Yule blog

Christmas Day just isn't the same in France.

Not my view necessarily but that of the French person I know best, the woman I am married to.

"We all go back to work on the 26th so it's more like our Boxing Day," she commented as we drove back through fairly heavy traffic from Le Mans to Paris.

And it is true that Christmas Eve, the time for le réveillon, feels much more, well, Christmassy. Lots of shops were open in Le Mans and Paris today, some of them the sort of shops that might be in trouble if they thought of opening on a Sunday.

But let me forget all that for a moment and welcome my great nieces Manon and Clara into the world.

Well, they've been here for three weeks now but yesterday, deep into La Sarthe where they live with their parents, Christophe and Karline, we had our first meeting.

It made more of an impact on me than on them, but they did put up very sportingly with camera flashes and being hoisted out of their cots to be cooed over.

The twins so far have no known views on the French presidential elections, or even the Nathalie Gettliffe case, but they join me in wishing a very happy Christmas - and an even better Boxing Day - to anyone who may be up and about in the blogosphere tonight.

Christmas lesson in school catering

Nothing would have been too good for the working classes (of the Notre-Dame de la Providence school)
















School dinners were a fairly grim business in my day.

From lumpy mashed potato and even lumpier snagger - a vile turnip purée - to watery gravy and stringy meat, the fare had little to redeem it, save for the occasional chocolate or ginger pud.

Of school Christmas lunch, I have only the vaguest memory. I realise that turkey must have played its part but cannot even remember that.

In a new spirit of being kind to Canada (now that we have Bill Taylor's admission that its justice system is based on "deals"), I should share the joke he cracked when I told him a few years ago I was going to Cape Breton (Nova Scotia, not the one in France).

I look back fondly on a visit to a beautiful part of the world blessed with ample supplies of crustaceans but also beset with more than its fair share of economic woe.

"The children are so poor they have to go to school with lobster sandwiches," the sage of Toronto gravely informed me.

But if disgusting school food is a character-forming part of growing up, the pupils of Notre-Dame de la Providence school in Vincennes, on the outskirts of Paris, will turn out to be a spineless lot.

They didn't quite dine on seafood from the Marché St Honoré in the 1st arrondissement (above). But just look at the Christmas bouffe that was served up.

Menu de Noël
Maternelles & Général
Jeudi 21 décembre


Foie gras
Saumon
Jambon de pays


Magret de canard
Filet de dorade royale


Pommes smile
Poêlée de légumes


Brie

Clémentine
Bûche de Noël glacée
Chocolats de Noël



Bon appétit...

The friend whose son was offered that feast tells me he was "gobsmacked" (I preferred "his eyes nearly popped out" but they should be his words) when he saw the choices for each course.

"My school meal at Christmas was gruel plus an extra hunk of bread as a treat," he said sadly. "But that's English public schools for you."

Var humbug? Not likely. Joyeux Noël à tous

Over the coming days, I may need to beg a large degree of patience and understanding from Salut!'s faithful followers and casual visitors.

















It is not that the blog's management has decided to give me Christmas off in recognition of the long, unpaid hours of labour since the blog's launch in October. Nor is it awarding an end-of-year bonus for all that willingness to embrace new ways, new technology.

The plea of poverty is not quite the whole story in any case. In truth, I am excitedly awaiting my first payment for your clicks on targeted advertisements. There is reason to believe that the figure may well stretch beyond cents into dollars (though in low single figures).

But leave aside Christmas, arrival of daughters, family visit to Le Mans and even - on the box tomorrow - Crystal Palace vs my beloved under-achievers Sunderland.

There is the imminent move to consider.

This time next week, we shall be hitting the road in our elderly, sans clim' BMW and exchanging the famous room with a view over the Tuileries for a home from which you can see, beyond the rooftops of other houses, for miles across the hills of the Var.

Monette, accustomed to a swish, mollycoddled life as a Parisian chat d'intérieur, will have to learn about the outside world. And about other cats. We'll have to see how the geraniums get on without polluted Parisian air.

Before the removal men arrive, there are a million cardboard boxes still to fill with CDs, books, files, clothes and whatever. A mail redirection form to fill in. Change of address cards to send; "no, sir, we don't sell them, they're found uniquement à la Poste," I was told in a stationery shop though la Poste insisted they'd stopped stocking them ages ago.

If I get the chance, I will blog, but it would be unwise to make too many promises. For now, then, allow me simply to wish all my readers, supporters and critics alike, a fine festive season.

In particular, I hope that Nathalie Gettliffe is able to derive some enjoyment from her short spell of freedom, granted smartish - and rightly, of course - very soon after her repatriation to France.

She has to return to prison after Christmas, pending legal moves to obtain a more permanent release.

But as one who does not consider that French justice always works as it should, I am delighted to applaud the judge who reached the sort of compassionate decision that seemed beyond the thinking of Canadian counterparts.

Meanwhile, there is plenty of scope for comment in recent postings and the responses received so far, so don't ignore croissants, culottes, Diana and the forever growing France in Flashes.

Meanwhile, Salut! has notched up two notable new achievements this week: the total hits passed 20,000 and profile visits 1,500. That, in two-and-a-half months, isn't bad for a blog described here recently as dying the death.