sablonneuse

Sablonneuse before 5

sablonneuse — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 17:04:00 +0100

My early childhood memories are few but vivid.

According to my mum I was born with a twisted bowel and the doctors sent me home to die. However, she persevered, feeding me drops of milk and I pulled through. There are photos of me as a baby showing that I was completely bald for most of my first year and one, in particular of me sitting in a wooden 'rocking duck' that my grandad had made.

I was born in London but following a separation leading to an acrimonious divorce my mother and grandparents moved to Norwich when I was two or three. I never knew my father but we met him once on a bus in London (he was the conductor) and mum didn't tell me until we got off. However, I do recollect a few uncomfortable visits to my paternal grandmother* which involved sitting still and quiet on a hard chair until it was time to go.

Then there was the enormous easter egg in a huge box on top of the wardrobe that I was not allowed to have because it came from 'him'.

The house we moved to was a large Victorian terrace with a very long garden. One of the things I hated was the back parlour (only used on high days and holidays) because I had a recurring nightmare about a train coming up the garden path and crashing through the French windows. Consequently, I was always ill at ease, listening for trouble, when the family spent any time in there.

There was a most interesting hole in the garden where I could find frogs and I took great delight in bringing them indoors, knowing that my grandmother would be terrified and an orchard where I was allowed to climb the trees under supervision.

My grandad had been very strict with my mum and her brother but he was a real softy where I was concerned. He would give me rides in his wheelbarrow down to feed the chickens and make wooden toys for me. I still have the money box he made me for my 4th birthday. It has 16 screws on the bottom to discourage me from opening it!

Another thing I remember about my 4th birthday was that I had measles and was brought downstairs from my sickbed for the birthday tea. I didn't feel like eating so played about with my food, cutting it up and arranging it to give to the rabbit I hoped I was getting. But suddenly I was sick all over the plate. I can remember how upset I was at spoiling the rabbit's tea. I needn't have worried , though, because I didn't get the rabbit!

Our neighbour was an elderly lady called Mrs Newham. One day, for some reason there was a gap in the fence and I wandered through it and into her kitchen. She was highly amused at this unexpected visit but my grandmother was terribly embarrassed. I'm not sure how often I was allowed to see her after that but when we eventually moved house she gave me a little silver purse containing a silver threepenny piece which I still have to this day.

Then there was Aunt Alice. She was my nan's eldest sister and lived in Grimsby. I remember the first time I met her. I think I must have been expecting her to look like Alice in Wonderland because (as I've never been allowed to forget) it seems I stared at her long and hard and then slapped her face!

It seems I wasn't a very good little girl at times, maybe because I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents who tended to spoil me, but I adored my mother, even though she was more strict.

The reason for having dancing lessons is not clear but I vaguely remember going to a lady's house and dancing in what seemed to be her living room. After a short time these lessons ceased and I was sent to a piano teacher called Beryl Henrietta Bunn.

Later, mum explained that dancing 'used up too much energy' and the doctor had recommended a less active pastime. It's true, I often suffered from bouts of shortness of breath which were quite frightening but if someone told me a story - or when I was older, if I concentrated on reading or sewing - the attack would pass. The mystery about these incidents was that, although they lasted until I was in my twenties and then faded out, when I had similar 'attacks' in my forties, the doctor could find no written record in my past medical notes.

*Since making contact with my father's family I have learned that his mother died two days after his birth. His father remarried and so the grandmother I remember was, in fact, his stepmother.

Sablonneuse at 5

sablonneuse — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 17:01:00 +0100

Despite a poor start to my schooling whereby I missed most of the first year due to some 'nervous illness' that no-one was prepared to explain to me in later life I enjoyed school and did well.

I remember my first class, and the teacher, Miss Randall but I don't think I learned much as because of my poor eyesight I spent a great deal of time playing in the sand tray - that's when I wasn't absent.

At home I learned to read somehow but couldn't write much and only in capital letters. When I went back to school in the second year of infants I was put in Mrs. Hipper's class and one girl took great delight in telling me that if I was in her class I'd never pass the 11plus.

