View from the Back

I haven’t written much recently about my close shaves with four-wheeled vehicles.  Largely because I’ve come to appreciate that other road users, and I’m including pedestrians in this sub-set, can be neatly divided into two groups: those that ride a bike and those that don’t. The problems lie with the latter group. Not a day goes by when I narrowly avoid being knocked off my bike by the rash actions of a motorised vehicle or a pedestrian. I largely avoid disaster because I don’t cycle particularly fast, spot danger looming and take evasive action. My average speed in an urban environment hovers around 22-25km/hour. I’m a tortoise not a hare!

I never continue to be amazed by the number of vehicles, in their rush to get wherever they’re going, who are quite happy to place my life in peril rather than slow down and allow me to pass by safely. A classic is the right-hand turn. I’m approaching one, so I signal to the oncoming traffic, and that behind me, I’m going straight on. This seems to be the equivalent of a call to arms as vehicles rev their engines and drivers apply feet to accelerator pedals in an effort to overtake me and then turn right into my oncoming path. Would they do that if I were another vehicle? Before you answer, remember we’re talking about France here, the country with one of the highest rates of mortality on the roads.

The answer is that it depends on the right hand turn. If there’s a slip road, then the turn’s large so, if there’s room to squeeze in front, they will: likewise with a scooter or motor bike. Accounting no doubt for the high level of two-wheeled fatalities. Of course, as you cycle across these death traps yawning chasms, motorists have two choices: slow down and then turn behind you or speed up and cut in front. Now, I don’t think it’s going to take a genius to work out their generally preferred option.

We’ve covered traffic turning right, but what about traffic exiting right. With the exception of roads clearly marked ” GIVE WAY TO RIGHT” albeit in French, I have right of way on my bicycle. I know because I’ve checked in the French version of the Highway Code. However, it’s as if other road users have applied a ruling of their own, a sort of I know there’s a big fat white line telling me to stop but as it’s only a cyclist I can just nip out. The ones I particularly dislike are those who’ve stopped, looked in your direction, waited and then shot out at the last moment narrowly missing your front wheel. Did they not see me, or did they see me  surreptitiously feathering the brakes? Who knows?

I should add that this group is particularly dangerous on roundabouts. In France, pay no heed to where cars are positioned on a road, they’ll pretty much always opt for the shortest queue. Yes, I’m turning first right at the roundabout but I’m in the shortest queue on the left-hand side of the road, generally reserved for those turning left or maybe straight-on.  This means if the car on the right-hand side isn’t turning right, equally possible, I’m going to cut him up as I turn right. For the cyclist these are the most dangerous as they need to get across quickly to avoid hitting the car on their inside, they’re not on our radar and they’re paying us no heed whatsoever!

Now, what about oncoming traffic turning left across my bows. Regular readers will know that I’ve been knocked off my bike twice. Both times by inattentive lady drivers. In both instance, I had right of way and they were in the wrong. However a sense of righteous injustice won’t save my life. Luckily my ample padding saved me from anything more serious than cuts and bruises.

Lack of speed however does not apply when I’m descending. Again those additional kilos and my fast wheels help me drop like a stone. Similarly, concentration, awareness and keeping over to my side of the road have seen me stay largely upright, safe and sound. Of course, I also generally ride on roads I know really well which helps enormously. I tend to more cautious when dealing with the unknown.

What about those pesky pedestrians? Indeed, they will happily step out in front of cyclists. Why oh why? You wouldn’t step out in front of a speeding car, so why step out in front of a speeding cyclist? Many zebra crossings in France are controlled by traffic lights. So, do they wait until the light turns green before stepping into the road. Hell no, they step into the road and then freeze in the middle of the lane. This leaves me in a quandary, which way are they going to move? It’s often hard to tell whether they’re going to rashly push on or rapidly retreat.

I have practised emergency braking with my coach but I can’t stop on a sixpense certainly not when I’ve just come barreling down a hill at top speed. I have nightmares about headlines saying “Speeding Cyclist Crushes Pensioners” except, of course, it would be in French and probably say something along the lines of “Une grosse cycliste britannique écrase les petits retraités françaises”.

A recent UK television drama involving the murder of a child was based in a fictional town in Dorset. The drama proved popular and has allegedly boosted tourism to the Jurassic coast. I watched some, but not all, of the episodes and didn’t appreciate that it was set in Dorset but, even if I had, it would not have lured me to visit. I thought the whole place had a very sinister air. One actress making a welcome return to the screens in this was Pauline Quirke, probably better known [to me] for her long-running role as the sister Sharon in the comedy Birds of a Feather.

