Inspector Clouseau

I’ve been at it again,  spying on the Swiss.  I set myself up at a table in Place Molard, Geneva, opposite Zara, dark glasses firmly affixed and waited.  It wasn’t quite the lunch time crowd so they arrived in dribs and drabs but as usual the women of Geneva with their nascent talent for chicness - not one blessed on me born into a family of women where an outing to Marks and Spencers was treated with excitement verging on religious fervour - did not disappoint.  Chic women of all ages appeared in my vision wearing this year’s trends à la perfection.

Being a woman with fashion and glamour hard-wired into my evolutionary biology, I approach each season with a mixture of excitement, disdain and a heavy heart.  I get very confused and thus shopping trips are not particularly efficacious. Wedges or ballerinas and if wedges how high?  With skirts or under trousers only?  Elephant wide jeans Kate Moss style or is it still skinny jeans Kate Moss style?  High or low waist? Hipsters I believe they are called but only designed for those who don’t have any.  And colour is in this year: canary yellow; bright blue; acid green but which one?  I should just wear beige.  Nice, safe, comfortable beige.  Taupe, ficelle, camel, any shade of boring, bloody beige and some nice flat shoes.  But soon I am brought back by that bit of evolutionary hard-wiring - that no doubt had me fighting over the best bits of fur in the cave days and keeps me chasing after the right look every season - because success in the fashion stakes is a feeling that flies straight to the blood stream.

Some years I think trends are all a conspiracy by the fashion industry.  I wonder if we are all not perceived as lemmings, they design something hideous say those puff ball skirts that made us look like bumble bees or this year’s ludicrously über stilettoes, and then laugh their heads off as the skirts fly(!) off the shelves and we crash land.  But then again the catwalk is not something I can aspire to anyway being on a budget like the 99.9% of the population and thankfully not stupid enough to blow the cost of a decent family holiday on a half hour in Gucci.  If you are one of those who get sniffy at the very idea of Zara or any high street chain store then read no further. 

A lesson in how to wear this year’s acid green from a passer-by

The Swiss are not the petite French or the elegant Italians, they are from farming stock so whatever your body shape you will find it on the streets of Geneva although a well toned and slim version of the pear, apple and rhubarb.  When I tire of watching Geneva women I go into Zara, hone in on the really glamorous shoppers and follow them around.   They look a little embarrassed to be in there preferring to give the impression that they only visit designer stores but in general the more embarrassed they look the better they are at picking out the really good pieces.  There was a sixty something with that telltale permanent grin facelift in Zara the other day and she looked phenomenal, from behind.  I crept around and took note of all the things she took into the changing room.  She definitely had the eye for the cutting edge article that looked good on her and could pass for designer, shame that ability didn’t also prevail when she was shopping around for a plastic surgeon but then again walking two paces ahead of everyone is not such a bad price to pay for looking twenty years younger.  

Take my advice spend a couple of hours on a busy street in Geneva and all your fashion queries will be answered.  This will save you some serious dosh and is much more informative than any fashion magazine.  Let the Swiss do all the work for you but failing that and as this is Heidi land you could try a nice dirndl, a beige one. 

Copyright Jules Ritter May 2008 

The Land Where Children Are Still Free

Summer has come early.  My black tulips are still holding out and the sweet smell of purple lilac peppers the air.  It is warm enough for summer dresses over bare legs for school as the green line of new foliage creeping up the foothills behind the house rushes daily towards the summit.This Swiss village takes on a whole new life in the summer as we all emerge from hibernation, open our doors and windows wide to let the world in.  Duvets are hung out to air, voices echo from the square of people stopping to chat by the fountain, and the children run from house to house, from garden to garden to playground and football pitch and back again.  Salut, Ca va? Tu vas où?  Attends, J’arrive.  All this to the background of tweating, warbling, frenzied birdsong.  

Suddenly three children appear along with my own, Lexi.  Grubby and out of breath, their faces pink with the first signs of summer sun, hungry for a “gouter” (4 o’clock snack)  and to dip their feet in our still cold pool.  I feed them, then they all run off ostensibly to find Titouin, or Kevin or Anaelle.  I wonder, as I watch them fly past the big Cedar tree on scooter, bike and foot if they realise that the real journey of discovery is the one taking place inside of them. 

This is how, luckily for us, life is for an eight year old child growing up in a Swiss village.  I read in the Sunday Papers of Lord Winston’s lamentation that English children are pampered and lack activity, kept indoors for fear of danger.

“Perhaps we should stop being so frightened of what could happen and give our children the freedom to be just that, children,” he told the Sunday Telegraph.

Perhaps, the crime rate is low enough here for us to feel less worried or perhaps it is because we still have that sense of community that looks out for one another, feels responsible for one another’s children.

It takes a village.  And so you feed, look over any child that comes your way because such kindness is reciprocated in all the other houses.   Alexia often returns with signs of an ice lolly around her mouth or a plaster placed over a cut or sun cream applied to burnt shoulders.    

It isn’t all roses.  A few years back my eldest daughter then around 10 years, was walking our dog home at dusk on an Autumn evening when a car pulled up and the driver tried to entice her into it.  Luckily she had the instinct to flee.  The police came with a child psychologist who had a friendly chat with her.  The school and nearby communities were informed and I in turn mentionned it to the local mothers.  It was taken note of, as a family we talked about it, but then it was over.  One nut-case was not allowed to destroy or restrict the freedom of happy children’s lives.  A freedom that has been around for centuries.

In the winter in the bleak months before the snow arrives, I yearn to live in a more happening place, to have more than the village shop on my doorstep, to go out for Sushi or to the cinema without having to get in the car.  In the summer it is an entirely different story.  The beauty and stillness of the landscape are unsurpassable, with a song score that is mostly silent interspersed with the sounds of a community living in harmony together bringing up their children and allowing them the freedom to discover life.  