Fortunately for me, we moved house during this year and I found myself in the Infant school right opposite our new house - or rather bungalow - in Costessey.

Someone made an error and I was put in a class with children a year older. The teacher realised that as my reading was good I should be able to catch up with arithmetic so she gave me individual lessons at break times. In those days 'class positions' were the be-all and end-all so I can remember that, thanks to her efforts I went from 24th in class to 3rd by the end of that year.

When we went to the Junior School the mistake was discovered and I had to spend two years on the same class. Then, one year after that, paradoxically, the Headmaster decided that three of us should be given a 'boost' by skipping a class and moving to the 'top' class a year early. However, we were not allowed to take the 11plus with the rest of our classmates. We had to stay in that class for another year! So in my five years at junior school I only had three teachers: Miss Rouse, Mr Chamberlain and Miss Powley.

My childhood was very happy and it was a time when we were free to roam and play where we liked. My playmates were Trevor and Lynne from next door but one on the right and Martin who lived next door but one on the left. We often went to the woods or the marshes and would come back filthy but happy. If not, everyone had long and interesting gardens and we could make dens or pirate ships or use the greenhouses as spaceships.

I remember that Lynne's mum lent me loads of books - mainly Enid Blyton's fairly tales - and I devoured them avidly. There were very few books in our house but I found a copy of Jane Eyre and was scolded when they discovered I had started reading it as they thought I was too young.

It was while we lived at Costessey that mum rediscovered 'Uncle George' a friend of her brother's whom she had courted before she met my father. They had split up and George went to Australia but now he was back and separated from his wife. He and I never really hit it off, and, looking back, I wonder if he resented the fact that mum wouldn't accept his son but expected him to accept me.

As far as I know, apart from one holiday at the seaside as a 'foursome' George lost contact with his son after he married mum Many years later he tracked him down and tried to make up for lost time but there was too much bitterness and it didn't work.

Knowing Uncle George had its advantages though. He ran a Radio TV and Cine shop and had access to 16mm films which he would show at home on Sunday evenings. I was never allowed to stay up for the feature but used to watch the cartoons and the Flash Gordon serial before going to bed. He also installed a television and built a very high aerial in the back garden. On a good night we could get a signal from Sutton Coldfield and enjoy a grainy picture which may or may not last for the entire programme. Of course, it wasn't too long before our region had its own transmitter but, for a time, my friends were pretty jealous that we had a television - even if we couldn't guarantee to see a programme all the way through before the reception faded.

sablonneuse at 10

sablonneuse — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 09:23:00 +0100

My tenth year was probably the end of a period of reasonable stability because things were going to change in many ways during the next few years.

First there was the 11 plus and a move to Grammar School which coincided with moving to Norwich when Mum finally married George and he became 'Pop'. They had their shops (with flat above) only a few minutes walk from the school so I came home for lunch every day.

My sister Wendy was born a year later and Mum nearly died from a haemorrhage. Relations were a bit fraught between Pop and my grandmother so it was his mother who came to look after the new baby. Granny Smith always seemed a very hard woman and she obviously did not enjoy her new role. As soon as Mum was discharged from hospital she left her to cope.

I tried to help by getting up early and making the first bottle so that mum could stay in bed to feed the baby. Then I'd peel the potatoes for lunch before going to school at 7.30 to practise the piano. It wasn't convenient to play in the flat any more in case the baby was asleep but it meant I had sole access to the grand piano in the school hall for over an hour.

School meant a great deal to me and I would pass many days in the holidays helping prepare the books for the new intake. In fact, I had a couple of schoolgirl crushes: firstly the nun who was in charge of the bookroom and also taught English, and then, after she was transferred to another convent, I became attached to the music teacher who lived a few minutes walk away and who agreed to give me piano lessons when I told her I had given up (because the horrible man my parents had found when I left Miss Bunn was a lech).

As proof of my impressionable nature my determination to become a nun faded when Sister T went away and, instead, I trained as a music teacher!

