess where it stood.  We were quietly sipping our refreshing drinks when we heard rumbling and rumbling again. And within seconds, the sky became anthracite and lightenings started popping up all over.  Everybody dashed into the Refuge’s main room, all commenting how sudden the storm was on us… and how lucky we were to have reached it in time.

The place quickly became damp and humid, with armpit smells, dirty socks, wet fleece jackets scents in the air.  And the rumbling and lightening kept on with their show for such a long time I thought it would never end.  By this time, my two teenagers were frightened and looking exhausted !  We still had to get back.

A lot of people in the Refuge were making bets : « shall we stay, or shall we leave » !... Each time we thought the storm was leaving, a few would take their chance and come back running 5 minutes later.  Too dangerous.

But finally after a desperate end game, the thunderstorm moved away and we could consider leaving the place and running down to the Chalet.  We watched a few people taking leave : they didn’t seem to be running back.  So after a while I told the girls it would be allright now and off we went.  The grass was wet and slippery and the slope quite steep. After no longer than 5 minutes, a huge drum roll cought up with us : the storm was back.  Fortunately, a small shelter with holes in the roof was just in front of us and we quickly sheltered inside : well, the roof had many leaks but it was better than outside ! And we felt better being in when we heard the loud tap tap of the hailstones on it. Another 10 minutes stop and we decided we’d had enough and were going to run down the hill as fast as possible till we’d reach our chalet.
And that’s what we did, a lot of it sliding down on our bums,  and maybe that’s what decided the storm to definitely find another place to hit.

This happened almost 40 years ago, but whenever we talk about going for a walk with Claire, she still asks : is it going to be worse than the one in the mountains !

 

Pick a place but don't say where it is and the others have to guess

Sarah's contribution

Describe a place – 3 a place I like to return to

A river runs through it. And around it, and between its various neighbourhoods. In fact, two or three rivers, and
numerous canals and basins, particularly in the port. It is a city built on the water, or infiltrated by the water, and
that is a good part of its charm. The largest river, which goes to the sea 450 miles or more downstream, is however
completely at the edge of the city, and serves as a national border; in former times this area was so marshy and so
much a mass of little waterways and small frequently flooded land masses that it would have been disastrous to
attempt to build on it, and so the city was constructed two miles inland. Two or three centuries ago, the only way to
cross this great river at this level was partly over a pontoon bridge, that is, a series of connected flat boats, that
supported what must have been a rather wobbly carriageway.
But the water is not the only charm of this historical city. Along the winding quays to the south-east of the central
island, tall ancient houses crowd together, their steeply rising roofs lined with rows of dormer windows, their
pastel-coloured façades contrasting with the more homogenous cream of the larger, more elegant stone edifices on
the opposite bank. Along one of the quays, several barges serve as floating cafés and bars where you can read a
newspaper with your morning coffee or have a drink with friends in the evening. Farther west on the central island
lies la Petite France, a quarter of half-timbered houses, less tall, that cling to the water's edge and house restaurants
and hotels. The centre of the island is dominated by the great cathedral with its late medieval statuary, its stained
glass and its astronomical clock, surrounded by old streets with houses from medieval and Renaissance times, or the
17th and 18th centuries, and other old churches and institutions from former times, not the least of which is the old
Customs House.

Just across the river from the Customs House is the old hospital with its massive dormered roof and its half-
timbered pharmacy. This part of the city, just south of the central island, is the old faubourg called the Krutenau,