Copyright Jules Ritter May 2008

Wild Hogs

I can’t stand it any more but finally he is leaving.  Tomorrow Mr. Jules will embark on a motorbike trip around Switzerland.  He is thinking Ewan McGregor in Long Way Down/Long Way Round.  I’m thinking John Travolta in Wild Hogs.  Along for company are mates Brian, pushing seventy and Robert who hasn’t been on a bike for twenty years.  Definitely Wild Hogs.”Don’t let life get too staid.  Every now and then you’ve got to slap the bull.”

Preparation for this trip has brought all his Swiss stereotypical qualities to the fore.  Did you know that one of Mr Jules’ forefathers was Logistics Manager to Hannibal and his elephants when crossing the Alps?  Organising and preparing is in every drop of his blood.  Thus the house has been full of maps.  The marital bed has been full of maps.  There have been mutterings of rain and strange new words: Splügen; Bernina and Chur.  

The German speakers of Switzerland and Mr. Jules is one of those who make up 65% of the Swiss population, are excellent worriers.  Deep in their genetic code is a DNA thread that makes them suspicious of anyone, including themselves, who has a good time. 

To combat this “it will all end in tears” attitude they prepare for every possible disaster.  So discussed at length have been bad weather itineraries, sunny weather itineraries, breakdowns, food poisoning and attacks by killer bees .  Every possible plausible happening has been taken into account, au cas où and a list has been drawn up of every Ducati, Harley and Honda garage in the whole of Switzerland and most of Northern Italy (in case they get lost I presume).

Worryingly he has bought a pair of trousers that look like Jeans on the outside but on the inside are coated in a layer of not-so-comfy Brillo pad.  He walked into the kitchen this week sporting a pink bandana which was immediately vetoed by the kids as ”eeewwww poofy.”  (This is one of the advantages of having children they can tell your partner things that you would never dare to mention.)

He and Brian have spent the best part of the afternoon polishing their bikes.  This is the conversation I heard through the window: 

Brian: “My Ducati is the faster bike, there’s no doubt.”

Mr. Jules: “If I had wanted to go faster Brian, I would have taken a plane.”

Brian also showed me where bikers keep their extra socks and pants when pushed for space - a fact that will come in very handy one day I am sure.

So The Pretty Way Round sets off tomorrow and I for one can’t wait.

Copyright Jules Ritter May and sunny! 2008

Part 2 of Kirsty’s Toad in the Hole or How to Survive and Thrive in a Bi-Cultural Marriage

My own Swiss husband, Mr. Jules, has never really got to grips with anything in batter and Britain’s culinary backbone the roast dinner – too many vegetables and over-cooked meat swimming in a sea of Oxo gravy  is how he describes it – is a challenge but he eats it.  I in turn eat his beloved Viande Sechée, thin slices of air dried beef which taste, to me, like dead donkey.  

I bet the British singer Seal eats his German supermodel wife Heidi Klum’s sauerkraut with inwardly a shudder but outwardly without a murmur. What about newly-weds Sarkozy and Carla Bruni?  Is he dying for a soothing white bean Cassoulet when she serves up a bowl of pasta for the umpteenth time?  At least Madonna and Guy Ritchie do not have this problem.  On her macrobiotic diet mac ‘n’cheese doesn’t even enter the Ritchie household.

Ernesto and Kirsty

When Ernesto Bertarelli fell for his down to earth English lass, Kirsty Roper, a former Miss UK, whom he presumably did not marry for her cooking skills, he had no idea that she, just like any woman in love, would one day want to feed her husband and therein lies the problem.  Having been brought up on his Italian mother’s food, I can’t imagine Ernesto has the appetite for anything coming out of Kirsty’s kitchen and he could even be forgiven for believing that she was trying to kill him.

The Swiss Can’t Tell Jokes 

All marriages are a compromise but bi-cultural marriages more so than others.  It’s not just the food that can be a challenge it is also communication and I’m not talking language barriers here as I’m sure like myself Kirsty’s French is up to scratch and we all know from the television interviews that Ernesto can speak English.  It’s more the ease of communication which can sometimes be a struggle.  For a start whole childhood references fall flat.  “Here’s one I made earlier” just doesn’t make it with someone who wasn’t brought up on Blue Peter.  Such catch-phrases just fail miserably to get me a laugh and my husband gives me a look of exasperation as if he is in no doubt he made the biggest mistake of his life by marrying me.

As for nuance, hints and sarcasm you soon realise this is a concept they are not au fait with.  If, for example, you say “It would be really nice to receive a bunch of flowers now and again.”  What you will get is a bunch of flowers at six month interludes.  Ditto for “Oh I’ll do the dishes/clear up then,” said in a sarcastic voice.  You will be percieved as volunteering.  Speak slowly in sentences that can be broken down into mini-bites and spell out exactly what it is you want in Janet and John speak and the penny will drop, maybe.  As for irony don’t even go there it is a complete waste and yours and his time.

The Swiss don’t tell jokes by nature, the term Swiss Comedy being universally agreed to be an oxymoron.  They won’t be the first to crack a joke to break the ice at a party or make a funny speech but over time as he gradually appreciates the British culture more and more, my Swiss husband has come to love our sense of humour and famous dry wit.  He is now a huge fan of Black Adder and The Office.  Perhaps likewise Ernesto and Kirsty settle down of an evening to watch Little Britain and Catherine Tate with a bottle of Bolly and…a Shepherd’s Pie.

