Not so high and mighty – musings from Meria, Corsica this time!

 We are having a week’s holiday in the north of Corsica. It’s beautiful. This morning we decided to go for a hike that promised to be stunning and it was, until we reached a really high point on the cliff top where the path narrowed and the drop was not protected by any vegetation. I turned into a blob of useless jelly: stuck fast to the side, unable to go forward or back . I tried- I so wanted to go on . I was  angry with myself for being so pathetic but my heart was pounding and I felt sick. I could not look down. Sweat and tears down my face shielded by my sunglasses. Vertigo is a wicked affliction that grows and grows with the passing of time . I am no longer a mountain goat. Happier in the sea than on high ground. Oh well but really disappointed with myself ! A swim in the sea, the walk back and then we saw this that made me smile!
 Fireman on his lunch break – priceless!

Fade to grey….not likely it’s silver!

I was very excited and flattered to be asked to write a blog about my hair. You know who you are LB and thank you.  So this is the story.


I never really played around with the colour of my hair when I was younger, maybe because I  quite liked what I had: thick dark brown hair with natural hints of bronze. Yes I toyed with perms in the 70’s and 80’s- almost always a disaster  ranging from the poodle look to Louis XIV. I guess I started having low-lights in my  mid to late 30’s when the grey was begining to show and it looked good but maybe a bit like everyone else especially in my part of London. And boy was it time consuming and expensive! Every six weeks – 4 hours of a numb bum and by then roots showing after 2 weeks and me having to do a paint job at home!

Natural in my 20’s – my Dad always called me wiggy and I see why!
One of the better perms but what a startled rabbit face!


One day I just questioned and I can’t remember when exactly, maybe about 10 years ago, what lies beneath? I do recall announcing to  my girl friends that I was going to go grey.  A few raised eyebrows- has she finally lost the plot? I persevered. I was curious and I thought it might be more fun to do when my face was still youngish and I could always go back if I didn’t like it. Would I do it now with an older face- possibly not? Glad I did though.

The Process

I announced to James of Pelo in Barnes- my hairdresser then and now ( I still see him every three months when I am in London!). He didn’t bat an eyelid and said yes “we can do this.” He is brilliant and funny by the way and always manages to squeeze me in.  So I guess it took about a year. I never had it cut short but my hair does grow really quickly. We avoided that dreadful “growing out” look by adjusting the low-lights until we stopped and it was actually quite painless. Although dear son, announced one day that I had granny hair! Cheers Tom.

And the final result, I love it. I keep it long cos that is me. The few times that I have cut it short, I have normally ended up by booing my eyes out.  Am sure it’s to due to the traumas of childhood with my mother taking me to a barber’s and having it razored short.  Painful and humiliating. This went on until I was about 12.  I looked more like my brother than he did. ” My darling”she used to say “it maka your ‘air grow tikka” ( she is Italian). I have no idea if she was right or not but thick it was. When I was in my 20’s it took all morning to dry naturally, now it takes about 40 minutes.  It’s not as thick but there is still a lot of hair  so I am grateful. Also the colour is now naturally streaked, black underneath and different nuances from right to left, silver to white. No hint of yellow since I quit smoking.

Two for the price of one ! I still have hair though and little bro doesn’t.
I actually quite rocked this at the time but then I got called Spike


The Regime

I am extremely lazy. I wash it at least 3 times a week especially after exercise when it ends up soaking and clinging to my head like an old woolly hat. I use no more than twice a week, a special violet shampoo for “silver” hair ( love that, it makes me feel like a fairy!), otherwise shampoo of the moment- Frank Prevost now, condition and then (this is the secret) a  dose of diluted cider vinegar to bring back the shine and rinse. Towel dry and leave. I sometimes try to blow dry it but am useless. I get hot and bored. So I prefer to turn my head upside down and give it a final blast with the dryer.  Depending on the madness of the final result, I either leave it loose or clip it up.  I love my hair clips and there are days when I just need to do a Patsy from Ab Fab.  It makes me feel taller! Result- baby soft and shiny.

2010 off to a black tie do
and more recently. forgive the poor photo – I am not of the selfie generation

Final thoughts…it was the right choice for me . I have been stopped many times in restaurants and even in the street to say that my hair is fabulous and is it natural? I get a bit pink but am totally chuffed….