originally a swampy area crossed by little rivulets, gradually tamed to become the place from which the town got its
vegetables and fish, and then, when the town began to expand in the 18th and 19th centuries, to include military
barracks, now transformed into schools, and the former tobacco manufacture. To the south of this quarter runs the
canal de la Bruche, part of the old port, that with other waterways continues round the west and north and east, so
that the city centre is surrounded by a second circle of water.
That is the old city. To the north-west of the central island is the Neustadt, or “new city”, built a hundred years ago
by the Germans, with its imposing palaces in imperial German style: the university, the library, the theatre, the
police headquarters, the treasury devoted to collecting the taxes, the former Emperor's Palace, now devoted to
managing fluvial affairs, the court house, and beyond these, dozens of streets constructed in such a way as to afford
views of the cathedral and its spire from unexpected points of the city. These streets are lined with stately four- and
five-story apartment buildings, many of which sport decorative balconies, and smaller structures in Art Nouveau
style. Here there are several green parks, one with an art nouveau bandstand (though I have seen a band playing
there only once) and another with tall trees colonized by a nation of storks and a small lake where you can hire a
boat and row around a fountain and a miniature waterfall. On the other side of the central island to the south of the
Canal de la Bruche, is Neudorf, or “new village”, also constructed by the Germans, as a more homely residential
area. And in all these parts of town, the centre, the Neustadt, the Krutenau, one hears a multitude of languages,
spoken by the student population , the representatives of various foreign consulates and the tourists: French,
German, English, American, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Chinese and many others I wouldn't be able to recognize.
But the town has not stopped growing, especially in recent years. To the east, towards the present-day port, the city
now resembles something out of Star Wars, with hyper-futuristic buildings fifteen and twenty stories high,
constructed mainly of glass and vying with each other to show off the most startling shapes. That is not my
favourite part of town, though I do go there sometimes, for practical reasons. My favourite spots are the central
island, the quays, and the Neustadt, where I have my flat, far from the bustle of the centre and from the harsh
modernity of the port area.

 ___________________________________________________

Patrice

The juniors, forgot to turn the light off before opening the door. If Jake can figure out who it was there will be hell to pay and I don’t want to be around to hear it. I can see movement off in the corner and a round, firefly of light wafts across a small space as if in flight, where it brightens for a moment and then makes its way back to its starting point. Shit, I’d put money on it – Roseanne is smoking again with the cute new boy. More hell to pay. 

 

The swish of clothes, the murmur of voices, the rustle of paper, begins to increase in volume. My butterflies are waking up. I scrape at the floor with the front of my shoe – there's a slippery spot here that has caused trouble before – I put spit on my heel, then jump up and down without actually taking my toes off of the floor. 

I crane my neck to see the glow in the dark clock in the corner. Four minutes .... If we start within two minutes of our time I win the bet – if we go longer, I lose. I so do not want to spray the vodka tonight – I want to be out of here 30 minutes after lights out and I've got my fingers crossed. All of sudden it becomes quiet; it feels as if there has been and inhale and no exhale. And then, it all begins and I have won the bet. 

Where is this?   (just before a theatre production)

______________________________________________________

Annemarie

 

Kampala

The city I have visited most often always sent a thrill of excitement when we went there. It was the centre of a vibrant social scene, intellectual hub, a city of colour and of diverse people.

Built on  seven hills,  Rubaga, Old Kampala, Mulago, Kololo, Kibuli, Namirembe and Makerere) topped by distinctive landmarks of religious, cultural and colonial significance, the city provides magnificent views of evergreen trees, gently interrupted by red-tiled villas,  bungalows with roofs of corrugated iron, cathedrals and churches. A little more than a mile from the lake (Victoria) and linked by rail is Port Bell operating ferries on that  lake. So let me take you on a short tour of the city.

Our first stop is Katwe  market, a centre of African ingenuity, where  artisans, craftsmen and technicians repair electronics, automobiles, refrigerators and all kinds of appliances. The more ingenious of these craftsmen would improvise and "manufacture" imitations of the original articles. We leave one of our passengers here to spend the day with his friends. A cacophony of sound, a kaleidoscope of colours accost us. The women are adorned in long cotton dresses, puff sleeves and cotton headwraps.  Baskets of fruit and vegetables are displayed on the ground, bunches of small canary yellow bananas and large green matoke bananas hanging from the sun shelters. After a walk through the market, clutching baskets of fruit and avoiding the 'shenzies', those errant, pitifully thin dogs, we are on our way to the town centre.

The main shopping thoroughfare is dominated by Draper's department store. Clothes, haberdashery (does anyone still use that word?) and shoes but best of all coffee or Pepsi Cola and delicious cakes in their cafe. If you prolong your visit until sunset a gorgeous  perambulation of Indian women in sumptuous saris of scarlet, saffron, sapphire, all the colours of the rainbow take their evening walk with their children and sometimes their more plainly dressed husbands. In the park on Sundays the grass is sprinkled with families picnicking, playing and parading. The evening ends with a meal at Chez Joseph where at the age of ten you can really feel sophisticated and French with a mushroom omelette. I understand it is still there, possibly in the form of a bar/eatery.

