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Eye Test–encore…

Just back from my annual eye test.

I used to drive ten minutes to our local town for the test with the phlegmatic and methodical M. Nguyen. He retired last year and as ophthalmologists are becoming a rarer breed I am lucky that Meredith’s doctor agreed to see me in a clinic close to Toulouse–albeit an hour and quarter drive from here.

The procedure hasn’t changed although the equipment on offer now makes for a less intimate relationship with your specialist, which may or may not be a plus.

This is what I wrote back in February 2011:

Eye Test–(15/2/2011)

Arrive–present my Carte Vitale (the card accessing the French health care system)–take a seat in the waiting room.

“Monsieur Ellis?

Put your chin on the strap please and place your forehead against the bar—look straight ahead and don’t move”.

The forced intimacy of doctor and patient is strange. As he leans forward and shines his special torch deep into my eyes, we are eyeball to eyeball. For a moment I feel like the Man in the Iron Mask, receiving a visit.

The short pause before he says–pas de diabetes [no sign of diabetes], is a bit nerve-wracking; on occasion I’ve caught myself crossing my fingers under the table—though I forgot this morning!

Phew-another year gone!

I learned early on, that managing Type 2 Diabetes involves more than watching what you eat—it’s really a head to toe job!

The villain sugar is a ruthless foe. It will take advantage of any weaknesses with alacrity, and insinuate itself into those vulnerable spots like eyes and feet if you drop your guard, causing damage that cannot be reversed….

Being tested has become part of life again. Just like schooldays.

I see Cyril for feet every three months and have a blood test to check cholesterol and glucose levels as often.

No big deal really—when your life depends on it.

Pas de diabete!   Encore phew!

Less than 15 minutes after “the summons, I had paid 27 euros for the consultation (to be reimbursed later), made an appointment for February next year and was searching for my car key outside in the cold.

Apart from the increased sophistication of the machinery the only thing different about today’s session was that I remembered to cross my fingers–still works!

Blood test next week for: blood sugar level, heart, kidneys, liver, blood pressure and prostate and Cyril for my feet.

No big deal really–if your life depends on it.

Noon.

Blue sky and no wind.

Cows in the meadow, finches and tits on the wing, lamb in a paddock.

Parsley and chives showing in a pot.

Almond blossom‘s second day out–not quite full bloom.

Crocus, daffodil and the large rosemary bush in flower.

Bees at work

Lovely combo of warmth from the sun and a scarf round the neck, for the shadows on my walk.

New Tilley hat comfortably on my head–and not a bus in sight.

Our young neighbour who runs the Mediateque de Lautrec passes in her little red car taking her baby home for lunch. We are in la France Profonde –and there are four rush hours a day! She entrusts him to the village creche in working hours.

The Postman who delivered my new hat yesterday, passes and waves as he nears the end of his rounds.

Perfect, you might say.

Except, as Meredith says, it is all a month too early.

Ten days before the end of February!

Spring is sprung officially on March 20th

Still, gather ye rose budscarpe diem and quand même–eh?!

 

 

 

Losing my hat(s)…

In Oscar Wilde’s incomparable comedy, The Importance of Being Earnest, John Worthing’s prospective mother-in-law takes him to task for truthfully admitting that he has lost his parents.

To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”

Lady Bracknell would certainly apply the same ruthless judgment to my losing two Tilley hats in the space of 14 months–both losses confirming in her mind that society was about to break down and…

“…reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution.”

It’s appropriate then, that my latest display of carelessness should have occurred in Paris.

When I realised three minutes after getting off the 69 bus at St Gervais Church in the Marais district on Saturday afternoon that I didn’t have my Tilley with me–and must have left it on the bus–I felt an urge to break down myself.

What made it doubly frustrating was that I knew exactly where the hat was. My seven-and-three-eighths broad-brimmed Tilley–faithful protector against the harmful ultra-violet rays of the sun–was still there on the seat where I’d been sitting. (I put it there to make the hard seat more comfortable.) But the bus was gone on its unstoppable way, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. 😩

My wretchedness was increased by the knowledge that this was not the first time it had happened–on a bus.

I left my first Tilley–purchased at the Grand Canyon and much-treasured as such–on a 24 London bus on my way to pick up my new passport.

The Tilley company was founded in Toronto in 1980 by Alex Tilley, a keen sailor, who wanted a “proper durable hat”, that would float, stay on the head, be unshrinkable and look attractive.

Their motto: Designed for Nature. Built for Life. 

Durable they certainly are, and wherever my first two Tilley’s are now–I wish them and their new owners, well–though that may be a curse as they are no defence against Carelessness Compounded.

Footnotes:

Lost property at RATP (Paris public transport) told me NO hat like mine had been handed in.

Postman arrived today with a package–with the NEW Tilly hat in it. 

