WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE

At lunch today, I was telling my colleagues about the air hostess at Virgin Atlantic.
The one who screamed 'WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE' over the loud speaker.

I made them laugh their heads off.

That got me very smug and I continued the performance by laughing just enough myself to make them think that I'm always this funny - that it's part of my personality. I also did a little mimic.

I am still laughing at the poor lady, still smug and still incredibly proud over my little gag.

But also wondering how she managed to, in a panic state, locate the interphone, push the button, and then blurt out that information.

Then it struck me that I probably didn't have my facts right. Because, really, how could she have? Sweating, I looked the event up on the internet and realised with horror that I was right about myself. She didn't scream over the interphone. She just screamed every time there was turbulence and there were only a couple of passengers next to her who heard it. Neither did she say "We're all gonna die" but a lot more boring "We're gonna crash". That's not nearly as funny as my version.

Now I keep thinking about how all my colleagues look it up on the internet, realise I was wrong, and then start to send emails to eachother with the actual article, discussing what a pathetic attention-seeker I am, distorting facts to make them laugh.

I am torn in between putting up a casual note by the lunch table, explaining the real facts and just leaving the joke as it is, hoping that no one doubts the veracity. It's like the battle of consciences. One part of me wants to prevent my poor self from evil things said behind my back. The other one just want to continue riding on the glory of being considered as a fantastic joke-teller.

Blue cheek

G's parents have a summer cottage where they spend all their holidays. It's not actually a cottage, but a small studio. G. and I barely fit in there.

The studio is part of a lot that lines up about 20 little homes. They're all attached so you basically see your right hand neighbour, as well as your left one, every hour of the day through the holes in the fences that are situated on both sides of the houses. Three studios share one small yard. This doesn't bother me at all. It provides me with insights that not everyone spends their vacation in Hawaii.

The neighbours to the right are called Mr and Mrs Lopez. They're not old but they're not young either. They have three grown-up children who come to visit regularly with their own children. Mr and Mrs Lopez are quiet and friendly and not at all invasive. They say 'hello' in the morning and 'goodnight' before they close the curtains. They smile when you walk by.

As a couple, they represent something special to me. Because deep down under that cynical facade of preparing for divorce before getting married, I do want to spend the rest of my life with G. This couple embodies in many ways how I picture us when we're old.

They play cards in the afternoons and always have a drink before dinner. At night, they sit and talk quietly next to each other. The only thing that interupts the humming sound is Mrs Lopez' laughter. On other nights I see them walking by us in town, holding hands. Sometimes they see us and say 'hi' but most of the times they're in their own world where everyone else is excluded.

This summer, there was no Mrs Lopez.

G's mother told us that she died in June.

Arriving at the studio, we said hello to Mr Lopez. He seemed frail and I didn't know what to say. The compulsary 'ca va?' wasn't appropriate anymore. So I said nothing. Feeling bad because I don't know him well enough to give him a hug, and not little enough to pretend I don't know. Later that night I saw him standing at the gate and went to express my condoleances.

He cried in front of me.

I cried in the shower afterwards.

Then, I thought to myself that Mr Lopez is lucky to have his daughter and her two children, a boy and a girl, staying with him at a time like this. They're gorgeous. Quiet, with luminous eyes, the children stare at us through the fence. The boy never speaks. G. and I wondered if he was autistic.

The next day, I heard the first slap.

A little later in the evening the second one.

When we left a couple of days later, the little boy waved bye to us by the gate. Smiling, his cheek was blue.

I wondered, in the car home, if we should have done something. In France, it's accepted to slap your child. Not to beat, but to slap. It's a fine line. Between what's accepted and what's not. Between how much you can observe and when you have to intervene. Between to what extent grief can be the scapegoat and when you use grief as a reason to.

I wonder if the grown-up boy will think about us sometimes and blame us for our passiveness?

Skinless toe freak

It's never a good sign when you get up in the morning and catch yourself wishing it was evening again and you could get back into to bed.

I look at the signs that indicate my level of stress. And yes. They're all there. No nails, no skin around fingers, no skin around toes (yes, I peel that off as well when I'm really stressed) and everyday I find a couple of new grey hairs. My sister told me that her boyfriend's grandmother got married at 23- grey-haired. I'll aim for the same.

I think I have a new sign to add though - cramps in my right foot. Every night when I fall into bed and nearly slumber in, my foot goes balistic. It hurts like hell and when I look down my toes are all pointing in different directions. It looks really fun. I laugh and then I scream. G. helps me with the two biggest toes and I concentrate on the three smaller ones. We bend them and stretch them and after a while, they calm down. Every single one but the pinky toe. It still points slightly to the right. Even during the day. I look like a freak. A skinless toe-monster.

I should really take more time for my feet. Or for my soul.

Do some zinking, as the French would call it.

By the way, if none of my job prospects work out, I'll start working for real on a French phonetic dictionary. One that would help the English understand the French way of speaking. I have loads of words already, zriller (thriller), zout (thought), zink (think), zmizz (Smith).

It's gonna be a success!