I mention this because I was twice, yes twice, mistaken for Pauline Quirke. It happened many moons ago when I lived in London and “Birds of” was at the height of its fame. The first was at a jolly at Selfridges department store. I can’t recall exactly why I was there but I believe it was an American Express sponsored event. I was just about to take a sip from my glass of champagne when I set upon by a lady who’d clearly already been freely imbibing. “It’s you isn’t it?” she said. Now I have an excellent memory for faces, your name might elude me for a few seconds but your face, no. I had never met this woman before in my life.  However, to give her the benefit of the doubt, I enquired whether we’d ever met before. She confirmed we hadn’t and said she wouldn’t tell, tapping the side of her nose in conspiratorial fashion. I tried to reassure that I was no one but she was having none of it. In fact she even commented on my “posh” accent and congratulated me on my cockney accent on the television. She stuck to me like a limpet and, in the end, it order to shake her free, I lost patience and asked who she thought I was. She told me. Talk about being brought down to earth with a bump!

Now my late mother was mistaken for the late Princess Grace a couple of times, but I really couldn’t, or didn’t want to, see any likeness between me and Pauline Quirke. I put it down to her over consumption of my favourite beverage. But, blow me down with a feather. A couple of months later, I was walking down the King’s Road one evening with my beloved when a gaggle of giggly ladies asked me for my autograph, quite convinced I was the actress in question. They clearly didn’t believe my protestations so, I bowed to the inevitable and, in order to get rid of them, I signed Pauline Quirke several times and exited right.

I was a bit shaken by both these episodes as it’s quite common to see “celebrities” all over London, without even trying. Among others, I’ve seen Tom Cruise in a bar in Notting Hill, Paul McCartney in one of the arcades, John Malkovich ambling along Oxford Street, Steven Spielberg and Rob Lowe in a restauarnt. I’ve never felt any desire to either ackowledge their presence or ask them for their autograph. Why would you?

My last employer wanted a photograph to accompany the announcement that I was joining the company and I was wheeled in front of a professional photographer. Now, I hate having my photo taken. Photos of me as a child show me staring resentfully at the camera and it’s not gotten any better in later life. I recall one wedding we attended in Germany where three people shot videos and everyone else ran amok with those disposable cameras. I’m pleased to announce that no one captured my image. I have a sixth sense when a lens is swung in my direction and I just merge into the background. Group photos? I generally hide behind my beloved.

I made the usual jokes about her using the lens which made me look 10 years’ younger. But clearly she hadn’t used it as I looked like Rosemary West! Now Pauline Quirke was bad enough but fancy being made to look like one half of a notorious serial murdering couple. Quite! I used to joke about it because people would look at the photo, frown and say “you know you remind me of someone………..” This latest drama was therefore vaguely unsettling as Pauline played a women who’d been married to an incestuous murderer. It was all starting to become eerily spooky.

A few weeks ago my beloved handed me a plastic folder assuring me that it contained everything he needed for his Russian visa application for a forthcoming trip. Now, it’s not that I didn’t believe him, I’m sure it contained everything he thought he needed. But it’s been awhile since we had to apply for a Russian visa, plus the process is made more complicated with our French residence and my husband’s inability to be separated from his passport for more than a day.

In years past we’ve been able to obtain the visa the same day from either the Russian embassy in Marseille or the one in London. The plan was to pop into the embassy in Marseille on our way down to the Basque country. I felt however that it was incumbent on me to check exactly what was required. I discovered that while the embassy still handles applications, it can no longer turn them around in a day and, such has been the demand for visas, that they’ve outsourced the process to a Russian-manned visa handling service in Marseille which has the advantage of longer opening hours than the Embassy. I booked my beloved an appointment for the Friday and started to complete the new on-line 15-page application form which seemed to require an amazing amount of information.

I had to give details of my beloved’s degree a BSc (Hons) in Chemistry and Management and then, later on in the form, had to assert that he had  no competence with chemical processes! My problems began when the form asked me to list all his earlier Russian visas. I have details for the last seven years, but no further back. I was also required to list every country he’d ever visited in the last ten years giving the date of visit day/month/year! Now if he hadn’t lost his passport back in 2010, I would have been able to at least list all those countries who’d stamped his passport.

Just to be on the safe side I contacted the visa service who didn’t seem to fussed and told me to list what I could remember. I had to complete the form, all 15 pages of it, 4 times before everything was correctly recorded as it kept logging me out after 20 minutes. I thought I could retrieve saved data but that turned out not to be the case. I could only save it once fully and correctly completed. I carefully checked through the documentary requirements, I had everything they appeared to be asking for, so I checked what I’d done last time. I’d had to get an “attestation” in French and Russian confirming that my beloved had the appropriate level travel insurance. So this was requested from our insurer and it arrived in time for our departure to Marseille.

