To clean or not to clean your number plates. Plus book 4 now out.

July 14. 

Today is a special day. France's national day? Yes. 

Publication day for my latest book? Also yes. 

I had actually intended to have book three in my series celebrating my French-Australian life out to you a couple of weeks ago, but ... life ... including a little run in with the police and a very expensive breakdown. 

The flashing lights and siren were clearly meant for my husband, Alex, as his was the only car on the road way out west in our very large state. Ah, I do a lot of kilometres each week for work, it was inevitable that at some point an incident would befall me, he surmised, as he put on his indicator and pulled off the road, remaining in the car as the policeman did the same before sauntering over to do a slow round of inspection.

"Your lights, sir."

Alex complied. All were working.

"Your indicators, sir."

Again, he complied with no issue.

"Do you know why I've pulled you over?"

"No," he answered politely.

"Could you please get out of the car and follow me."

Alex did as he was told, stopping at the back of the car alongside the policeman and waiting.

"Your number plates, sir, are dirty."

"Oh, I do a lot of kilometres on the dusty, open road, but I do have some water. I'll wipe them down."

"That will not be sufficient. I'd like you to head to the nearest town and replace them, plus I will need to issue you with a fine."

If the nearly five-hundred-dollar fine were not enough, they also came with three demerit points. Tough to swallow when a quick check revealed that driving whilst using the telephone - a whole lot more dangerous, I would have thought - was considered a less severe offence with a commensurately smaller fine.

A scant few days later, after an early start and a six-hundred-kilometre day-with very clean number plates-Alex lost power to the car just after nightfall, still 120 km from home. His luck was in, though, as he could capture a weak telephone signal and had just enough battery power to make a few phone calls. I was the first. 

"I'll come and get you," I said, "and we can leave your car until it is daylight."

"No. It'll be stripped bare by then. I'll see if I can get a tow truck."

The first three companies that he tried were not keen and declined Alex's request for help. The fourth agreed. 

Five hours later than expected, and another five-hundred dollars out of pocket, he arrived home.

The morals of the stories? 

You've understood the first already - go out now and check your number plates. The second? Always carry a spare tin of sardines. It will come in handy when you are cold and hungry waiting roadside in the dark - although a blanket, torch and water would have been useful too. 

And, with my community service announcement over, I wish you a happy July 14. 

If you'd like to check out my newest book, Love, fear and a return to France, here is a link, with my most sincere thanks.

À bientôt.

Books 1- 3 below.

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase.

Merci mille fois

But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps

Weaving a French Life: An Australian story

With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

Trusting in not knowing: Book 4 is on its way

“I have just published my third book.” It wasn’t bragging nor was it an attempt to impress. I was still in the emotional aftermath of putting my figurative pen down and in awe that my words had come for a third time. “Interestingly, all my books have come about because of sadness and struggle,” I continued. 

Woah, again. How had I not realised that before? 

“I hope you never write another book,” he said.

(Excerpts from February '23 blog post after the release of Book 3 With bare feet and sandy toes)

But I have. 

 

Was it different this time? 

 

Yes and no.

 

As for most, the last few years have tested me. A wise soul in a deep, and deeply appreciated, conversation challenged me to look inwards.

 

“Truthfully, when searching for your ‘next’ are you moving towards something or are you constantly running away?” she asked me.

 

With that question hanging, 2023 arrived. My words started bubbling up again and my husband was a complicit sounding board. He recognised the drill. I talked and departed to cogitate. Repeatedly.

 

At some point, my daughter rang to discuss her trip abroad. I listened, we chatted and then I described to her how sitting at my desk to write produced the strangest directions. 

“I think I am going to go in one way, but I end up travelling along a completely different path,” I mused.

 

“Like this conversation. Yeah, I wouldn’t know,” she answered. 

 

“Here. Here. You took the wrong turn at Opelika,” said Daisy.

 

“Well, now, you took it with me, Miss Daisy, and you got the map,” replied Hoke. (Beresford, B. (Director). (1989). Driving Miss Daisy [Film])

 

Funny how trusting in not knowing keeps leading somewhere worth going, and thankfully my Hoke is along for the ride. 

 

I guess that is the yes.