Yet again ahead of my time, it seems to be the height of fashion. Even the young in Paris and London are paying to go grey either fully or partially. I did it first girls…and I guess I am lucky, it’s maybe not for everyone.


A new arrival……and a motley crew

More musings from Marseille


See what I mean?

Twenty eight years ago today we had a new arrival in the family: our first baby –  a week early -a beautiful little girl. As I looked into her bright blue, all- knowing, all-seeing eyes ( they are still just as blue even now), I fell madly and deeply in love.  The rest of the world ceased to exist. So it was with a lump in my throat that I woke up this morning with the realisation that yet again, I would not be able to hand over her birthday gifts in person. Mothers get a bit sentimental about things like this.  Not to worry, she is coming out to visit next month and we will kick off our shoes and have lots of fun.   The 20/8/1988 was a very good day indeed, so happy birthday Loulou….xxx

Around the 1880’s (feel free to admire the link), the building I  live in used to be dormitory  for the nuns of a local convent. I’m not quite sure which one but until relatively recently much of the city belonged to the Catholic Church.  This discovery rather intrigued me and it made me think about the motley crew that are currently within these walls.  They couldn’t be more different!


Next door to us, is a very pleasant lady of Sardinian descent who was widowed young.  I don’t know her story but there are always wonderful smells of cooking wafting out of her flat.  Opposite we have some young Rumanian people packed in like sardines, even a baby or two.  We never hear a peep out of any of them and are only aware of their presence by the dirty trail left by builders’ boots that set me a-tutting . I don’t know their story either but the smells that permeate our hallway are an aquired taste. Next door to them,  is a family of maybe three or four people from I don’t where.  Very polite and very quiet.  Let’s just skip any description of their cooking odours, suffice to say it might well be broth made from old goat or donkey bones.  Entirely  possible, as I see no evidence of either creature in Marseille.


Frog’s brother lives upstairs with his partner and teenage son.  We  see quite a lot of them.  Opposite there is a lady of around my age (but she seems so much older)   Madame Bonbon to me.  I call her that as the first time I saw her, she accidentally dropped a sweet  from up above and it fell onto my head giving me quite a start.  I have never been into her flat but she does have a large poster of Betty Boop just inside her door and a peacock feather. Her shutters are never open and I suspect that housework is not her forte.  How could she have time when she is clearly busy tying little bows into her hair and applying sequins to her chest?  I lie not.  I will find a way to take a photo one day.  At Christmas, she likes to stick a (tacky) Christmas card,  addressed to all the neighbours on the wall in the main entrance. And there it stays along with her  previous ones and postcards from holidays. No one dares remove them for fear of causing offense.  Although, I do believe that the sticky-tape from some of the older ones has peeled away with the damp and whoops-a-daisy, they have found their way into the bin! This year she excelled herself by decorating all the mail boxes and the stairwell with cutsie Christmas stickers.  They have not remained. Perhaps peeled off and stored away for next time. Rumour has it that she was married to a violent man who died suddenly a while back.

More stickers for all seasons. I desperately wanted to go upstairs and take a photo but thought it might be tricky to explain if caught!



 Finally there is Madame P, the doyenne of the building.  Very frail and pale she is rarely seen.  She too is a widow.  Are you beginning to sense a theme?  I cannot comment on the cooking smells from upstairs.

Goodness knows what they make of us  Frog and the strange half English/Italian woman who arrived one day and stayed!

Chez nous

The only new arrival today was the oven two weeks past its due date!



Did I mention that I love to cook?

Well I do and  I have for  as long as I can remember.  In particular, at around the age of three, I recall mixing and mixing a sickly sweet cake mixture.  With my fat little arms,  stiff from stirring the gloop with a  wooden spoon and a little trace of cake moustache around my mouth I was more than pleased with my efforts. What heaven! And lo and behold an hour or so later, I was invited back in to the kitchen to see the finished creation – a perfectly rectangular, iced chocolate cake.