We arrived early in Marseille and decided to head straight to the office of the visa-handling service ahead of our appointed time. Just as well we did. Although my husband had booked his hotel and flight, the hotel was required to send him yet another form to complete which he had to return to the hotel who would then issue him with a duly stamped tourist voucher. We struck lucky, the lady processing our application assisted us with obtaining the missing paperwork which took three calls on my beloved’s mobile to expedite. Noting that we lived in France she demanded proof of our residence such as an electricity bill. This would have been no use whatsoever as it’s in my name. Luckily the insurance “attestation” stated my husband’s address! Almost home and dry.

While all this was being dealt with at least four people came to request a visa and were sent away as they did not possess the correct paperwork. Finally we paid and left in the belief that it’ll be waiting for us on our return on 8 April. If not…………….My beloved will have to spend a day at the Russian embassy in London trying to speed up matters otherwise he won’t be going to Russia. So far we have expended 10 man hours – excluding travel time - Euros 80,00 on petrol and tolls plus Euros 134, 00 for the visa itself.

The agency has set up a special desk for the handling of visas for those going to the winter Olympics in Sochi next year. I have a few words of advice, start the process now!

Postscript: On the way back from Spain we popped in to the Visa Agency to collect my beloved’s Russian visa which had been processed and was happily waiting for us – success.

When dealing with my beloved I have long followed the principle that if I want anything done properly, I’ll have to do it myself. This is largely because I am a) a control freak; b) I like as much as possible done ahead of time, I dislike leaving anything until the last moment; and, c) long years’ of experience have taught me it’s most unwise to rely on my beloved. He likes to focus on the big things and leaves me to take care of the details.

Tomorrow afternoon we are flying to the UK for my mother’s funeral on Monday. My beloved returns from Italy only a couple of hours before we are due to leave. I did ask him to get everything ready for this trip, just in case his flight is delayed, and we only have time to swap cases. But he hasn’t, so I’ll have to do it for him tomorrow morning, along with mine.

I’ve been regularly checking the various airport sites and the can of worms appears to be Heathrow! The flight which was due to take off at the same time as ours only yesterday is due to arrive today at 12:24. That’s some delay! We’ll be letting the train take the strain thereafter and having checked the train timetables, it doesn’t look too bad.

Generally, I try to dissuade him from booking multiple flights on the same days. I’m not trying to tempt fate, but every time he’s done so I’ve had to meet him in arrivals, swap baggage and hustle him over to departures. Tomorrow’s clash was unavoidable due to airline timetables. My Father, who knows only too well what my beloved is like, was keen to have the whole family together for lunch on Sunday. Given the current state of the weather - plenty of snow and more forecast – he was delighted to hear we would be arriving on Saturday evening. Like me, he never leaves anything until the last moment. Yes, that’s where I get it from. He’s also incredibly well organised and leaves nothing to chance!

I also insisted that my beloved gave me all the flight information beforehand so that I could print out our boarding passes. I did this within 10 minutes of boarding opening yesterday afternoon. As the flights were booked on my beloved’s BA account, he will have received a copies of the confirmations from BA showing his and my seat numbers. We’ve both got window seats in the same row. That’s right we’re not sitting next to one another. I’m going to prolong the peace and quiet for another hour or so more.

How do I know he received the confirmation? Well, BA’s system advised me that it would be emailing my beloved. He immediately lobbed said email back to me asking me to book him in! I can’t tell you how many times I have asked him to stop sending me emails that he hasn’t read. To be fair he did at least attach a message asking me to book him in, but if he’d only taken the trouble to read it……………………..

This is one of the many perils of working together. My beloved is fixated on keeping up to date with his email traffic. If he can divert a substantial portion of it to me, so much the better. Job done!

My beloved and I have an unspoken rule. He rarely rings me when he’s away and I much prefer it that way. Were he to arrange to call me every evening, I would only worry when – not if – he forgot. So, no calls, at least not on a regular basis. He’s typically away at least three nights a week and, unless something important comes up, we can catch up when he gets home.

He was away this week end and I relished the peace and quiet. From time to time, I particularly enjoy not having to converse with anyone all week end. Now you might find that a strange comment from someone who has no problem talking the proverbial hind leg off a donkey but there is something very restful about not having to chat. Thanks to Blackberry direct messaging, we can “chat” to one another for free should the need arise, like yesterday, when he was trying to ascertain if my kid sister, who’s cruising the Caribbean, was okay.

