The French vote.

I can’t vote in France, despite having spent most of my adult life here, having worked here since 1995, having bought a house and signed up for a 20 year mortgage, having had two little half-French children with a fully-French man and having mastered the pronunciation of the words “fauteuil”, “gribouille” and “libellule”. I can even make mayonnaise and a perfect béchamel sauce. But I am not considered French enough to vote. This could easily be resolved by marrying L’Homme but a) I couldn’t invite all my parents to the wedding without at least one of them having a cardiac arrest and/or sticking the cake knife into someone’s knee, and b) I couldn’t NOT have a proper wedding (ie. just nip into a registry office and then drink a bottle of champagne with the village mayor) as one of my parents would then stick a cake knife in MY knee.

So today I did not vote but I did watch the results come in, with a mixture of fascination, dread, relief and indignation. Dread because I was worried Sarkozy might surprise everyone and come first. Relief because he didn’t. Indignation because 20% of voters voted for Marine Le Pen of the Front National. This doesn’t directly translate as the National Front – they are not quite as skinhead hardcore in their views on immigration, refugees, abortion – but they’re not far off. The fact that 1 in 5 voters went for Le Pen is downright scary.

At least Hollande, a sort of sit-on-the-wall lefty, came first, with 27.4% of the votes. But if you add Sarkozy’s score (25.7%) to Le Pen’s that makes over 45%, whereas Mélanchon’s meagre 11.5% for the extreme left added to Hollande’s piece of pie only gives 37.9% … yikes. If all the Le Pen voters go for Sarko he might get in again. In which case I am going to have to get married to L’Homme, invite all my parents, plus Sarkozy, and make sure he is sitting just in the cake knife trajectory. My mum is an awful shot – she’ll hopefully get him in the jugular.

Hmmm … can I write that in a blog? That I hope my mum slits Sarkozy’s throat? She’ll get off easily – she’s 70 and prone to shakes. But they’ll find this post and know it’s all been planned. Quick- “throat” is a typo – I meant “goat”. Sarkozy’s goat. He certainly gets my goat, I don’t see why I shouldn’t get his. With a huge cake knife.

I hate puns but I seem to have made one. I shall blame this on absolute exhaustion due to getting up at 4 a.m. yesterday, getting on a plane with 2 small children, driving home then having friends for lunch, staying up late showing L’Homme endless films of us trudging around London in the rain (nice big clock, nice big dinosaur skeleton)/the kids in various bathtubs with various cousins/Léonie experiencing her first puddle, and then being woken at 6 bloody a.m. by a teething squealer.

If I could vote I would vote for sleep. Pure, uninterrupted, long, deep sleep.



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