The Swiss Are Incapable Of Laughing At Themselves

Which leads to awkward social situations where rather than laughing along with you and thus quickly diffusing the problem/situation they only make it worse by being overly serious and thus before long you have reached the level of a weep-inducing comic-tragedy.  When Mr. Jules, late for an important meeting, recently spilt coffee on his crisp white shirt as he exited the house and then mimed falling over his briefcase I realized I had a victory on my hands.

And then there are parties.  Ernesto has Italian blood so I think Kirsty probably doesn’t have this problem but I blame the Calvinists and the Protestants for eradicating the fun gene out of the Swiss.  They just don’t know how to let their hair down without feeling guilty.  Christmas was a tame affair in Mr. Jules’ family until I came along and showed them how to do it properly and the same goes for birthdays. Celebrating is important to me and we Brits certainly know how to give a good party so we reached a compromise, I do all the organising and preparing and he now turns up and puts his party hat on and I sneakily think actually enjoys it.  It’s the same with holidays, my Swiss husband thinks the world economy will collapse if he so much as gets a wiff of bourgainvillea or sits in the sun and drinks a margarita, so he works twice as hard before leaving then spends the holiday lying limply in a hotel room or on a sun lounger recovering from the adrenaline burn out.  I shouldn’t think the Bertarellis have this problem either as their life seems to be a permanent holiday and good luck to them.

The Passionate Swiss and Offspring

My advice to Kirsty, and I feel I can give advice as I am coming up to 22 years of marriage to my Swiss man this summer compared to her eight years, is to stick with it because the rewards are there to be had.  It is never boring for a start, arguments are humdingers as different temperaments rub off each other and misunderstandings are plentiful which makes it passionate and not humdrum and that passion overspills into the ….er…boudoir.  These are Continental Europeans don’t forget.

That Ernesto will be an excellent provider is a given in view of the massive wealth but will he make a good father?  When our son showed an interest in playing rugby my husband in his methodical, serious Swiss manner went out and bought Rugby for Dummies and studied it from cover to cover. Our son now plays Rugby for Switzerland in the under 19s team.

I am constantly learning in my marriage and my husband has taught me many things: the European appreciation for good food and wine; how to ski well and how to balance all these good things in life with a fine work ethic and moral code.  This work ethic and moral code is in fact far more evident in all public life here than what I have seen in other countries and as such their service industries are on par to none and make the day to day living far easier.  They have their rules and regulations which can sometimes be stifling but when you call up a workman you get reliable, good old-fashioned service and efficiency that seems to have disappeared elsewhere. 

It’s my and Kirsty’s dual passport holding Swiss/English children that I am envious of.  They have the best of both worlds.  By the sounds of it Kirsty is a fun-loving hands-on mum so mix those character traits with those of a man who knows how to lead a team to win the America’s cup and until he recently sold the family’s pharmaceutical company Serono, also ran a hugely profitable global business, and you have a winning combination.  Bi-cultural marriages also spring winning gene pools.

Last Word

As I said in the previous posting if in the years to come you see Ernesto, Seal, and Sarkozy looking a little on the porky side be sympathetic as you know they are having to eat two dinners a night.  Guy Ritchie, on the otherhand, will have faded into oblivion.

Copyright Jules Ritter May 2008

Kirsty’s Toad in the Hole

Last weekend’s edition of the Sunday Times calls Kirsty Bertarelli, our lass from Staffordshire, Britain’s wealthiest woman since marrying Swiss billionaire Ernesto Bertarelli the famous Alinghi captain. 

Kirsty’s mother, one Mrs. Roper, was interviewed by the Sunday Times about her daughter’s rise to fame and fortune.  She tells us that Kirsty is just a simple girl bringing up her three children in their house on the shores of lake Geneva and regularly pops home to see her mum.  The only downside it would appear are the tussles Kirsty has with Ernesto’s chef and so Kirsty and the chef have separate kitchens.

I happen to know the Bertarelli house very well as I met the former owner in a supermarket and we struck up a friendship.  We both reached out for the same bunch of flowers and realised we were both British, both blonde and both with toddlers in tow.  The house is stunning with all the accoutrements of a wealthy lifestyle and as our friendship bloomed I was a regular visitor playing tennis or teaching my children to swim in the pool.  So I know exactly where Kirsty does her cooking which got me thinking about the marriage of this lovely down to earth northerner and her famous husband. 

Picture the scene.  Ernesto, after a hard day’s work of sailing/playing golf/tennis returns home ravenous eager for the Italian food his mama used to make him.

“Kirsty Ciara, I must do the eating, I am-a-starving.”

“It’s on the table my love.”

“Ciara Bella Que?”  Ernesto investigates the contents of his plate.

“It’s Toad in the Hole”.

Ernesto throws his arms out, palms up, shoulders up by his ears in typical Latin stance ” I am Swiss, my parents Italian…Only the French eat-a-frogs!”

“It’s STAFFORDSHIRE SAUSAGE AND YORKSHIRE PUDDING guaranteed to put hairs on your chest Ernesto so eat.”

“Stafford-a-shire? York-a-shire?  You try to kill me?  In Alba we ‘ave the truffles in Parma we ‘ave the besta ‘am in the world and you ….

Ernesto wisely does not finish his sentence and instead looks longingly out the window to the guest lodge where his chef resides and where creamy risottos and al dente pastas await him.  With a concealed sigh he dutifully eats the meal his English wife has so lovingly prepared for him.

I think Ernesto is very lucky to have Kirsty but if he starts to get a bit porky in the coming years be sympathetic as the poor man is having to eat two dinners every night.

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008

It Takes A Village

Now don’t get me wrong I like living in a Swiss village. I’m not ecstatic about it but as places go for bringing up a family it ain’t half bad.  For starters we have our own male-voice choir and a small but not insignificant Amateur Dramatics Group.  Both were appearing Saturday night in the village hall, which was pretty savvy really because if anyone failed to turn up, each group could blame the other, turn the lights off and go home early.