It’s a generally accepted rule that because men only listen to 10% of what women say you’ve got to tell them something ten times. My beloved is no exception. This rule also seems to apply to direct messaging. I told my beloved three times that I had a cold and wasn’t feeling well. I even commented on how fortuitous it was that he was away so that he wouldn’t catch it. But if you’d read his replies, you’d be forgiven for thinking I’d never told him. His responses were all about what he’d done and what and where he’d eaten.To be fair he did say he’d rather be at home with me, but then service at home is generally better than anything he receives while away.

To be honest I hate feeling unwell when he’s around. If he’s sick, he expects a five star Florence Nightingale service while if I’m ill he’ll generally ignore me, apart from meal times when he’ll pitifully enquire whether there’s anything to eat. What he really means is am I feeling well enough to provide him with a meal? In his absence, I’ve been able to take refuge on the sofa, with the Sunday newspapers and hot toddies. The latter’s my way of coping with a common cold for which there is no cure. Of course, were I to pass on my cold to him it would miraculously morph into man-flu. The toddies have done the trick, I’m feeling much better.

He also has an annoying habit of either lobbing emails in my direction or copying me on his responses with no apparent reason as to why I should be privy to them. It may be that there’s something he wants me to do but as I gaze into my crystal ball it’s murky and not at all clear. Of course, it might be that he’s promised a client I’ll do something but has omitted to convey the request to me. This is always very awkward. Do I ‘fess up that my beloved didn’t tell me or not? Usually, I end up apologising for the time it’s taken me, pressure of work etc etc, and then have to cancel my plans to do whatever I’ve been committed to in absentia. It’s at times like these my beloved’s undoubtably glad he’s working overseas and out of reach of my wrath.

He’s redeemed himself somewhat by calling this morning to check whether I’m well enough to go out [on my bike]. Well the sky’s a brilliant blue but it is decidedly chilly and I have a very large pile of admin to wade through so, no.

I’m back from an uber depressing visit to see my folks. At the start of this year I rather thought this might well be my mum’s last. While Alzheimer’s doesn’t kill you, the effects weaken the system to such an extent that you just fade away. My mother’s now just skin and bones, papery skin at that which easily bruises or becomes sore from her long periods of inactivity. Conversely, this makes her easier to manage for my father.

Her day starts at around 11 o’clock when the carers – paid for by my father – arrive to wake, wash and dress my mother. This is an easier task in the morning as she’s rather more docile. When I say dress, she spends her days in a dressing gown sitting in a wheel chair. She’s lost the ability to walk. This means you don’t now have to constantly follow her around. She sits uncomprehending, eyes half closed for some time before she eats her breakfast. My father usually feeds her: it’s quicker and a lot less messy. She likes highly flavoured cold jelly or yoghurt followed by buttered bread with marmalade. Some days she eats well, other days she doesn’t. You can’t force her. Same goes with liquids. She usually consumes a highly calorific fruit drink but like as not she’ll throw it over herself, you or the floor.

Her ability to talk is much diminished and most of what she says is totally unintelligible though she’ll still come out with the odd word we can understand. Her inability to communicate verbally means she’s more likely to lash out, bang on the table or spit at you to attract attention. So far I seem to be the only family member to escape her attentions. Both my sisters and father have not been so lucky. I like to think it’s because at some level my mother knows I’m not someone to be trifled with but that might be wishful thinking.

My father is endlessly patient with her, as are her carers all of whom seem genuinely fond of her. They’re back at 6:30pm in the evening to put her to bed. This is generally a more difficult exercise than getting her up but she tires easily and, after a bit of a struggle, soon falls asleep. The large lounge at the back of the house has been transformed into my parents bedroom although Mum sleeps on her own in a low bed with a special mattress to reduce the likelihood of bed sores.

The local health service have just offered my Dad a bit of a lifeline, someone to sit with my mother for an hour a day. She cannot ever be left on her own and indeed doesn’t like it if you’re out of view even for a few minutes. However, he can split the seven hours a week as he wishes. So he’s elected to have five hours on a Friday afternoon and two hours on Monday. The latter will allow him time to shop and stock up after the week end, while the former will give him a decent break. He has help on Tuesdays and Thursdays from his cleaning lady plus my sister and brother-in-law at the week ends. This way he should get a bit of a break most days.

My sisters are looking after my mother for a few days this coming week allowing my Dad to have a short holiday with my brother in law  in Torquay. It’s not much but it is something of a lifeline for him. It’s very generous of them as they’ll be tied to the house for the entire period, not without its challenges, and the time will pass very slowly. After all, there’s only so much day time tv you can stomach. I’m sorry to admit that two days is my limit and I wouldn’t contemplate taking on my mother for more than a few hours.