The penny did not drop  immediately, that there had been no chocolate involved in my sticky mixture but after all I was only little and everything was possible.  I have no idea when ,but my mother did finally confess that she had binned the cement cake mixture and bought the chocolate cake from the milkman.  It was a time when milkmen still delivered and offered little extras too (nothing to be read into this please- orange juice, potatoes and the odd chocolate cake!!). Nevertheless, to tiny me it was magic.

My journey with cooking continued although I am not sure quite why. Perhaps I should explain that my father was English and my mother still is (93) very Italian. I believe that my father was very excited at the prospect of having an Italian wife  who would be able to prepare him wonderful meals but alas he married a woman from Italian aristocracy who didn’t even know how to boil an egg. Apparently she ‘fessed up on their wedding night but nonetheless, I was born nine months later…

So food in our household was interesting but often erratic. My mother did learn to cook  although her heart was never really in it, yet it introduced European cuisine to us in the 60’s – a little ahead of it’s time. Lasagne, vitello tonnato, risotto, scallopine alla milanese….what wonders alongside fish fingers and sausages. When my father cooked it was traditional British fare – roasts – wonderful beef on the bone* – lovely and rare, leg of lamb ( I always used to be given that wonderful sweet bits at the end- “smakerels”). But who made the best Yorkshire pudding to go with the beef – my mother! Perhaps they were a perfect match…. to be continued cos I am tired and might just waffle…bear with if you want too

 * yorkshire pudding will have to feature at some point!




Musings from Marseille

(Warning this is not depressing although it might be interpreted as such!)

Don’t get me wrong.  I am perfectly happy.  Actually I am a bit of a cross patch today but that has absolutely nothing to do with this blog. I was talking to “dear friend” on the phone the other night.  How I miss telephone contact with friends. The only phone calls I ever get here on the landline are from my mother- guaranteed to twist my gut or make me stuff my knuckles into my mouth, to stop me  from shouting at her loony thoughts, or from people trying to sell me life insurance – as if!!   Anyway, “dear friend” reminded me that I had proclaimed a while back that I do not wish to live beyond the age of 60.  That still stands and gives me another 3 potentially good years.

Don’t get me wrong, if I happen to wake up on May 26 2019, I am not going to take any action.  If mother nature is mean enough not to listen to my simple wish of taking my last breath peacefully whilst I sleep (in my best primark pj’s!) and passing it on in a kiss to someone who really wants it, well what can I do? Nothing but this is why.

I don’t really want to get any older, not too keen on this ageing process.  I find it demeaning. Basically it sucks. I am doing my very best to stay fit and healthy: quit smoking (finally and for the very last time – 11 months ago), joined a gym in February and have refound my rhythm 2/3 times a week and boy do I give it my best.  Don’t quite cut the figure I did in my 20’s, 30’s or even 40’s but I do give it my all.  And sometimes, just sometimes I come out feeling as if I could conquer the world.  Normally though, I am just hot, sweaty and pink cheeked -ok red as a tomato! . I eat well, healthily and that comes naturally. So why?

I just figure that another 3 years will be enough. I still have dreams of having a little house here in France with flowers spilling out of pots and herbs growing in my kitchen garden. Frog dreams of having his ‘man shed’ to set up his tools and potter about on various little projects.  Who knows, that might happen in which case I might beg for an extension.  At the moment, none of this looks likely, however.  Even if this did happen, I am not really sure that I like the way this world is going.  So much violence, so much anger, so much loneliness- young and old alike.

On a purely selfish basis: I don’t want to age any more physically or mentally. I hate that I can’t read without my glasses and even sometimes with them. I hate that I have to stand back a bit from people so that they do not have fuzzy faces. I don’t want to lose my teeth, my hair or find my boobs at knee level.  I have had fun.  I have had two wonderful children and am really proud but I miss them enormously every day.  I have had two important loves in my life and some really good friends, others who have just been transient.  I have travelled – first class, business and low cost. I have stayed in some amazing hotels and some dives too.  I have seen wonderful, wonderful things. I have seen terrible, terrible things too.  I have laughed and hooted to the point of wetting myself. Forbid that this should happen in the future without laughing!  In short, I have been blessed….

How the supper party nearly got scuppered…but then I learned a lesson!