We live in the centre of the village and when we hear of any forthcoming village knees-ups we know from experience that it is best to either leave the country or go along as the noise level starts off as a friendly hum and finishes on a par with the flight path into Geneva.  This time we dithered, deciding to wait and see, but this was obviously a hot ticket as the locals turned out in droves which meant I would have to close all the shutters on the front of the house as the evening would inevitably spill over into the Auberge opposite and then into the street and the partying would go on all night, shouts and screams bouncing off the clock tower, and ending up directly underneath our bedroom window. 

As I sat in the Salle Communale, our village hall, on Saturday night, fourth row in a room of rickety wooden chairs, listening to the haunting sound of our all-male village choir and marvelling at how well these neighbours of mine scrubbed up in their crisp white shirts, I thought of how collectively they summed up our life in this village.

There was Monsieur Gremlich Senior, the school bus driver, who had given me a twinkly eyed smile of acknowledgement and a cheeky quick appraisal.  His son Gremlich Junior our “garagiste” was more reserved as although we have a great laugh together in his workshop, Nathalie the scary wife with the purple false nails was sitting just off to my right.  Fernando the school caretaker and Monsieur Grandblanc the retired communal gardener were as usual completely ignoring us in a passive aggressive way, for various reasons.  Monsieur Grandblanc because of our blocked roof drain that overspilt onto the main road, and the other I suspect has something to do with the type of cars we drive.  Dominating the row behind was our local butcher Monsieur Prelaz, looking very pleased for himself.  He had given us a respectful nod worthy of the loyal customers we are.  Then came the village doctor whom no-one in their right mind would go and see and the really doddery old retired fellows who drink wine in the Auberge in the winter and tend to their ”potagers” (vegetable gardens) in the summer whilst their permanently-aproned wives tended house.  Some of “les vieux” (the oldies) ignore us completely seeing us as “arrivistes” having no ancestors buried in the cemetery, nor a name on any of the seven fountains.  We have nonetheless, inspite of our lack of local ancestory, managed to impress a few, notably with our new roof, and if the wind is blowing in the right direction they may pause over their pitch forks and mutter a few words of acknowledgement.   

The concert was followed by the drama group’s satirical play (emphasis on satire) and expectations were running high.  As these things tend to go on too long ricocheting between excellent to truly a thing of horror with the jokes so ”in” that we can’t always follow, Mr. Jules and I snuck out after the concert leaving our daughter Lexi planted in the middle of the kid’s benches up front watched over by Nathalie No.2 who along with her husband runs the Auberge.  Lexi insisted on staying because she didn’t want to miss Florence her old kindergarden teacher.

For once we had an empty house so we settled down to watch a DVD of our choice one that was thought provoking rather than adrenaline charged and didn’t contain any of the following words in the title: brainsucker, legend, high school or musical.  We waited-up for our 8 year old who eventually rolled home around midnight smelling like a skunk, exhilarated that she was the last one home.  She threw herself onto my side of the bed, curled up beside me like a mouse and fell instantly to sleep.  Childhoods don’t come any better.

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008

Everyone Needs a Pet But Beware the Swiss Vet

My sister once had a rabbit called Rosie whom she loved very much so much so that when she recently had a massive show-down with her ex-husband known to the rest of the family as FUB - Fat, Ugly…….you get the picture - in front of her Solicitor over custody of her son, she heard herself shout,

“You left me, Myles, the dog AND the rabbit to run off with your floosy…”

Last night Mr. Jules was woken up by our 11 year old Golden Retriever, Molly.  (I don’t hear animals, I am radar attuned to the children: Nightmares, falling out of bed, drunken stumbles, furtive giggles etc. and have managed to zone out any other noise).  Molly had obviously been barking for a while because by the time he got downstairs she had already left him a large steaming pile of poo and had a look on her face that said,

“Did you think I was barking at the moon?”

As dogs go, our Molly is not your typical hound. I seriously believe she is the reincarnation of some 1950s film star - a very demanding, grande dame such as Mae West or Joan Collins (wait is she dead yet?).  She uses her voice to bark commands at us.  Bark: It is my dinner time NOW.   Bark: I fancy a pigs ear RIGHT NOW and make it quick.  Bark: Open the door NOW or you’ll be so-rry.  I have never heard her growl or bark out of protection towards the house or defend any of us, the lowly inhabitants.  Most dogs go ballistic as soon as the doorbell rings or a stranger comes knocking, throwing themselves at the door and at least giving the impression that they are willing to die to protect their owners.  Molly saunters over, tail wagging, eyes glinting with anticipation of a free cuddle and within no time she is flat on her back.  Definitely Mae West or perhaps one of the Mitford sisters, hard to tell.

You should see her at Altweg the vets.  Monsieur Altweg has a deep voice of golden syrup so syrupy even I melt in his company but it is nothing compared to the effect on Molly . 

“Ah Molly, il n’y a pas de chien plus gentil que Molly.”

He never fails to say her name twice, Mo-lly in that sexy French-voiced way and this is her cue to start putting the moves on him. (Now here is a fundamental cultural difference.  I was brought up on that TV series with the three vets set in no-nonsense Yorkshire.  Not once did I hear any of the vets go all gooey over an animal.  But as a marketing ploy it works wonderfully, soft pet owners such as myself being their market segment.  The Swiss are a canny lot all innocent appearing on the outside ruthlessly business-like underneath.  Never underestimate a Swiss and never, ever underestimate a Swiss vet.)