 

Ordered online Monday–miracle of modern life–arrived two days later.

Meredith suggests I write my name and email address on the inside of the hat. Good Idea!

Brother Jack wants to open the betting on how soon I lose it.

I’m wondering what number bus it will be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dickens Museum has recently acquired some fascinating Dickens memorabilia; reading about it reminded me of my TV debut in 1967.

Mr. Dickens of London was a part-dramatised tour of the great writer’s big city haunts.

The conceit would have appealed to Dickens’s instinct for self-promotion .

It starred Sir Michael Redgrave as Charles Dickens and Juliet Mills as a tour guide whom Dickens befriends and offers to show her his London.

The first stop on the tour was 48 Doughty Street–the family’s home for two years from 1837–when he was 25 and where he wrote The Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist and Nickolas Nickleby .

“And this is Boz, young me, hard at work writing,” says Sir Michael/Charles Dickens, pointing at me! 

And there I was–sitting at Dickens’ real desk, twiddling a quill and spilling the ink, no doubt. It was directed by actor Barry Morse–who was big presence at the time on ITV as the detective pursuing David Jannsen as The Fugitive in weekly episodes. The Daily Mirror had opened a book, taking daily bets, on when Morse would track him down.

We were filming in Covent Garden–still operating as a fruit and vegetable market and an authentic Dickens location (he’d had an office in Wellington Street nearby). The porters were about to knock off work after a hard day’s night and were standing round watching the action. One of them spotted Barry giving me directions and quick as a flash shouted at him:

“You won’t find ‘im ‘ere mate–long gone!!”

The job was well timed for me. I’d been out of work for some weeks after sharing the stage for six months with another star-studded cast in a production of Sheridan’s The Rivals at the Haymarket Theatre.

A baptism of fire–straight from playing Idle Jack in Cheltenham Theatre’s Christmas pantomime.

I took over the leading part, Captain Jack Absolute, from Dan Massey.

Ralph Richardson played my father, Sir Anthony and Margaret Rutherford, Mrs Malaprop.

I was paid £35 a week and by the end I was hard up!
So this Dickens job was a gift and then more….

U.S. President Lyndon Johnson chose the night of transmission to give a major TV address to the nation. Our show went out–but the ratings persuaded the network to show it a second time.

Thus I got paid a repeat fee–which paid the rent for a few more weeks!

There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick’s hat rolled sportively before it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled over and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide.

from The Pickwick Papers by Boz (young Charles Dickens)

Losing the vote…

I just received a letter from Monsieur le Maire de Lautrec–not an everyday event.

It informs me that because I am longer a European citizen, I am not entitled to vote in either the Municipal (local) elections in March or the European elections.

First fall-out from the Brexit vote.

You must be a citizen of La France to vote in the national elections–but at least these other elections offered foreign residents an opportunity to show solidarity and involvement with their community.

It’s also fun to be part of a small town elections–the visit to the Mairie to cast our votes, joining the steady stream of familiar faces.

The relief when you show your registration card and it’s confirmed you are indeed on the register–yes, you belong here (and we have been here full-time for 20 years–30 in all).

A sense of pride when you are given an envelope and the ballot papers of all the lists–and pointed towards the voting booths.

Doing your best to remember for whom you’ve decided to vote!

Placing chosen ballot paper in the envelope, signing the register of voters, putting the envelope in the transparent ballot box–glowing with a sense of duty done.

 

No longer!

It is doubly sad for Meredith, who had been invited to join one of the lists and had already attended a couple of meetings.

It’s apparently hard to find people willing to stand in the countryside–here’s someone who is by nature public-spirited and willing to do the work–and is now excluded.

Seems crazy.

But we are trusting that by the next set of elections 2026 (My! Seems a lifetime!) we will add French citizenship to our tallythus qualifying to vote in the national, local and European elections.

Allons enfants de la Patrie!

Allez les Bleus!

 

 

Europe becomes ELSEWHERE–“over there” again, at midnight, as the UK ups anchor and sails away (or free falls from a ship in the sky!)

I was born in January 1942, so for two and half years I lived in a Europe torn apart by war,  blissfully unaware of the horrors that were happening.

I was lucky. “Elsewhere” featured strongly in my life in the 1950s. My parents were outward-looking and liked to travel, using Dad’s concessionary travel permits (a perk as an employee of British Rail). I took it in my stride; never felt scared of the idea.

My first trip in 1951 was to Paris with a school party.

We traipsed through the streets in crocodile file–two abreast.

Blissfully ignorant of what being occupied had meant for people we were passing on the pavements.

My recall is minimal but I do remember the hot chocolate in cafés and the scary view from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Two years later (summer of 1953), on our way to a beach holiday in Lloret del Mar on the Costa Brava, I remember feeling shocked seeing young boys begging on the street in Barcelona, just fourteen years after the end of the Spanish Civil War,

I remember Franco’s sinister police with their winged black helmets and machine guns keeping the beach “decent”.