More musings from Marseille

So we finally got a date in the diary for a couple of friends of ours to come for supper last weekend. I had planned to do a delicious Moroccan tagine – chicken, olives and preserved lemons which is second to none apparantly.  I don’t like to boast but Frog lived In Marrakesh for 5 years, so he should know.


We met Frog’s brother by chance on Thursday at a local bar where we arrived for just one drink, get some fresh air and  to catch up on the week- just the two of us. Frog’s brother ( I have nothing against him) but he has the tact and sensitivity of a bull in a china shop or as they say in France “comme un elephant dans un magasin de porcelaine”.  I think that this image is actually  much more forgiving.

Suddenly our cosy evening for four, turned into a barbeque soirée, in the garden of one of their sisters, for nine people. I made mutterings about it how it might just be a tad rude to alter things especially since we had cancelled our friends last time when another sister was in town.  Don’t get me wrong, I love the way this family has welcomed me with open arms and I love spending time with them. There is always lots of laughter, great food, rivers of wine and a sense of belonging. I just didn’t want our evening to be hijacked. Our contribution was to be all the meat and some salads. No comment.  Frog said how lovely it would be to all eat outside.  Don’t forget that we have neither a garden nor a balcony attached to our teeny weeny pepperpot sized flat.  So I stopped making a fuss and just decided to go with the flow, not without, however, stamping my foot first by saying that I would not be preparing any food.

Needless to say, I spent Saturday afternoon preparing baby aubergine beignets (delicious) and Portuguese style carrots ( good but not the same as I used to eat in the Algarve.)  I gave in as we were stuck waiting for our new oven to arrive and thought that I might as well do something useful.  Oven never did arrive and do you know what ? I was  not even surprised, I felt it in my bones from the moment I woke up (inspite of an alloted time slot).  Thank you DARTY- it’s the last time you mess with me.  Oven hasn’t even arrived at the warehouse yet! For goodness sake – service, service? Happy to take money but not deliver…

However, the evening was great fun in the end. It was lovely and warm and for once I wasn’t attacked by mosquitos- are they getting used to my blood? Lesson learned: just stop trying to control everthing and get on with life….Still not sure why we had to provide all the meat though!

aubergine beignets



Photo I sent to Frog’s sister saying what a nice evening we had in her garden during her absence.  She laughed.

Thoughts please….



August in a ghost town

More musings from Marseille


August is here again and after the excitement of the annual jazz festival at Palais Longchamp the city has become eerily quiet.

The Seal concert that we went to  last Friday  at Palais Longchamp was just brilliant. It was a balmy night and the setting  was stunning.  Seal did not disappoint either: a mixture of old and new delivered with energy and real passion. I have been listening to his music all week ever since; in the gym as I have pounded away  and at also at home – full blast!  Frog, I sense, is becoming slightly bored and has resorted to wearing his headphones most of the time.  Maybe it’s just to drown out my off key warbling.  I never really know the words to songs anyway, which I admit,  must be totally annoying.   Just as well he has a good quality headset that drowns out both my “singing” and my talking.   I know, however, I know that he is listening to Shakira and Selena Gomez.  Perhaps I shall dedicate next week to singing along to Justin Beiber and then he will be sorry…

Seal sang for a blissful 2 hours

Anyhow,” I seem to have digressed”, a nod to the late Ronnie Corbett  as I push my glasses back up my nose.  Marseille is particularly quiet in August, like so many cities in Europe, everything shuts for the holidays. So those that stay tend to be office workers, tramps and pigeons. I don’t think I fall into any of these categories but then I never did (forgive what I’m about to write next as it’s truly dreadful) like to be pigeon-holed . Yuk- get a grip!

So on Thursday morning, I set off for one of the local flower markets to find a replacement for the extraordinally beautiful orange lillies that had lasted me a whole week – 5 stems for 5 euros – a snip! No market. On holiday!


I did find some wonderful mini aubergines that will serve as a replacement for flowers until I cook them

Next stop -my favourite butchers that has a walk around counter with wonderfully presented cuts of meat. Unlike most of it’s competitors, not a feathered chicken,or rabbit head in sight. That  makes me heave and  I could almost consider the idea of becoming vegetarian.  The whole place is spotlessly clean and the  jovial staff are usually discussing recipes. Alas, they too were shut.  Ditto the fishmongers. Are we meant to fast this month? Luckily the supermarkets stay open and some until quite late but it’s not the same. They are even open now on Sunday mornings for those that aren’t organised enough to plan the weekend’s food on Saturday i.e. me!