In Monsieur Altweg’s presence every muscle in Molly’s body softens into a slink and head down, eyes peering coyly up at his she saunters (I swear she wriggles her hips) onto his little ramp and waits grandly, snout in the air, whilst she is elevated to the correct height.  Once arrived she nuzzles up to him with an enormous sigh leaving a glob of slobber on his green scrubs.

Needless to say Molly’s annual vet bill is higher than my and Mr. Jules’ combined medical bill.  She’s had many fanthom ailments that mysteriously clear-up after a dose of Mo-lly, Mo-lly.

I don’t know if I would ever get to the point where she would appear as a key witness in a custody battle but still I would miss being in the company of such a diva.

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008

PS Molly was having a bad hair day having been down to the river so that’s Cookie, V and R’s dog looking very Diva-ish.

A Votre Santé!

Our friends V and R have given up alcohol for six weeks.  Completely!  The most I have managed during my adult life-time has been a week and the odd day when a virus had me nailed to the bed and I was unable to get down to the kitchen.  And although I felt incredibly virtuous, mealtimes just weren’t the same and just didn’t satisfy as much.  Thus a whole six weeks without sneaky illicit swigs of the altar wine is unimaginable (to me).

The French don’t consider wine as alcohol so they have cannily eradicated any drink-related problems out of their lives and the Swiss have wine drinking/growing/making so ensconced in their culture that bottles are opened at every possible occasion.  I know Duncan, posh neighbour, doesn’t consider champagne as alcohol as it is “celebratory”.  I’m with him on that one, just as birthday cake doesn’t have any calories in it either.  

So you see what knots we adults get ourselves into to fool ourselves that we are capable of NOT drinking.

Thus when we were invited over to V and R’s for dinner recently I immediately wailed But you are NOT drinking! Do I have to NOT drink as well?  I was assured I could drink whatever I wanted but on the way over to their village in France on the Swiss border Mr. Jules and I decided that it was ridiculous to fear an evening without alcohol and that we would be supportive and stick to whatever they were (not) drinking.  And we had, as usual a great time, less silliness mind you but it was a lovely evening.  So lovely in fact and so wide awake were we at 11.30pm that R suggested we all go into the garden and do a spot of DIY to burn off some energy and make use of all those firing synapses.  He was thinking along the lines of a new space shuttle or perhaps one of those Hubble telescopes.

There is a terrible downside to NOT drinking rarely spoken of. Not sleeping.  So used are we to falling comatosed into bed, after a jolly night out, that Mr. Jules and I lay awake for hours, bottles and bottles of Perrier water slucing their merry way around our bodies doing years of much needed dredging and deep-cleansing. 

By chance we had an invitation the next evening to friends of ours who don’t drink at all - in fact it is rather frowned upon - but this time I didn’t defiantly take along my own bottle of wine instead I bravely held out a second night.  Sunday morning I was expecting to wake up luminescent à la Nicole Kidman or Gwyneth, a pale shimmering aura of glowing light reflecting back at me from the bathroom mirror but alas it was only flat-haired, greasy old me.  Mr. Jules groggily claimed to feel worse than ever but rescue was at hand because that day we had a celebratory lunch at Duncan and Candy’s to welcome new baby Phoebe to the world and after five hours of steady intake: champagne, red wine, cognac and a cigar he felt heaps better.

I do think the best approach to drinking is the European way, little but often, very often.  Think of an IV bag of wine hooked up to your arm and a lovely constant drip, drip.

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008

Impatient, Verbose, Lazy and Weird C’est Moi!

I got my results back from the Branding Excercise.  Mr. Jules calmly saved the day as always.  I had, apparently also buggered up the log-in details….Now how was THAT possible?

Anyway unsurprisingly and in no particular order, here are the results:

• ACTIVATOR - Your words frequently energize individuals or groups. (Bossy).  Often Impatient (figured that one out see previous blog).  Consider partnering with focused, futuristic, strategic, or analytical people - Mr. Jules!
• CONNECTEDNESS - You yearn to dedicate yourself to worthy causes or noble purposes er…THIS BLOG?  Fortifying the bonds between yourself and the people you know or even those you will never meet gives your life special meaning. THAT’S YOU READER!
• MAXIMISER -  You intentionally engage in activities that match your unique talents.  They have worked out I am lazy (note to self: check the house for hidden cameras).  It is true, my unique talents only come to the fore if I stay at home all day surfing the web (research) watching DVDs (more research) and napping (essential energy for the research).
• COMMUNICATION - By nature, you expand your horizons and knowledge when you engage in group conversations.  Is that what they are calling it now?
• FUTURISTIC - Your mind allows you to venture beyond the commonplace, the familiar or the obvious.  So it’s official, I am weird.

Of course the Branding Expert had a different take on it.

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008

PS Out of respect for JonnyB and his loss there will be no more chicken jokes see www.privatesecretdiary.com.

I Am a Weak Chicken

As part of my “Branding” experience I went out and bought the book Strengths Finder 2.0.  Contained in this book is a code which enables you to fill in an on-line questionnaire to discover your strengths.  I would just like to point out here that nowhere in the book does it claim to also help you discover your weaknesses. 

This author of this book believes that the thinking behind the 

YOU can do anything YOU want to do if YOU work hard enough

dictum, inherent in all those who grew up in the United States of America and presumably watched too many episodes of Lassie, is balderdash and that you are better off, much better off, working hard at your strengths and I presume ignoring or at least delegating your shortcomings (i.e. weaknesses but this is an American author writing and a word such as weakness is akin to words like death or genital warts.)  

   (…..did you know that Chickens lay naturally about 1 dozen eggs a year?….) 

Being hedonistically inclined, I was more than excited to start the questionnaire. I set aside a whole morning to wallow in my wonderfulness.  I opened the red envelope with care, got on line, entered the secret code then….then…inadvertently pressed SIGN OUT!!!  My secret code was no longer valid! AND I hadn’t even started!

