The rain has not, has of yet, appeared to stop since le premier decembre. Pathetic fallacy perhaps, in an early chapter of my romain de vie. But, instead of moaning about that, in what is a very British tradition, I'd like to grumble just for a moment about letting people down, which inevitably, is much worse than the weather.
In everyone, there lies a certain element of expectation - that life will not surprise you too much, that you can trust the people you call friends, that you can rely on your own behaviour - the image you have of yourself. In my opinion, no one else can understand this personal expectation; or; indeed, the way in which we all praise or punish ourselves when we make decisions that move beyond this expectation.
I'm sure everyone has, at least once, experienced that moment when a parent has been, for whatever reason, so mad at you that they couldn't even express anger, and they only managed to painfully and simply sigh, "I'm so disappointed". In that sigh, that breath, there lies an element of understanding as to how we tend to punish ourselves. And that heavy sigh of dissapointment weighs down on us, like these oppressive thick grey clouds; like this rain, that seems as if it will not cease for the foreseeable future.
My point sort of vaguely being that, when we make mistakes, or wrong decisions, and others may get hurt or become disappointed, they should find a little solace in the fact that we will all probably be punishing ourselves in a manner far worse than another could ever manage.
Unless, of course, you have no soul (perhaps more common than you might think).
I'd like now, to turn my moans and groans into something a little less encrypted, as on Sunday morning, I awoke and readied myself to leave the house to meet some friends to experience a real French nativity at the cathedral, after the morning service. My excitement was centred around the memory of having once been handed the responsibility of being chief sheep herder in my own nativity at our local church. I recalled agonising for weeks over which bed sheet to wrap myself up in, which tea towel had the best pattern to be fashioned into an elegant and chic shepherdess hat-thingy, and which of my (several) toy sheep would be given the honour of accompanying me in this prestigious role. So, I arrived with the expectation (and thus the theme is carried through) of seeing scenes from my childhood reflected in this strange, cheese-eating culture.
We followed the sound of children's voices, but to no avail - no tiny, terrifying Jesus doll, no Angel Gabriel smothered in tinsel from head to toe, nothing. The bravest of our gang was convinced to ask someone for help and we were led to the Nativity - a small group of perhaps 6 elderly people gazing intently at the wall with a small torch. . . one of those strange, unexpected moments again. . . We spent the next 15 minutes or so being told about some 16th century wood carvings and a piece of 20th century stained glass that showed various scenes from the Nativity. That theme of being let down seems to have continued through as well. . . I understood most of what the leader of the pack was saying, and it was quite interesting - at least when people visit me now, I can seem more wordly and cultured when I show them the cathedral.
In the evening yesterday, my friends that live just beyond the train station, threw a little soiree de noel. I wore a Christmassy, sparkly outfit, for those who are interested (ie: my Number 1 fan - Char Char, The Sister) and everyone had to turn up with a small, wrapped gift. Our petits cadeaux were placed in a pile on arrival and a game ensued - something about a white elephant. Everyone was given a number and each person, in order, had a chance to either choose a new, unknown present, or steal an unwrapped one that someone had already chosen. Having picked out No. 15 at random, I thought I was in the perfect position to get what I wanted, and that my chance to steal the large, chocolate Santa was secure. But, alas, a ripple effect of thievery lost me my Santa but left me not too bad off with a sausage. Needless to say, I soon hurried home to munch on said sausagey prize, and with my Dad's late night Skyped advice, made the decision to rent the flat that I had viewed earlier in the day, and leave my little studio in Le Flore behind! I sign on the dotted line on Wednesday :)
Much love and whatnot, H x
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