Love, fear and a return to France out soon.

Books 1- 3 below.

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase.

Merci mille fois

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

Strawberries and Champagne

Here, in Australia, it is winter. Strawberries like these are not available. Correction, strawberries that taste like these, are not available.

On his recent trip, my husband had one of those it-makes-complete-sense-in-France experiences. He was shopping, not in a market, a supermarket. Quietly going about his own business, he stopped to admire the fruit. He made no eye contact with anyone else. He did not venture an out-loud comment or exclamation, he just stopped to look. The lady beside him, French of course, wanted to help. She had sensed a moment of indecision and wanted to be sure to support him through it. So, addressing my husband, she gave her approval to the quality, of course the price was irrelevant, and then stopped as she was about to continue on her way, registering that my husband had not responded. She interpreted this as a sure sign that he was not French and, changing to English, continued in her self-appointed mission to ensure that he had the best gastronomic strawberry experience possible.

She advised him on how to eat said strawberries.

No, not with a recipe, not by suggesting a large dob of Chantilly or a perfect dessert wine. Just, how to eat the strawberry.

My husband stopped at this point in his story telling and I looked at him quizzically, still not sure if this was some sort of flirtation, French style, or really was a tale of two strawberries. Not sure about you, but I've always used the green bit to hold onto and chomped into the pointy end first. No! No! No! The pointy bit, apparently, is the sweetest bit and so you need, indeed must, start with the flat bit first and work your way up, saving the best for last.

Still musing over the exact nature of eating à la francaise, he was invited out for dinner that night to eat with our most charming of neighbours at the recently re-furbished restaurant across the road from our house. She insisted that they both start with a champagne aperitif and browsed the wine list to make her selection. Decision made, she called across the sommelier ... who refused to take the order. It was, he explained, not masculine enough for my husband and suggested another champagne that would fit the bill.

By this stage, I was rolling around with laughter. Strawberry etiquette and not-masculine-enough champagne. Only in France. How I love her so.

View from the terrace of the Beau Site restaurant in Talloires on the Annecy Lake

blood and tears

Today was no ordinary day.

Please stop the carnage.

Je suis dégoûtée. 

Je suis triste.

... mais 

A vos côtés.

N'oublions jamais l'Australie

April 25th - it is ANZAC Day.

It is a special day in Australia and New Zealand.

We remember fallen soldiers from past and present conflicts, give humble thanks to our serving men and women and try and imagine a world of peace and love.

Here is an excerpt from the Australian War Memorial website, describing what took place, 101 years ago: (https://www.awm.gov.au/commemoration/anzac/anzac-tradition/)

The Australian and New Zealand forces landed on Gallipoli on 25 April, meeting fierce resistance from the Ottoman Turkish defenders. What had been planned as a bold stroke to knock Turkey out of the war quickly became a stalemate, and the campaign dragged on for eight months. At the end of 1915 the allied forces were evacuated from the peninsula, with both sides having suffered heavy casualties and endured great hardships. More than 8,000 Australian soldiers had died in the campaign. Gallipoli had a profound impact on Australians at home, and 25 April soon became the day on which Australians remembered the sacrifice of those who died in the war.

Although the Gallipoli campaign failed in its military objectives, the actions of Australian and New Zealand forces during the campaign left a powerful legacy. What became known as the “Anzac legend” became an important part of the identity of both nations, shaping the ways in which they viewed both their past and their future. 

It is now 9 o'clock in the morning, here in Australia, and our dawn services, emotional, poignant and attracting ever-growing support, are over. But, in a little village on the other side of the world, another ceremony will take place in a couple of hours.

In the west of France, in Villers-Bretonneux, liberated in WW1 by Australian forces, the local school is called l'école Victoria, in honour of the Victorian school children whose fund-raising attempts helped re-build the school after the war, rows of graves of Australian soldiers are perpetual reminders of sacrifice, maps of Australia are strung in the corridors of the secondary schools, 'N'oublions jamais l'Australie' is chalked up on primary school blackboards and Australian visitors are treated as part of the family.

There, ANZAC Day will soon be commemorated. It will be in French, but another language, that of love and mateship will assist with the translations.

Let us not forget.