This questionnaire is amazing within 30 seconds it had highlighted one of my essential weaknesses!!! Not good at details, insufficiently thorough, gets over-excited with a tendency to dimwittedness. 

(…….nowadays due to factory farming methods a chicken lays about 300 eggs a year….)

My friend Angela called from Paris just as I was attempting the 100th try to log back-in and listened to my wailing grievances.  She was, however, of absolutely no help whatsoever as she was overcome with a coughing fit bordering on apoplexy so much so that she had to put the phone down.

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008

PS One last word.  My neighbour, behind the barn, has a cockerel. I am going to investigate perhaps he has chickens!

Got To Get Me Some Chickens!!!

I went for a run.  Because my friend Candy - long suffering wife to Starbuck’s leather thermos cup owner, Maserati driving Duncan - had a baby, Phoebe (yay!), and I invited the kids and Dad around for dinner as Duncan’s culinary skills run to dialling for Mr. Pizza.  To celebrate I baked my Death By Chocolate Cake and ate some, it would have been bad luck not to.

What is it about food and weight gain?  I ate the cake last Sunday and so for Monday and Tuesday I bounced around thinking gleefully that I had got away with it then woosh Wednesday comes along and I wake up with a protrusion.  It’s as if all the fat from the cake takes a little trip around my body for a few days trying to work out where would be the best place to land.  In my case there must be one hell of a party going on around my navel.

After the jog I wizzed by La Boucherie to pick up “une entrecote” for Lexi.  As a staunch survivor of the Swiss public school system she comes home on Wednesday lunch times.  I am grateful that the years of Jamie Oliver’s recipes have worked and Mademoiselle Lexi does not ask for pot noodles.

I have been reading JonnyB’s blog, PrivateSecretDiary.com and he recently had an unusual proposal in his Butcher’s in Norfolk.  He was approached by a TV presenter who invited him to appear on the telly.  So it was with trepidation that I entered the domaine of Monsieur Prelaz, my local Swiss butcher.  Alas I was the only one in there, not even jovial M. Prelaz was around so I couldn’t even flirt and had to talk about the weather with Madame P.

“Bah Oui….demain….hee hee hee…il pleut”, she pronounced gleefully.  (Tomorrow the rain returns).

It must be something about growing up in the countryside that makes them sound so jovial about the approach of more rain.

I returned glumly to the car thinking JonnyB was right about reality TV, 

“ They get you on to these things with a combination of promised stardust and ego-flattery”

and I was not falling for it either, just in case anyone was asking.

www.privatesecretdiary.com  is one of The Guardian Newspaper’s top 50 blogs.  He writes about his chickens (and his occasional forays to the pork butchers in his town in Norfolk).  It is some of the best blog writing on the net so go take a look.  In the meantime I will keep on writing about the Swiss, my kids, my friends, famous people, anything that annoys me and well, just plain old me.  Not a chicken in sight.  Perhaps this is where I am going wrong…

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008

Losing My Writing Mojo

It happens to us all at one time or another.  We find ourselves wading up the stream of life in leaky welly boots going seemingly nowhere when we should be, in our minds, surfing downstream with a champagne-foam wake behind us.  Some days are just good enough to exist.   The true test of ones mettle is how you manage on days like this, a lowly cell in the Petri dish of life.

I would love to report that I go for a spirit lifting all-day hike, visit the elderly and less privileged for a gratitude lesson or even more heroically give up alcohol but we all have to do it our own way and alas I do no such noble things.

I took Mr. Jules out to Les Trois Tilleuls for lunch on a wet Tuesday in April when there was no hope in the world and the magnolias were sodden and bruised.  We ate, drank good local wine and then did what all consenting adults would do on a wet Tuesday afternoon given half the chance.

In the film Something’s Gotta Give starring Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson, Erica the writer, played by the lovely Keaton loses her writing mojo “I’m going to play music, cook, get into my zen place then focus”.  

As well as eating, drinking and reviewing stamp collections, I also move furniture around.  I like to do this now and again for fun, but Erica’s/Keaton’s house in the Hamptons all pale blue and beige inspired me so much that I even thought of, albeit fleetingly, driving out to Ikea ON A SATURDAY! 

If my mojo doesn’t reappear soon you will find me wandering pale faced around Fly, Interio and that other place of shopping hell Piers Import buying crap.

Copyright Julesritter.com sodding rain again, April 2008

I’m Being Branded!

Figuratively that is.  I’ve managed to get myself onto Suzy Greaves’* Platinum Programme for Big Leapers in the UK.  I can be quite persistent when I want to be and she has the same humour as I do (phew!) so liked this blog.  Actually I think she found the comments funnier than my writing…so do I…which is great but worrying also.  What would happen if all you witty people started your own blogs? 

As a practising Big Leaper I have to attend workshops in my beloved London.  One is specifically about branding and how to create a brand to find your “niche” (very much an in-word at the moment is “niche”) and then once that is determined you can market to your “niche”.  As loyal readers of this blog can tell, I’m all over the place at the  moment writing about anything and everything so Claire Findlater (married to an Archeologist I am not kidding), the branding expert of the Platinum team, has her work cut out for her.  Should I tell her now that my brain is wired that way? Or leave it as a fait accompli after a couple of fun weekends in London?  Oh dear I fear I will disappoint.

Part of the Branding programme requires a 360.  Some of my more sophisticated friends already kn0w what that is but for the likes of you and I it is where your friends and family get a chance to fire up that sizzling hot keyboard and dish the dirt on you.  They are allowed to fill up a whole screen on my strengths and then another one on, dare I say it, my weaknesses.  Apparently it is all very well knowing yourself but it is how others perceive you that really counts.  Which is the tricky bit and when those horrid phrases “reality check” and “coming to terms” will no doubt be used, oh joy. 