Visible from downtown are the twin towers of the red brick Catholic cathedral dominating Rubaga hill. The seven hills boast buildings dating from the late 19th, early 20th century which have remained despite civil war; the university, once considered the best on the continent, the Hindu temple built in 1954, and perched on Kibuli hill a magnificent gem of a building, white minarets gleaming in the encircling abundance of green palm trees and opened by Prince Ally Khan.

On yet another M’engage hill is the Kabaka's (king's) palace. Since I last visited the palace has been vacated due to dark events which took place there. A special torture chamber was built by the president Idi Amin Dada, where an estimated three hundred people were murdered. About four miles out from the palace are the Kasubi tombs. Previously the royal hilltop palace it is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. It was converted to a royal burial site in 1884 containing four royal tombs and is recognised as one of Africa's remarkable buildings. The main building of the complex, is circular in plan with a domelike overall shape. Massive in size, its interior extends to a height of 7.5 metres, while the external width is 31 metres. There is a low, wide arch entranceway. The whole is covered by durable thatch roofs extending all the way to the ground; the interior funereal chambers are separated by partitions of bark cloth.  Lemon grass and palm leaf mats cover the floor, while spears, drums, shields, medals and photos of the kabakas cover the walls and other surfaces. All  the buildings on site are constructed of entirely organic materials such as wood, thatch, reed, wattle and daub.

Five minutes from the centre is the highest of the city's seven hills, Kokomo Hill.  This residential area has some of the most beautiful and luxurious houses as well as more than a dozen embassies and ambassadors' residences. The area is green and lush, lined with jacaranda trees, the lilac blue florescences dripping their petals onto the pavements.

And in complete contrast away from the city centre the roads are dirt and dust, skirted on either side by higgledy piggledy  dukas (shops). Gone are the colours of the centre… here are greys, blacks and grubby beiges. Men sit treadling away on sewing machines, their bare feet in constant seesaw motion;  men in holey vests and patched shorts tinker on old motorbikes; piles of old tires await transformation into utilitarian sandals, barefoot children offer oranges, bananas for virtually nothing, a key can be copied in minutes. These little shops are crowded with goods , toppling on shelves, suspended from a hundred hooks.

This is the city as I remember it sixty years ago but I am sure is quite, quite different now.

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Jackie

I’m surrounded by grasses, lying face down, tall soft grasses with green stems and golden shoots that  look gigantic from where I am on the ground  – there is a fresh and beautiful smell of  Spring and birds are singing their hearts out.     There are ordinary grasses and ornamental Grasses that are soft to the touch and fluffy at the tips.    They’ve  grown tall in the garden and surround a fine lawn, the kind of lawn which only exists in a damp humid climate,  meticulously maintained and carefully cultivated

 I’m 8 years old still wearing my school uniform of pleated navy skirt and checked navy blue and white blouse, I’ve taken off my tie and thrown my panama hat on the nearby deckchair.    For this I shall get told off for getting it dirty.

 I’m watching an ant climb a grass shoot and it’s taking its time – the ant feels its way then inches up the thick stem – as the stem sways the ant stops,  looks around and sniffs the air.  It wipes one of its hairy wiskers, then the other one, and licks its paws,  as keeping clean is a must for ants – up again he climbs, a few inches and when it finally gets to the top, I smile as he looks really surprised that he can’t go any further and has to turn around and go back down again.     I spend hours watching the insects come and go dipping my licorice stick into a tub of sherbert .

  My imagination runs wild;    I am the newly coronated Queen of the garden – surrounded by Princess radish and my lady in waiting Mrs lettuce, Prince runner bean twists up a bamboo pole, my subjects are golden marigolds with equisite perfume.   

It’s feeding time.   I have 6 angora rabbits.   These rabbits have long white hair and you can regulary brush them to recuperate the fur – my mother knitted me a  sweater from my rabbits hair.   It was so warm and cuddly.   I won first prize once with my rabbit at the local garden fete  – The prize was £5 and her name was Jennifer White Cloud and my photo was in the local newspaper the “ Bournemouth Blank Times” .

