Noeuds

Son regard enfermé
Par les chaînes du quotidien
Je le libère

Ses lèvres enfermées
Par la pudeur des aïeuls
Je les libère

Ses seins enfermés
Dans des mètres de soie et de coton
Des tissus tissés pour nous rappeller
Notre rang et notre place
Je les libère

Son sexe enfermé
Dans un regret vieillot
Des opportunités manquées
Et des chemins de vie
Empruntés à contresens
Je le libère

Même de moi elle ne garde le poinçon
Libérée de toute contrainte
Elle prend les armes que j'ai fourbies
Et elle se libère

Car femme
Elle est toute femme
Elle n'appartient qu'au vent
Qu'aux élans de son coeur
Point du tout à ces chemins
Ni à ces tissus ni à ces habitudes
Qui finissent par transformer
Notre vie en prison
Elle se libère

En refusant tout ce poids
Du regard des autres
Elle se libère.

The Tipping Revolution

"Mediocre service from a snooty waiter" indeed. Why is it that some travellers have decided that all French waiters are rude and uncouth brutes a few steps on the evolutionary ladder below Piltdown?

I must be lucky, because my experience in French restaurants is consistently different. Is it because I am suave and charming, and exude a powerful aura of animal magnetism? I don't actually recall introducing myself as "Bond, James Bond," but that must surely be it. Unless it's simply because I smile, thank the waiter for the menu, ask questions in a polite, friendly manner, and demonstrate that, despite the evident handicap of having been born into the language of Shakespeare and the Kray brothers, I have gone to the trouble of learning a bit of French. It's true that tipping no longer exists in France - at least not at the level of restaurant I frequent - as a 15% service charge is part of every bill. Showering alms on the poor isn't the only way to show you appreciate a restaurant's service and good food.

Maybe though, just maybe, this "tipping" racket isn't such a bad idea after all. Let's tip the engine driver when we reach our destination without derailing. Or the shop girl when she manages to find a really posh pair of shoes that actually fits. Perhaps we should also tip the plumber, when he comes to fix a leak, and a year or two later it still isn't leaking. And it would be simple common sense to tip the traffic police when they let you off with a cautionary warning, instead of a hefty fine.

In my job as a teacher, there are some days when I think I really deserve a good tip. None of this shiny red apple business, you know, I mean some real dosh. Depending on how well the students tip me, I could guage my individualized response in future class sessions, giving some an encouraging smile and expert exam advice, while others got a cold stare and thinly-veiled sarcasm at their obvious lack of social graces. Imagine what that would do for improving final form results and student motivation for homework. If we start now, the next generation of power-tippers may learn that happiness and satisfaction has nothing at all to do with kind words and congenial facial contractions. Only a quick grab for the wallet can express true gratitude.

No Rain, Antlers

It was supposed to rain today. But thankfully, as is so often the case, the meteorologists got it all wrong. Blue skies with a few clouds and, most importantly, shirt-sleeve-warm weather greeted me as I sallied forth after breakfast in the improbable search for fallen antlers.

My kids were thrilled, after spending weeks cooped up inside, at their mother's house. I explained how the deer lose their antlers early every spring, and we found many trees bearing evidence of their frequent rubbing. Rose, my youngest, was intent on her task, walking slowly, off the path, looking behind every tree and shrub. Robert, eleven, seemed to have decided that every fallen branch was a sword, and that his mission was to ward off an invading army of orc-trees. Marguerite, the oldest, left her bike at the side of the trail and joined in the search after seeing how intent her younger sister was on success. If there were any antlers out there, they were going to find them.

I suppose it would be trite for me to wax lyrical about the joys of spring: the birdsong, the soft sunlight filtering down through the budding branches, the tiny wildflowers springing up here and there through the moss and fallen leaves. But after a few difficult months of the divorce process, my search at least was fruitful. I'd been worried that living apart would seriously affect my kids, maybe turn them dark and brooding, I don't know. But here they were, free as the wind, laughing, playing, full of joy and love. This is the only treasure I needed to make me a rich man.

A couple hours later, we gave up the search for antlers, and headed back home for lunch. Someone had doubtless been out that morning, or on previous days, and lifted all the booty. Rose was a little disappointed, but brightened up after I carried her, horse-and-rider style, through a few patches of thorns with a "Ta-ga-dah! Ta-ga-dah!" Our first foray into spring was a wonderful success, and I hope all of you manage to get out, away from your computers, and enjoy the wonders life still has to offer.

Cheers, --- Ben