I have to find at least 20 family and friends whom I am still on speaking terms with to join in the Julesfest rodeo.  I roped in Ollie and Sophie G. with threats of pocket money withdrawal if they were over-enthusiastic in the box marked weaknesses and tried to get Lexi but her typing skills are way too slow and she has problems with the vocabulary which is a shame as the only bad thing about me, according to Lexi, is that I am useless at forward bends.

Mr. Jules, on the other hand, was very secretive and I had to assure him in two languages and very loudly that I would not be privy to anything he wrote about me. 

God help me.

Copyright Julesritter April 2008

*Suzy Greaves is one of the UK’s top ten life coaches

http://www.thebig-leap.com/

Adult Bath Toys

 So Devil Duckie made it home in my suitcase.  He was by far the safest of the options displayed in the glass case in the bathroom of our ultra cool Miami hotel.  As this is a family show I will only say the others involved movement…

I have become quite attached to DD, being a bit of a quirky girl at heart, but nonetheless I checked there was no cocaine hidden in his underbelly in case he was trying to double cross me and I would spend the rest of my days in a Thai jail. 

He has opened up a whole new world to me.  I had no idea that adult bath toys exist but then again it’s not the sort of thing that often drops into the conversation with those in my neck of the woods where priority is given to the weather (if there are clouds on a certain peak over the Jura above our house it means it will rain the following day) and when to prune ones hedges.  But then again naive as I am, my cunning Swiss neighbours may have been in bathtime heaven for years.

Anyway, back home and I’m feeling quite sorry for Devil Duckie as he is all alone bobbing in the bath so I have tracked down a mate for him and an instant family of three little Devil Ducklings.  Alright I admit it is an arranged marriage and I should be ashamed but where was DD going to find a slutty duck out here with the cows?

I am impressed with my options.  I was tempted to get the he-man camoflage duck, very Miami night life, but then that would get very confusing for Lexi explaining the sudden arrival of the three little ones.  Then there is the Glow Zombie Devil Duckie with partially exposed brain, vacant eyes, broken horn and decomposing wing…  How about Dead Duckie?  Devilish as he is, I don’t think my DD is into necrophilia. 

After much deliberation over the vast and disturbing choice I decided on the simply elegant Pink Devil Duckie because she had a sweet but cheeky look about her that would stand her in good stead for when bubbles were scarce and the rim of the bathtub distinctly grimy.

Copyright Jules Ritter bloody snow again April 2008

See www.mcphee.com

Comparison is the Killer of Joy

Elle Macpherson

No matter what we do, most of us will never look like supermodels or celebrities and comparison is the killer of joy.                       

The celebrity cult has a great deal to be responsible for.  The bearer of much heart-ache and disappointment for many young people nowadays, taken in by the digitally enhanced photographs in magazines and today’s You can be a star! society.

Mr Jules likes to touch famous people.  He brushes past them or taps them on the shoulder ever so lightly believing that some ”star” dust will rub off onto him.  To date he has touched: Bjorn Borg, Bjorn Borg and did I mention Bjorn Borg?

I don’t believe in “star” dust, being a pragmatic kind of girl and having grown up in the tougher outreaches of North London as opposed to the quaint shoreline of the Lake of Constance where the only bad thing to happen was the loss of Gumperli the family cat when Herr Fischer, the train driver who also married us, failed to apply the brakes in time.  My quaint side is overshadowed by the cynic within.  I scrutinize, investigate, look for the truth.

I once spent an evening in the company of a famous Knicker Designer.  Well to be precise she was on an adjacent table to mine at a Charity Ball here in Geneva and I got a good view and yes she does eat. But I wanted a really close up view so when she got up to go to the Ladies I followed her, my heat-seeking Exocet engaged. I wanted to know more about this Knicker Designer.

Let me FIRST say this:  She is the only celebrity I have met who looks better in the flesh.  She is bambi personified, a gorgeous bichon of a face which appears somehow square and ordinary on camera, on top of The Body.  So I stumble after her into the Ladies and there is no-one there.  I hear her peeing in a cubicle (I hear the Knicker Designer Peeing!) but she has left her clutch bag and a wispy piece of organza shawl by the double basin and this is the first clue.  They are taking up a lot of space, she has owned that space before being caught short and having to go for a pee.  Not wanting to be caught hanging around when she came out I go into an adjoining cubicle, whistle a few songs, then out I come.

Still only elle et moi in the Ladies.  This is what happens:  I aim for the sink expecting her to move over or say excuse me and remove her bag and wispy bit.  She is taking up the whole space in front of the two basins.  The Body is everywhere and I have to slink around her to quickily wash my hands, and then squeeze in the 2cm gap between her and the paper towel machine to dry them.  There is space around the Knicker Designer.  She likes space and is used to space and such is her life that she is not aware just how much space she is taking up of other people’s space.  I as yet have not made eye contact as I am annoyed at this stage and I start to feel that she resents this. I get the feeling that I am not doing what I am supposed to do, drop to my knees and sweep the floor in front of her, and normally I would at least smile or acknowledge her presence, anyone’s presence at the basin with me and swap commiserations on visible bra straps, melting make-up and collapsing chignons, but the space issue is annoying me.

I leave the Ladies before her, huffily slamming the door and walk back to my table.  So?  enquired my husband sotto voiced still grieving for Gumperli, no doubt.  I shrug my shoulders.  “To be expected. Which is a shame.”

Don’t compare, it will get you nowhere.  Go find out the Whys, Hows and Whats.  There will always be an answer with a price attached to it.

Bjorn Borg.  Now there’s a true star with the right sense of “space”.