Closed metal shutters with “annual  holidays” to be found all over town.

Will I ever get used to shop hours here anyway? Like much of Europe, they tend to open late ( after 10.00am), shut for a longish or really long lunch and stay open until about 7ish or whenever they fancy. This includes La Poste. I should be greatful that proper post offices still exist here, unlike the UK but the timing just doesn’t suit me . I am not on holiday and I need to get things done.*

As the month rolls on in this blistering heat, only interrupted by the rather angry Mistral wind (it plays havoc with my already unruly hair) , I know that I shall get used to the emptiness around  and by September when people return to town, back to work and back to school, I shall feel a slight resentment for this noisy invasion.  Well there is no pleasing some…..!

*For those of you that read my previous blog – The Rant part 2 ” and are anyway interested, I did finally got my toothbrush charger but mysteriously I found a slip in my post box to say that the postie had tried to deliver my package on Tuesday. Yet this slip did not appear until Saturday.  Très bizarre! So another trip to La Poste to collect it, that is when they reopened after lunch.



Introducing Mr Chicken Wee-Pants


So we had “metro” man and various other categories over the years . I would like to propose another one if I may … Mr Chicken Wee- Pants and at his very worst he will be Mr Chicken Wee-Wee Pants. This is a man that is definately masculine, forthright if not bullying in his opinions ranging from sports, politics, economics, the future of the world, gay marriage etc…. yet… He is also not adverse to a facial, a manicure or a pedicure during which he squeals like a piglet!  Put him infront of something slightly scarey on screen and I mean slightly and he turns into a mush of fear, cowering behind all cushions available, looking between scissored fingers and gripping on to legs of anyone next to him. Well really Mr Chicken….!

The Rant – Part 2!



It would seem that getting a parcel from the UK to France is a very tricky affair, especially if the sender has paid extra to ensure it’s arrival.  I am beginning to think that the French customs at Roissy ( goodness knows where that is), see a package that is marked “suivi” and they clap their hands in glee …”allez on va s’amuser” as they twirl their moustaches!

Last year “dear friend” sent me an innocent package : a book and a lilac scented candle, knowing how much I love the smell of lilac trees in spring.  It was posted in April using a superior and  what I imagine to be  an expensive courier system.  I finally got to open my parcel in June after many visits to La Poste, phone calls and emails- grrr!

This time it’s a case of having left my toothbrush charger in London at my daughter’s flat.  Good daughter posted it immediately  by recorded delivery on July 9th .  It arrived in Rouissy again (the home of all confiscated parcels) on  July 12th.  How the hands of the customs men must smart after all their glee clapping and twirling of moustaches! So last week, realising that my toothbrush was fast running out of juice, I decided to chase up my package.  Many hours on the phone ensued: answering various automated options and surprise, surprise, I was actually understood; only to reach  a message telling me that there were no available representatives to help me at the moment.  They were obviously all off dancing with the twirling moustachioed customs men!  I persevered as is my wont when faced with a challenge like this, knowing all too well that I will end up red faced, cross and having achieved little else during the day.

Finally, I got through to a very charming lady of probably African decent and with both of us having foreign accents, it took us a while before she could track my package . Success it was in the system! Failure it was not a package but a letter after all and so she could not help me!  How can a toothbrush charger be classed as a letter? I would have to telephone the same number again and repeat the process. Bonkers! And of course all lines were too busy to deal with my call.  No doubt by this time, all phones were off the hook and every one was having a very merry time indeed! The next option was to send an email outlining my plight. I cannot tell you how hard it was to find the email link, so deeply buried was it in the website but years of watching detective series proved to be very useful indeed.  A couple of days later, a reply pinged its way into my mailbox.  A loose translation was “dear Madame” if you feel that your letter has been lost then please get in touch with the Royal Mail. Double grr and shaking of fists! A very apologetic and” I know this is ridiculous  but” message to Royal Mail  was sent and a very swift reply arrived. Basically if there is no sign of my toothbrush charger after 20 days after the day it should have been received, then a number of steps can be taken by the sender to get compensation from the UK.  All very clear ,so hat’s off Royal Mail or “chapeau” as we say in France.  Some translations are almost exact but not many!