 Dishes clash in the kitchen and then I hear the sound of my fathers vespa coming up the road.  Its 6 o clock and Dad is home.   Tea of fishfingers and baked beans will be ready in half an hour and then we listen to our favorite radio program with Mum as television was not yet in our house as it was just coming into fashion.  

There was a small path through a little forest near my home and my favorite pastime was to take a notebook and write down all the number plates of the cars that go by on the busy road.  The path was lined with rhodendron bushes a particular bush that thrives in the damp acid soil produced in this part of the world.     There were tractors, single decker green buses but by far the most popular car was the Austin Morris or  the Morris minor.

I enjoyed making lists of all these numberplates methodically for some reason.   To no purpose I might add.    Once I set up a stall selling Sunkist lemonade for twopence a glass –.

We did have a car it was a Vauxhall Viva and our numberplate was

BRT 210.  How is that for memory.  This should give you some clues as to where I am talking about

Where am I?  family home in Dorset, England in the 1960’s

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Paula's story 

From our hotel room on a shady street, I could hear horses’ hooves, faintly at first, then louder, a clop-clop-clop cadence that was almost musical. I opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside into the sunshine to see a vast parade of ornately uniformed men and women on horseback, flag-bearing lieutenants marching steadily alongside, an empty steed-drawn Cinderella coach in the very center of the action. The procession went on for blocks.

 What we were watching was an elaborate dress rehearsal. The next day was the opening of parliament, and the king and queen would be traveling in their ceremonial glass coach to the Hall of Knights, to perform the obligatory duties of the head of state. And as our hotel was just across the street from the palace, we were in a perfect position to watch the spectacle, even if it was only the pre-game. Luckily, we would be leaving early the next morning, and would avoid getting trapped by all the pomp.

 We turned back inside, returning to our breakfast tray of pastries and mimosas to plan our last day in one of the most fascinating and energetic cities we had visited in the past year. Within a few minutes, we put our plan into motion. A stroll downtown brought us to a tram stop, where we boarded the streetcar for a 10-minute ride to the end of the line: a vast beach lined by a boardwalk and ringed with boutiques, bars and hotels that ranged along the high dunes. We walked out onto the main pier, a wide, wooden structure filled with shops and restaurants, but decided that we would amble down the boardwalk to the far end, looking for a more out-of-the-way waterfront restaurant for our lunch.

 We decided to take a gamble on a large, tented building with a huge deck facing the sea. Now, we have learned through years of travel that most waterfront restaurants with above-par views serve sub-par food. But halfway through our first round of ice cold beer, we were pleasantly surprised to find our meals at this beachfront bistro, delivered with a smile by a young woman in a tight T-shirt and fraying shorts, were delicious and delightful. After lunch, and a walk along the beach, we headed back up the hill to the tram stop.

 Thirty minutes later, in the opposite direction from the beach, we alighted from the tram in a perfectly preserved canal town, whose claim to fame boasted two things: the birthplace — and grave — of a certain famous artist, as well as a particular form of pottery. A busy central market square was filled with adults drinking aperitifs, children chasing balls, dogs chasing each other. The sun was shining, the air was crisp and clean, and we chose a table where we could watch all the action. Then we ambled along the canal, admiring the small, narrow houses, as well as the ducklings clustered around their mothers in the water.

 Heading back to the tram, we were back in our (so-far) nameless city, hungry for dinner. We chose an Italian restaurant just off the main canal, where the candlelight was dim, the music was soft, and the food was incredible.

 Early the next morning, we walked to a small pearl of a museum in the center of town to be first in line as it opened. There is a certain girl there that we desperately wanted to see without crowds of people gathering around her, taking selfies. She rests on the top floor of the old three-story mansion, alone in a hushed room. We call her simply, The Girl.

 Then we got into our car and drove the six-and-a-half hours home to Flavigny.

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Geraldine'sstory

SOMEWHERE

 

 

We were to meet with Alain, Michel’s old pal and forever friend at the Airport.

This year, we weren’t going to be home for Christmas -it’s December 21st-.  We are going to test a tour somewhere that Kevin is organizing as he is creating a travel agency and a few of his friends and ourselves would be the guinea pigs for the « tour ».