Copyright Julesritter.com April, magnolias in bloom 2008

Mentioning No Names….

Back to snow in the village and thanks to my new cyber friend Martin, who stealthily worked out through my blog that we lived in the same village, I can show it to you.  Martin sent me the above photo taken a few days ago of the Angus cows in the lower field.

The 20 degree temperature drop is hard to adjust to and I have come down with a cold which probably serves me right for bragging about the lovely time I was having.  I don’t want to name any names but this “cold” I caught was blamed on an “allergy” due to the American obsession with airconditioning all last week by….

Forget about the MAN COLD we have moved onto the MAN ALLERGY in my house.

I have sent him off to the supermarché as punishment. 

Ah La Vache! 

Copyright photo Martin Cranmer

The Parrot Who Ate Its Own Tail

Key West last Sunday night.  We are eating dinner at where the concierge of the hotel has assured me the locals go to eat, right by the water next to the band stand.  Bikers, rollerbladers, joggers and evening strollers pass by on the path between us and the sea.  An old lady catches my eye, she has a small parrot on her arm.  I have always wanted a parrot but this one has no tail just a bald, pinkish rear poking through.  As the path is literally right next to our table I ask her about the missing tail.

“He ate it.  He was stressed.  He didn’t like where we were living before.  It will grow back.”

“Oh poor thing.  Does he like where you live now?”

She hesitates, gives me a sad smile and a vague neither yes nor no nod of the head before moving on. 

The next morning out early for some guilt-reducing exercise, I again come across the old lady and her parrot.  She is putting the parrot into a small cage on the back of an old dusty bicycle.  Her new home is a square of sand on the beach in Key West.  She is not the only one who has spent the night on the beach but she is the eldest by far.

THE Desperate Housewife - a far cry from Wisteria Lane

Then I keep seeing them.  Elderly people living on the streets.  In Miami I came across this lady pushing her home in a supermarket trolley and obsessively cleaning the road in an OCD manner- undoubtedly mentally border-line. I get the feeling this is not a question of lifestyle choice but rather a sub-class of the elderly who have fallen through the net, no pension, no social security, no family and certainly no health care.

America needs a change of government fast.  We had a fabulous trip and were sad to leave but it is somehow reassuring to return to Switzerland, a country where the only threat to an elderly lady’s parrot’s sanity is boredom. 

Copyright Julesritter Snow in village March 2008

Last But Not Least The Very Stylish Lexi

So Back from Key West - which is the place I will retreat to one day to write -we go to Delanos for dinner, as you do.  I squeeze myself into an evening number after six days of seafood dinners and margaritas and the starbucks menu.  Sophie-G, as thin as when she left Switzerland, looks gorgeous in her silver Bal de Neige (Prom) dress.  Mr. Jules looks elegantly European and pops a cigar into his pocket.  Off we totter.  It is only once we are being seated and on hearing a slap, scrape, flop sound repeated behind me that I look down and see that Lexi is still wearing her plastic beach shoes….

I was 39 years old when Lexi was born.  I couldn’t help myself I just knew there was another one out there.  So here we are, her going on 8 and me going on 47, and sometimes I forget to mother her.  She is dragged along in the wake of her teenage siblings.  It is only when she falls asleep in restaurants that I am reminded of how young she really is.

She makes it through the Delano dinner and we walk back to the hotel.  I guiltily put her to bed noticing that she has more sunburn than her older brother and sister ever had.  I fall asleep then wake in the middle of the night to check that she is not wearing her snorkel mask.

Copyright Jules Ritter March 2008

Which Way is West?

Leaving Miami and the rich white adolescent Spring-Breakers behind in their other-world of yachts and designer clothes and agonising coolness, we stop in Key Largo previously described to me as one large sprawling gas station.  It is, but we are here for one thing only, the Dolphins.  If Key Largo missed out on the aesthetic beauty of the Keys it makes up for it in hospitality and friendliness.  It is in its interest after all.

We have sundowners at Snapper’s which the enthusiastic bell boy had effused about in that wonderful Life Is Great American attitude.  Unfortunately he must have missed the geography elements of his high school education as we were in fact sitting on a deck listening to a Jimmy Buffett clone facing east.  Ho hum this is America and the service is terrific so we’ll have another mojito - there will be another sunset tomorrow.

The other masculine element of our family is doing good deeds in Kathmandu with the school and Mr. Jules is missing him – way too many beavers and not enough testosterone.  He can, however, indulge in his favourite guy sport described by the best writer of all time Dave Barry, as Standard Guy Remote Control Procedure (SGRCP).  This entails the following:  As soon as you enter a hotel room you lie prone on the bed facing what in Starbucks language is the Venti of Tellys and channel hop.  The instant a “commercial” comes on or a programme on anything remotely of female interest such as home decorating, fashion, celebrity news you change.  As the only male on our trip he now has complete Remote Control Dominance without any major complaints from us estrogens who are too busy dominating the bathroom.

Dave Barry, My Hemingway, lives in Florida and writes for the Miami Herald and in today’s column has come up with a novel way to solve Florida’s voting kerfuffle by holding a “texting” primary. It’s a genius plan.   A prime-time TV show, hosted by someone similar to our enthusiastic geographically-challenged bell-boy, tells a few jokes then invites Floridians to text in their votes.  It would all be over in half an hour!  McCain can give his inaugural address, that he wrote a few months back when the children started fighting and Obama and Clinton ”will continue their bitter struggle and reach the point of hostility where the debate will consist entirely of spitting.”

Dave Barry a genius who knows where the sun goes down.

Copyright Jules Ritter March 2008

PS Saw on a T-shirt in Key West:  Vegetarian is an old Indian word for “not good at hunting.”