From the Seine to the Swale
My thanks to so many people who have given Salut! a bright start.
The links from the farewell posting on The Daily Telegraph website and from petite anglaise and thisfrenchlife have helped and I am grateful.
Your messages have been kind and I note that Salut! has even managed to import some of my Telegraph blog's famed squabbling.
Permission sought to use the original from the seductive Swaledale site where I found it; my picture-of-a-picture must do for now
If I like to think I know a little about France and the French, writing down all that I know about the mechanics of blogging would not cover the back of a bus ticket.
But I am not quite the model for Private Eye's "p***ed old hack baffled by new technology" slogan.
In time, a commodity that suddenly presents itself to me in abundance, and with the benefit of generous offers of advice (Petite and This French Life again), I will learn how to make Salut! look more professional.
Not, however, just yet. The last nine days have naturally been difficult and chaotic. I have spent much of that period in the UK.
London's little surprise for me came just ahead of one of the occasional
invasions by the Telegraph's fashion department, filling up the paper's Paris office/apartment that remains my home for the time being.
Hilary Alexander - so well connected in fashion that on one previous visit,
Stella McCartney dropped her off outside after both had dined with Karl Lagerfeld and Nicole Kidman - and her colleagues are considerate guests.
Their sense of urgency and my professional inactivity certainly made for
something of a mismatch, but while I was relieved to escape, they cannot be blamed for driving me out.
One trip was for formalities arising from my present circumstances. The second had been planned long ago and took in a pilgrimage to my seat at the Stadium of Light and a Sunday morning walk in glorious Swaledale. And the third was linked to a farewell party (not mine; there are a few about just now).
Salut! was conceived as four of us walked along the banks of the river below the village of Reeth.
Joan Dawson, almost ready to set up as a psychotherapist after a
bold mid-life career change, asked for ideas on what to call her practice.
I asked her, since she is a French graduate and witty, to suggest names for my blog and for the website that may well follow.
Finding possible names for my sites was relatively easy. I wanted something short, Salut in the end seemed to fit the bill and the exclamation mark completed a personal conversion that I owe to the style of my Telegraph blog (I have had a lifelong aversion but the French use them all the time and simply found myself sucked in).
But what are we to call Joan's practice? Hearts and Minds? Northern Soul?
Nothing that occurred to us seemed quite right.
We were also stuck with the knowledge that one of her friends had already
come up with a title that managed to be as inappropriately flippant as it was brilliant.
Joan, another of those unfortunates devoted to Sunderland football club, wants to base herself in that city.
Her friend's suggestion? Mackem Better.
* to whom no blame attaches for the wonky Eiffel Tower or the picture of Reeth
By Colin Randall @ Friday, October 06, 2006 ¦
11 Comments:
One glance at the posting, even after my two attempts to edit, confirm the rather pressing need for the blogtherapeutic skills of my would-be mentors.
hello Colin,
sorry to hear about your job. I'd be interested to hear what you are planning to do next.
Look forward to reading more in your blog
Good luck, sir. I found out about your plight via P.Anglaise's blog. I confess that I never read your blog before that, but here's hoping to many interesting future posts.
Take care,
elchulo aka gimp
www.gimpsworld.org
(Ps: If you've not done it, DO NOT switch to blogger beta. I moved off-site because of it.)
How about:
'Peace of Mind'
'Talk it Out'
'Talk the Talk'
'Inside Out'
I have also linked to your blog, so hopefully, if we all send along some people, your blog readership will be even more impressive than it was in the dear old T.
Colin B, I suppose it's a question of standing out from the crowd, aiming at a group of people who are intimidated by dry dignity and would feel a name would be more approachable.
There are lots of different types of people out there and while you might prefer to see someone without a gimmick name, many others may be attracted to a less medical-sounding practice.
I am, in fact, in agreement with you. I prefer just a brass plaque and serious approach, but that's just me. My ex-h is a surgeon and so for me, a brass plaque is more credible than a merry name.
Whatever she chooses to do, I wish Joan luck. I was thinking I would have liked to be a profiler had I thought about it when I was younger. She's taken the plunge to change careers. An admirable action.
Personally, I like 'Inside Out' best.
hehe
It was a spur of the moment thing, Colin B. Nothing particularly recherché about it. Just bringing out that which is causing problems within. From inside to out. See? :)
Colin B, well in the context of a psychotherapy clinic, people talk their problems through in order to diffuse them and find solutions. So I am referring to problems 'inside' which once brought 'out' can be dealt with and resolved.
Thanks for perusing my blog and your kind words. I would not disagree with your assessment of the male brain, in general, as opposed to the female one. Men are good at coming up with ideas, and women are good at clearing up the mess... :D
Here via PA too.
One of the finest views in Yorkshire is coming over the south side of Swaledale from Leyburn, and seeing Reeth and the valley opening up in front of you.
I reckon in the current idiom "We're Not Shrinks"
I wore a Darlington United scarf to school in the 6th form because a)it was cold in school, and b)it is black and white and fitted in with school uniform quite cosily, I thought. It was not official school uniform, however, and I did, naturally get pulled up for it. I even had to remove it in the end despite my warnings of imminent pneumonia which went unheeded, cruelly.
Those were the days. Rebellion amounted to a skirt that was a couple of inches too long, and a football scarf. :)
Post a Comment
<< Home