I discovered the taste of an egg fried in olive oil, too.

I remember my first trip to Germany–1957–twelve years after the end of the war. I took the train to Flensburg near the Danish border and had my wallet stolen.

I remember the generosity of my German host family, who replaced the precious money I’d lost.

I remember in Spring 1961, on a nine-week tour of Europe before University, bashing steel for a week in a factory in Dusseldorf to make connecting rings for pipes and being astonished how quickly the city had risen from the ashes–just sixteen years after the end of the war.

I remember in 1961--(twelve years after the end of the Greek Civil War)–picking mulberries from the tree at a corner of the road leading into Delphi and feeling guilty, trying to wipe the purple stain of mulberry juice from my arms.

That same year, The National Youth Theatre toured Genoa, Florence, Perugia and Rome with a modern-dress production of Julius Caesar (I played a shouty First Citizen). In Rome,  Caesar dressed in a garish uniform may have been an uncomfortable sight for some in the audience. One performance finished at 2am. The producer had run out of money and refused to pay the electricians, who went on strike in the interval. None of the audience left. This was definitely “elsewhere,” we learned that night.

I remember my mother beside herself with worry that brother Jack (six-years-old) was drowning on the beach at Marina di Campo on Elba in summer 1961–146 years after the end of the Napoleonic Wars!!

“There is a world elsewhere”, I pronounced as a defiant Coriolanus–banished from Rome. A college production this time on a tour of Norway, Denmark and Germany.

By now I knew there was and I thrived on exploring it.

I was lucky.

All these early remembrances of times past and many more in the years that followed –experienced in the war-free zone of newly uniting/united Western Europe.

Increasingly and quickly, war became inconceivable within the EU–and has remained so.

Unlike the twenty years after the end of the Great War, a stabilising and unifying  organisation had emerged from the rubble.

And let’s not forget what erupted on the doorstep of the European Union in former Yugoslavia in the mid-nineties.

It was brutal, it was tribal. Neighbour killing neighbour.

A genocide in Srebrenica–8000 men and boys, massacred.

Observer columnist Andrew Rawnsley last Sunday:

Now Foolish Albion is sailing away, jumping out.

That is why I’m sad or if I’m honest–mad as hell.

 

A personal anecdote about a favourite actor–Gene Hackman–who is 90 today.

The plan was to meet in Manhattan.

I was flying from London and Meredith from Snowmass where she was doing a few downhills  with the family.

I arrived first on a beautiful early Spring afternoon and checked into the hotel on the south side of 58th street between 5th and 6th Avenues. I’ve forgotten the name but it was known as an actor’s hotel because of the location and the reasonable rates; no room service though!

[It’s no longer there.]

After parking my stuff I strolled out into the sunshine and had my shoes shined on the corner of 6th Avenue and 57th Street. As I sat sunning myself looking forward to Meredith’s imminent arrival, I remember thinking the cherry on the cake would be to take in a new Gene Hackman film that evening.

Shoes gleaming, I twinkled–toed back to the hotel to wait for Meredith.

From my room I spotted a coffee shop directly opposite the entrance to the hotel and decided to pop over, get a coffee and bring it back to the room.

As I was crossing back, coffee and a sandwich in hand, out of the hotel heading for the cafe, wearing a beautiful Hawaiian shirt and looking like he hadn’t a care in the world, to my utter amazement, came–Gene Hackman.

I managed not to drop my comestibles and continued into the lobby of the hotel.

End of anecdote, sadly.

I should be able to recount how I sat in reception and waited for the return of my hero and how I went up to him and told him how much I had enjoyed his performances over the years since Bonnie and Clyde.

No, sadly, I took the lift to my floor and sat rather dazed and ate my sandwich and drank my coffee like a gobsmacked idiot.

I had form in this regard–and Meredith just can’t understand my reticence–so un-American!

I’ll put it down to shock and shyness–but it’s silly.

He is one of the big beasts of cinema–actors you can’t take your eyes off.

Ineffable presences: Humphrey Bogart, James Stewart, my Mother’s pin-up–Gary Cooper, Cary Grant, Jimmy Cagney, Lee Marvin, Clint Eastwood, Sean Connery….

Bette Davis, Audrey Hepburn, Ginger Rogers (I’m surprised each time I catch the breathtaking brilliance of Fred and Ginger–how drawn I am to her effortless concentration), Katherine Hepburn, Ingrid Bergman….

Name your own!

But Gene Hackman is also an imposing character actor.

Contrast Detective Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle in The French Connection and French Connection 2:

with The Conversation.

So–from across the pond and about thirty years late–THANK YOU, Gene Hackman and MANY HAPPY RETURNS!!