I'm doing better here. This past week has been the first time I've been able to emotionally realize that we're doing pretty well here; I'd been realizing it financially and whatnot before but this week is the first time I felt a little bit of contentment. Uncoincidentally, it was the week the F-word got a real job.
Still had an episode
in the supermarket on Thursday, though, where tears actually came to my
eyes. The other night I'd been chatting with some people about the
relative merits of English supermarkets (they are public school types,
orgasming over how lovely Waitrose is), and I realized at this point I'd
be fucking excited to go to a Tesco. Not just in terms of the prices,
but in terms of stuff that wasn't crap. Still, I'm getting better at
using the farmers and their markets here, partly thanks to the F-word
putting in his time at the falafel stall at all of them, and I would say
we are eating really good food again now.
And we've got people here, ones who I actually like and like spending time with.
Some of them are malcontents like us, most of them have children. It's
actually good they have children because there'a a lot of adult talk I
just can't tune into, so then I can start drawing or something with the
kids. I'm enjoying it while I can. I'm told by all and sundry that when I
have my own children, I won't give a fuck about anyone else's anymore.
of the people we have here is Squidsy, whose wife did the runner with
their boy. I feel for him, though not as much as I feel for the kid. And
don't wholly not understand the wife, either. I see the impossibility
of their situation and it's going to the courts, where it belongs when
people can't communicate anymore when they need to.
do feel as though they had a massive hurdle to overcome on their way to
communcation that tripped them up utterly. Australians are the most
Anglo of Anglophones, at least that I've met so far, and that means
settling annoyances or disturbances in the continuum with, at worst,
passive aggression blossoming into violence or something close to it
once a threshold's been crossed. In terms of settling differences
through communication that's really not how the French do it - not any
of them from anywhere I've met them. At worst, it's a lot more nasty
and high volume right away - skipping the passive aggression and jumping
straight into the violent language (or flat-out violence sometimes;
France at least has a pretty high rate of wife-clobbering); just usually
not the same degree of violence as an Anglo who's really let things
To Anglos the dynamic makes Francophones look
like unstable bitches, and to Francophones I think the dynamic makes us
look like we're utterly and provokingly emotionally uninvolved, right up
until some seemingly arbitrary point, and sometimes the ensuing,
unexpected explosion is frightening.
I've been thinking of Bluebird a lot in relation to this, mostly in terms of how relieved
he seemed to get when I went ballistic on him, maybe five or six times over
the course of our 3.5 year relationship.
No matter what sort of fucking Nazi rally bloodboiling rage he was in,
once he pushed me over the edge where I couldn't ignore his shit anymore
- once I started stamping and yelling and and cursing and storming out
the door - suddenly everything was sunshine again, and usually stayed
that way for weeks or even months, and when Bluebird was sunshine he was lovely. I remember one of the reasons I decided to leave him
was because of that, actually. I just didn't want to be with a man who
was training me to be angry. Angry's fine; it's just not the sort of
shit I want in my head every day, at least not against the
person I'm fucking. Diff'rent strokes.