The flight took off at 11 p.m. and the excitement of discovering something new took over in our stomachs.  First stopover in Marseille from which we were supposed to catch a flight at 3.40 a.m. which got postponed till 7.30…. Another stop in another town and after flying over a large sandy desert, here we are at destination.

After such a long trip, we got off the plane and were walked into the smallish airport on a « Red Carpet » !  Waouh ! What a welcome for a few passangers !  As we  went through the passport controls, we asked why such a welcome and were told they hadn’t had time to roll the carpet back since Jacques Chirac’s visit 24 hours ago.  Well, we would have to find out what type of welcome was expecting us.

Kevin and his friend were there to greet us.  It was hot.  They took us to a 4wheel drive car and introduced as to the guide « Chicago ». 

A quick look at the town : a very big Mosque  where I was allowed in… but shown the place on the side where the women were to pray, the unclean ones remaining outside. It’s very impressive to see how these big places built in earth bricks resist to the climate.  Chicago took us up on the roof with a breathtaking view.  A deep blue sky and your eye catching the desert, long sandy waves going for ever.  He explained this was the place from which the camel caravans went up North hundreds of kilometers to fetch the rock salt : the slaves were the ones used for this tedious task.  Ank even yet today, it’s the way the poor pay their debts to the rich in the City : they’re still get sent North to gather the rock salt that is extracted in large quantities.  Modern slavery !

We then got a look at René Caillet’s house : this was the man who discovered this town in 1830 and came back to France alive. He was considered as the first « africanist » respectfull of the men and civilizations that he discovered  and who denounced both slavery and the condition of the women there.

Finally we got a look at the well that is still maintained by a woman, with a few vestiges and objects of the neolithic .

Then came the moment when we joined the pinasse that was going to take us on the river for three days to reach the point where we  were having a 2 day rest before pursuing our journey.

Very « confortable » with a toilet at the rear end.  Well, the loo, is above the engine with a little curtain for your privacy, but completely open behind.  So, you certainly don’t stay there for long…

We lit a charcoal fire in the middle of the pinasse and cooked a few bits of meat and a few vegetables for dinner.  Then, gently sliding on the quiet waters,  the mosquitoes came to visit and it was night. We all slept in the boat, under the stars,  very unconfortable and  a bit too small.  Tomorrow, we’ll put the tent up and split the sleeping.

It’s all calm, the sun rises very quickly at the rythm of the animals sounds and  hearing  a variety of birds chirping.  The world comes back to life and so do we, with a nice breakfast served in the pinasse with warm buns and cheese.

The trip carries on along the slow river, sometimes crossing other pinasses carrying goods , wood or bulks of rice.  They bear a sail made out of big jute  ricebags with a crooked wooden mast attached by rough ropes. We stop in a small village to buy 2 chicken at the market, live of course, and our guide makes it his job to kill and pluck them and prepare them for our meal.  Termite mounds and villages unfold at a slow pace and we stop along the river in a sandy spot to have a bathe.  It’s really hot !

Then our guide realized he’d taken the wrong meander on the river during the last three hours, which means we are going to turn back for another three hours before we take the right branch of river again.  There is quite a bit of water vegetation that slows us down a little…

We stop again in a village along the riverside to buy some fish and Alain decides to buy a live goat that will be our Christmas meal !!! He knows how to kill animals as he has, in another life, had a few goats, his wife making and selling their cheese… As we start off on the river again, the goat cries and cries and cries, as he had just been separated from his mother he had always lived with and brother and sister goats… It was really heartbraking, but these consideration seemed so strange to our guide !  An animal is an animal, bread to feed humans and that’s it !

We reach a large Lake that we will cross, the river flowing in the same direction.  We came upon of few fishermen’s  huts among the reeds. There are loads of very colourful singing birds living there.  You think you’re in the desert surrounded by nothing and then you find out  all this river and it’s banks are full of living creatures, human or animal.

As we are ending this third day, we realize we will have to sail at night because of the lost hours….before reaching the point and town where we are expected that evening.