So reader, if anyone has actually lasted this long, I gave in and bought another electric tooth brush – a basic one with no timer but the charger works on my slightly more flashy one.  Toothy pegs are shiny and squeaky clean but I have not given up.  August 20th is the day when a claims process can be put in motion, funnily enough my daughter’s birthday.  Sorry, I will double check not to leave anything behind next visit.

In the meantime, “dear friend” has sent me another “tracked parcel.  I might just have to invest in some moustache wax, a bottle or two of decent wine, don my dancing shoes and pay a visit to the depot in Roissy. A bientôt!



From highbrow to eyebrow….


Highbrow bit (well almost)

So I moved to Marseille just over three years ago from  a quiet residential area in south west London. A solid, 4 bedroomed house with loft extension, decent garden front and back and now…

A tiny but charming first floor flat above a restaurant that has now closed permanantly. The Italian that ran it has run off back to Italy leaving a string of debts.  Opposite we have a new family run pizza restaurant which is good, a trendy wine bar which is kind of New York style and a  Domino’s pizza for the cardboard eating youngsters of the area. It’s buzzy without being too loud.   None of these  eateries, however, reflect the wonderful French cuisine of Provence. Yet pizzas are a real  favourite in this town.  From  proper restaurants, take-aways  to  vans, there is never a problem in finding a slice of pizza to eat.  Not great for the waistline, so I tend not to indulge.

However,  there is something completely different at the end of  the road. It’s less than a minute’s walk away if you are from London and 5 if you are local. It is  the majestic  Palais Longchamp – a bit like having Buckingham Palace next door without the security or the Queen. It houses  the musée des beaux -arts and  a natural history museum. Neither of which I have visited …yet!  It also plays host to the annual jazz festival.  I have tickets for the Seal concert this year, so a picnic in the park and some good music  will be enjoyed. I can’t wait!   Th palace gardens purport to be one of the most notable in France. I’m not really sure that I’d agree with that although it provides a home for some of the city’s best fed,  smug looking cats.  Like furry Christmas baubles, they hang from the trees, sprawl across the benches and stand guard in the bushes.  The gardens clearly belong to them.


Only two cats to be seen but they all look alike anyway.  Not smug on Monday as the stages were being constructed for the concerts this week.  So miffed moggies of Marseille!

Our road  (actually its a Boulevard- how grand!) is on the route for one of two tramlines in the city.The trams start at about 5  in the morning and they call out ‘ting ting’ to me every time they pass our window- I love how friendly they are. If I were ever to feel the need to escape, I could just jump out of the window, land on top of one and arrive at Le Vieux Port where a speedboat would be ready to take me to wherever – like they do in films.  As if!

The Great Escape
Le Vieux Port

Eyebrow bit

 I have never really paid  much attention to my eyebrows,  although I did have a brief attempt at plucking them when I was about 15 with rather unusual results.  So I left them well alone after that, feeling that in this particular instance,  Mother Nature had given me exactly what was right for my face.

After many years of wearing  a fringe, I recently decided to alter my look , mainly because it has always flicked up in the wrong places. So the  side sweep!  Hmm .  I was  quite liking this new look but something wasn’t right.  I finally realised that the eyebrows were sad and crying  out for attention after years of neglect. No, they had not turned bushy but just a bit faded and depressed.  Can eyebrows look depressed even?  So I  did some research. Who knew that eyebrows are such a hot topic?  What next, earlobes?  I never give them much thought either. Anyhow, I  bought myself a brow  pencil with a special brushy thing   that has a name (can’t remember and not that bothered) and a waxy stick that sets the brows in place.  Now it takes me double the time to do my make -up and I have to put my glasses on to do the eyebrow bit as I can’t really see anymore . Yet  even with my glasses on, I do risk ending up looking a bit like Groucho Marks . It’s so hard too know just when to stop. Perhaps I should just go back to the fringe?