”It’s the sugar,” said my friend Martha reaching into the freezer for a bottle of vodka.
“It’s the sugar in the wine that gives you the hangover.”
We are standing in her kitchen a few evenings after we both attended a very raucous affair where I, it appears, drank too much because I couldn’t function properly for a few days after. I’m not talking about getting drunk here as there is nothing so deeply unattractive as a drunk woman, I’m just talking about having a good time and drinking a tad more than the daily recommended allowance dictated to us by the nanny state.
“How much did you drink?” she asked kindly almost masking the incredulity in her voice.
Martha is tall and blonde and savvy . She worked out long ago that wine gives her headaches and makes her feel lousy but spirits, in particular vodka, are her friend and can be drunk with little side effects.
“Around three glasses of wine with the dinner.” (I didn’t like to mention the glass of champagne prior to the red wine as well, it sort of slipped my memory standing as I was next to this alpha woman).
“Did you have a headache?” She continued
“No, just that yucky liverish feeling and no energy for two days!”
A horrified look flitters over her face. “Were you hungry the next day?”
“Yes, famished.”
“Sugar does that,” she said shaking her head wisely. ”Sugar and Alcohol don’t mix! The only remedy being a hot night on the dance floor. Burn baby burn!!!!” She intoned clinking ice into her drink.
I like to drink. I like a glass of red wine at night, even if I’m all alone. And I like to drink when I go out socially. In other words I don’t want to give it up. It is one of my few vices along with watching Oprah. But alas, excessively bad-tempered and humourless in the days following a night out, are not doing much for my reputation and obviously my liver just ain’t what it used to be.
But here’s the thing. One: Brits don’t abstain, it is our/my social oil. Two: Some occasions, it has to be said, need a little buzz going just to get through them. Ever been to a nightclub sober? Christmas without a drink? It is a depressing thought.
What I really need is a spare body part. I need a new liver to strap on every time I’m out having fun, a sort of medical bum bag, a cute little Geisha Girl’s hump which can be thrown away – along with the hangover – once home. In the meantime whilst I wait for medical science to catch up, if you see a middle-aged woman flinging herself around a dance floor at a party don’t worry, you know it’s only me, burning baby burning!!!
Friday night and it’s my turn to do the ballet run down to Nyon, the town on the lake. Three 10 year old budding ballerinas all tutus and hair nets pile excitedly into the back of the mini and off we go. There’s Léa the girl from the auberge who never lets a silent minute go by, Courtney the shy one whose voice is barely audible above a whisper and my Lexi listening and waiting in the wings to draw Léa back into line when her hyperbole gets out of hand.
I love Léa. She is a reality star in the making. Her mum Nathalie is a kind, sweet natured woman from the Valley doubling up as Maître D’ of the auberge. Dad is the French chef in the kitchen full of noise and laughter and ascerbic wit barely, but just,remaining on the side of politesse. Léa has a good deal of her father in her.
She is a great raconteur and many of her stories are no doubt apocryphal but only a miser would point that out to a ten year old. My favourites involve her two giant rabbits Mommy G. and Marshmallow - which she pronounces Mashmalloooooowwww. These two enormous rabbits, about twice the size of a domestic cat, are allowed to roam freely in their appartément above the auberge; a chaotic tumble of rooms which she shares with her morose brother and nice older sister. This particular Friday she tells us the story of the time Mommy G., or it may have been Marshmallow she wasn’t quite sure, decided to wander downstairs into the restaurant and caused mayhem amongst the diners.
Cue Léa’s impersonation of an English woman, which entails lowering her voice but raising her nose, rushing into the kitchen.
“EST Il NORMAL monseigneur, ZAT ZER IZ ZE RABBIT IN THE RESTORRRANNNTT????!!!!”
(This leads Léa’s mind to jump to Gad Elmaleh the Moroccan-French stand up comedian who is a personal hero of her’s and rare is a Friday night without his name mentionned).
“Il va en Angleterre et tout ce qu’ il sait dire c’est quelques phrases d’anglais appris à l’école. (the first time Gad goes to England with his school boy English all he can remember to say is)
Ver iz Brian?”
“Where,” I say correcting her, the English teacher in me unable to resist.
“Verrrre.” she replies only slightly put out. ”Ver iz Brian? Brian iz in the kitchen. Ver iz Jenny? (Brian’s sister) Jenny is in the Bathrooooooommmmmm. Et il rencontre une fille qui s’appelle Jenny (He meets a girl called Jenny in England and all he can say to her is). Vot are you doing here? GET BACK IN ZE BATHROOOOOOMM. Ahhahahahahaha. C’était trop marrante.”
She is still talking when we pull into the car park of the auberge.
“Au revoir Léa,” I say.” “Ah oui. On est là,” she says disappointedly. “Alors bon weekend les filles.”
I drive up to the top of the village to drop Courtney and then back home in complete silence.
Weather terrible. Cold and damp. My purple lilac has been destroyed by the torrents of rain. Sophie-G. sitting her IGCSEs. I drive back and forth to the school donning out encouraging phrases: don’t forget to breath (!); don’t just sit there at the end read through it all and the eternal, make sure you show the workings out in the margins. In between I read, continuing my research.