Little by little, the banks are changing and more and more vegetation appears.  We seem to be leaving the desert behind.  Then, all of a sudden shrieking  monkey cries reach our ears : the river is now very wide, so looking on the far apart banks, we can spot large colonies of medium size brown monkeys gathering together.  The sunfall is quick, the birds louden their calls as the skys turns scarlet red.  Five minutes of fire on the river in the deafening dim of the birds and animals getting ready to sleep, then all is quiet, just the noise of the engine and the water along the pinasse’s hull.

Another three hours sailing quietly along the river will get us to the place we were aimaing at since we left.  We stop along the wharf and take all our stuff : rucksacs, luggage without forgetting the goat.  There is a Bar just round the corner and we all stop there for dinner, without mosquitoes as they have the fans on ! Bliss !

Then, goodbye to our guide and off to Kevin’s house where we will be celebrating Christmas tomorrow and more adventures will be to come.

 

Jackie suggests the Congo, Anne marie says Timbucktu and everyone says Africa but not sure where. ?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Little Things

 

Sarah's story

It’s the little things –

Gladys Grunge had been driving along a country road, a little fast perhaps, and she had knocked down and run over a woman who was carrying a load of sticks on her back.  A lot of people hereabouts heated their houses with wood fires, and you needed small wood and branches to get the fire started.  Unfortunately the woman died, and Gladys Grunge was called in for investigation.  
“I thought she was a tree!”
“You thought she was a tree, so you drove straight into her?  It wasn’t that you hated her guts and held her responsible for your collapsing marriage?”
“You can’t prove that!  And my marriage was not collapsing!”
“It’s not that Carmen Gonzales and your husband were often seen together, especially at the dance saloon on Saturday nights?  That your husband was frequently seen to walk out of the house and slam the door?  That your husband bought a red scarf at the church social that was never seen on you but which Carmen Gonzales was wearing when she died?”
“Pfft!  Those are little things!”
“It’s often the little things that turn into clues to uphold bigger things!  And there are other things that are not so little that I might mention, such as the fact that your husband bought a diamond ring at the jeweller’s, which I don’t see on your finger?”
“He did not!”
“And that he has asked for divorce papers to serve on you.”
“He has not!”
“Mrs Grunge, we have the means of obtaining proof of these things, and when we do, you’d better be prepared to spend a while in jail awaiting your trial.”
The prosecution was able to call in numerous witnesses to make up the case against her.  The town had already made up their minds, and there were many people ready to testify against her for one reason or another.  There were scores of testimonies to her bad character, her aggressive attitudes, the fact that she went to every village council meeting and voted against every proposal to better things, but the prosecution wanted something more concrete, and they got it.  The couple never closed the blinds on their windows so that was easy enough.  One said she had seen them quarrelling many times.  One of the problems was that she smoked like a chimney and he wanted her to stop, but she just blew the smoke into his face.   Another said that on the day before the infamous “accident” someone had seen her slap his face, hard, and he didn’t strike back but just turned around and walked out of the house.  When they asked those who had known Carmen Gonzales they all agreed she was often seen with Bruce Grunge, that she had been rather lonely and sad last year but that lately she had been very happy and joyful, that once someone had left a dead animal, already putrefying, on her doorstep with a note ‘stick to your own kind’ and another time someone had thrown a bottle through her window.  There was little doubt as to the author this time, for there was a note inside  “get your hands off my husband”.
But Gladys Grunge was never condemned by law, never even brought to trial, because one night she was strangled in her bed, most likely by her husband, in that he was never seen afterwards and has never been found since.  The police at first made some efforts to track him down, though the townspeople mostly considered justice had been done and were not particularly helpful.  They finally gave it up as a cold case and eventually the story became old news and will probably remain so, unless thirty years from now some zealous young detective decides to reopen the case.  But even if they do manage to track Bruce down, he’ll probably be dead by then.  I know this because I know where he is and I’ve been writing to him, under an assumed name of course; the poor guy has cancer of the lung.  You might almost say she’s killed them both.
 

Paula’s story

Samantha was feeling really down. She had been feeling especially blue for days. In fact, she was convinced she was severely depressed. This phenomenon happened to her, it seemed, a few times a year. She couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t blame it on the continuous gray, rainy weather, or on work stress, or on her husband’s changing moods, or on her recent seemingly insurmountable disagreement with an old friend.