London is like an onion. Layer after layer of history and interesting facts. When we were house hunting I asked why all the fireplaces were blocked up or not in use and I was informed that it is illegal to light a fire at home in London and that all the chimneys are defunct. No one could tell me exactly why but I suppose it has something to do with the fear of the return to the days of smog. Since the great fire of London in 1666 which raged for three days and destroyed over 13,000 dwellings, 87 churchs and St. Paul’s Cathedral, thatched roofs were consequently banned and the only thatched roof to be found in London today, for which a special permit was obtained, is that of the recently constructed replica of Shakespeare’s Rose Theatre, The Globe on the South Bank.
Perhaps it is because I have lived a quiet life for the past sixteen years in this small farming community that I find myself so engrossed and fascinated by the rich historical facts and idiosyncracies of my next home. I recently read this about London which has crushed any lofty ideals I may have formed during my absence over the years:
“There is a lingering idea among tourists that London is a place of Victorian propriety, full of well-mannered, uptight ladies and gentlemen. Apart from a very brief 19th century flirtation with moral rectitude, the character of the city has always been base – drunkenness for its own sake is still very much a London pastime, as is fighting. This wildness and cruelty was at it apogee in the eighteenth century, when a man could be hanged for stealing spoons.”
That’s a relief. Moral rectitude has never been my forte.
Another fascinating fact. Do you know where the word “tip” originates from? If you go to the Twinings Tea Museum in The Strand you will find out.
“The most remarkable exhibit is a plain wooden box bearing the initials T.I.P. – short for “To Insure Promptness”. Patrons of coffee houses (where tea was first served) would drop a few pennies into these boxes to encourage swifter service”.
Mr. Jules likes that last one as he can add it to his interesting facts about the UK knowledge base alongside the origins of the term POSH.
My preparations to depart at the end of the coming summer are many fold. I am reading London by Edward Rutherfurd – a massive tome so I read in segments of four pages a day – and a charming little book entitled I Never Knew That About London! Do you know why in England they drive on the left?
“The British custom of keeping to the left had developed from jousting when competitors needed to keep their javelin or sword hand free to meet the oncoming horseman. As most people were right-handed this meant passing each other on the left. The Continental custom of driving on the right was introduced ty the Emperor Napoleon, who was left handed. Since it was he who established the first road system across most of Europe, right-hand drive was adopted on the Continent.”
Another thing I have taken to doing is looking out of the window during this gorgeous spring and thinking, I won’t see those two shades of lilac offset against Monsieur Extermann’s glycine against the backdrop of the 1830s church tower next year. Nostalgia already before I have even left. Is this not human nature? At least it is my nature. Always thinking about what we don’t/can’t have. But I’m lucky as this house will still be ours and I can always come back for my lilac fix next year, all being well.
The response to our move has been greatly supported in general by our friends and family although I have had some strange reactions ranging from the subtle “How will Mr. Jules survive under the drizzle of London?” (er…the same way he survives under the drizzle of Geneva?) to the more outlandish “London men are dirty, they never change their suits.” (Real men don’t give a toss about these things).
Tonight we will drive up to Mont Pelerin and have dinner with some old friends of ours over from Dubai. Fed-up with the glitzy Emirate they had applied to emigrate to Vancouver and now have cold feet and are thinking of moving here with their young family. They are Lebanese, educated and generous. Some of my best memories of the Dubai days are the evenings spent with them and now just as we prepare to leave they think of coming here…It is as if there is a conspiracy to hold me back; the lilac conspiring to be the deepest most vibrant purple colour and new friends arriving. But, I tell myself, new friends await us and the lilac will be replaced by bluebells in the woods near my mother’s house.
The grass will not be greener, it will be a completely different colour and I’ll be keeping my sword hand free to meet the oncoming horseman.
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. April has been a fun month, a trip to London to exchange on our flat, some interesting work: editing a voice over, translating a brochure and writing an article on the Montreux Jazz Festival. And if that wasn’t enough the cherry blossom and lilac are blooming in my garden under a warm spring sun. And now it is as if the great film directors in the sky have gone off to direct someone else’s life and pressed PAUSE on Jules Ritter (that’s enough for that one for now). So I go with it. I wash ski suits, emptying pockets of ski passes, lip salves, coins and used handkerchiefs. I make neat piles of clothes to be given away to charity. I take my oleanders out of their hibernation and I clean out my potting shed, sweeping the year’s dust and cobwebs into a big sack. Inbetween I go for a run, get my legs waxed, buy groceries, go for a catch-up hike with a friend, go to Heidi’s for hot yoga, cook and make an appointment for the dog to get her hair cut.
It’s nothing new. Many, many years ago we got up and cleaned our caves – threw out the old bones and perhaps with a few twigs and a bit of blossom made a decoration for the corner or strewed petals over grass mats used for sleeping on. (This is where I hear you all snigger at my version of life as a cave dweller with pot pourri and bedding). So whilst I wait for the next bit of karma to come my way: completion on the flat, some writing work, I make lemonade and happily clean my cave.
Weather terrible. Cold and damp. My purple lilac has been destroyed by the torrents of rain. Sophie-G. sitting her IGCSEs. I drive back and forth to the school donning out encouraging phrases: don’t forget to breath (!); don’t just sit there at the end read through it all and the eternal, make sure you show the workings out in the margins. In between I read, continuing my research.