The one thing that seemed to help when she felt this way was to get out into nature. Living in New York City meant there weren’t too many options, but there was a small park near her apartment, and so she headed there one morning. As she strolled along the path, a woman with a medium-sized dog on a leash walked toward her. The dog, an adorable, fluffy, caramel-colored thing with overgrown brows and big brown eyes, was straining toward Samantha, and as they got closer to each other, the dog excitedly jumped up to meet Sam, gazing at her with adoring eyes. Sam’s mood immediately lifted. It was so strange, like this random dog and she had connected in some mystical way. She smiled for the first time in days, and she bent down to pet the pup and accept his many kisses. Her heart soared, and her smile got wider.

 The dog’s owner chastised her dog: “Sadie, get down! Down, Sadie,” then said apologetically to Samantha, “I’m so sorry. She does that to everyone. She just loves everybody.”

 Samantha petted the fluffy dog one last time, then walked away. The blues descended again like a lightning bolt. Why did she have to say that, Sam wondered. What did she have to make me suddenly and completely feel not so special, after all?

 It’s the little things like that, Samantha thought, that can make or break someone’s day. Or someone’s life.

 And that’s when she had an epiphany: Barely thinking about what she was doing, she walked across the park, looked up on her phone the address of the local animal shelter, and headed the few blocks there, where she adopted her own fluffy little pooch, one that would offer unconditional love, get her out into nature for daily walks, and look at her with adoring eyes.

story It’s the little things by Geraldine   It’s the little things that make you angry, get you in tears, make you laugh, seem so odd, get you going, find you trembling or full of love…. It’s the little things…. Little things like the breadcrumbs Hop on my Thumb scattered behind him so as to find his way back home, but hadn’t been smart enough to think the birds might have been happy to find them…. Little things like not noticing you’re really talking to the woolf, as did Little Red Riding Hood, so happy and thrilled to bring her cakes to her Grand Mother and so confident in life. Little things like starting eating the Spice House as did Hansel and Gretel not imagining it could be a trap a witch had imagined to get her monthly food from. Little things Alice in Wonderland went through just because she eat some cakes… Little things give the peps in life, although you are brought up and told to do big ones, to be the best, to have ambition, to dedicate your life to something big. Let’s take a day : have you noticed at the first light of day, the ultimate star still shining in the sky, the sway of the branches and plants as the wind picks up. Have you ever felt that absolute feeling of gratitude when you dip your first finger in your breakfast boiled egg and swollow your first sip of hot tea, trying to remember the last image of the dream that woke you up twenty minutes earlier. And the day goes by, scattered with all these tiny winy moments of sheer bliss that only last a second or two… A sip of wine or bubbles, a chocolate with your coffee when you take a pause, a glance at some of your flowers or young sprouts in the garden, a music that catches you ear because it reminds you of some childhood forgotten instants, an eye-catch on the bird eating the grains you put out for him in the garden, your dog giving you an unexpected hugh, even if it’s a little slimy…. A drop of rain when it’s needed, a ray of sun that has been missing for some days, a neighbour popping in to give you a couple of eggs, or a quite read near the fireplace. And if you think of it, these little things  probably represent almost 90% of your day and nightime .  It’s an honour to life not te be neglected. And if you have been living with the same guy for over 50 years, you certainly will have noticed that it’s « the little things »  that initiate the « biggest rows » I just love you, little things… You make and made my days and my life….

Patrice's contribution   It begins;  a strand of hair, grey, poking up like a steel wire and then filaments begin to frame your eyes and you think, that's okay, they represent my happy life.   Then, the outline of your piquant chin becomes impressionistly blured, softened as do your hip bones.   A nuisance injury that will not go away that threatens your equilibrium and your doctor suggests more regular visits and when you ask why she smiles, and says, "just age"   Your skin becomes fragile and your arms and legs have inexplicable bruises, dotted across the surface like an abstract landscape and they take longer and longer to heal.   The invisibility that began at 40 begins to reverse but while you can begin to be seen again it is to be offered help with your packages and seats on the metro.   Little things,`But it is always the little things isn't it?

Monica's book club outing

 

Collectors and dealers of Asian art in France (1750-1930)

For those who couldln't make it to our outing in Dijon on the 19th of January, I'm just putting up a few photos for memory.      Also gives some the chance to read stories from our writing group.