Fortunately the rift between Mum and my grandmother eventually healed and it wasn't long before she joined us for weekends on Pop's pride and joy - a small cabin cruiser. I remember the day he bought it. Mum and I watched as he struggled with the controls, trying to get it away from its moorings. He had one or two very near misses with the bank and other craft and afterwards admitted that if someone had offered him a fiver for it he would have accepted.

He and a mate took it to its new berth nearer Norwich and Mum drove Wendy and me back in the car. Of course, he did learn to manage it eventually but the craze didn't last for more than a couple of years. I was very thankful for that because it was my job to balance precariously at the front holding the mooring rope and then jump ashore to help pull the boat in. I couldn't swim (still can't) and we never wore lifebelts!

When they sold the boat they bought a caravan at Weybourne so we had many pleasant Sundays at the seaside - whatever the weather.

sablonneuse at 15

sablonneuse — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 19:20:00 +0100

At fifteen I entered the fifth form preparing for G.C E exams. There was no time for a social life and I didn't really want one either.

I was still getting up early to go and practise the piano at school and the only thing that put me off briefly was when a huge spider descended from nowhere and landed on my hand.

In those days shops had an 'early closing' day and that meant that every Thursday when I got home from school I had to fit two hours homework into half an hour and then be dragged to the cinema with Mum and Pop. It was their weekly treat but I hated it. You could bet that wherever we sat someone would plonk themselves down in front of us and light up a cigarette.

Once O levels were done and dusted I spent quite a bit of the Summer holiday helping out in the shop. Mum's assistant had left and she was having problems finding another. The only applicant was a middle aged lady who demanded a much higher wage than Mum could afford but she obviously didn't like the idea of hard work.

I casually told her about selling a lot of paraffin in the winter, which meant going out to the shed in the cold and getting the smelly stuff all over your hands. She declined the job but I was roped in to fill the gap. My wages for six weeks work was a small radio.

Going back to school was a relief and as there were only nine of us in the Lower Sixth it felt very different from previous years.The sixth form used to have a Common Room in an adjacent building but they had abused the privilege by taking in fish and chips (!) so we were now accommodated on the top floor right beside the staffroom.

The music teacher decided that if I was really serious about going to music college I needed to learn a second instrument. I loved the sound of the oboe but when mum learned that a clarinet was a lot cheaper that was what I was given. My early efforts sounded like a cow in labour and I never felt at home with the instrument.

Unfortunately I upset the Latin teacher by practising in the Common Room early in the morning. Instead of coming next door and asking me to stop she had her revenge by making my life a misery in lessons. There were only three of us in the Latin class; Heather, my best friend and Josephine. Heather was undoubtedly the best student but I don't think I was any worse than Jo. However, Miss C constantly criticised me and claimed that I'd never pass A level. After putting up with this for a year I changed subjects and took English instead.

That meant an awful lot of catching up to do in the holidays but I was also trusted to stay and 'look after' the shops when my parents went on holiday. Pop had a really nice chap who helped out with the repairs and he came in fulltime for two weeks but I had the hardware shop to myself. I enjoyed it, in a way, but it proved to me that I wouldn't want to run a shop all my life.

Back to school in the Upper Sixth I was completely astounded to be voted Headgirl thanks to a 'plot' by the new Lower Sixth formers. There were over twenty of them so they outnumbered my peer group and had decided that the tradition of having a Catholic headgirl should be broken. (Depite being a Cathollic school about three quarters of us were non-catholic in those days).

The result caused a furore and I offered to resign but the Head talked me into doing it. It meant standing on the stage every morning while the classes trouped in for assembly to stop anyone from talking and this petrified me.

In the first few weeks there was a big argument when the Lower Sixth wanted the right to wear the special 6th form scarf - which had only been worn by the Upper 6th until then. Straight away I said I didn't see any reason why they shouldn't but my fellow Upper 6th strongly disagreed and I was accused of being in the Lower 6th pockets because they had voted me in.

I said the fact that we hadn't been allowed to wear the scarf was no reason to stop them from having it - and, after all, if you were going to buy a scarf you might as well have an extra year's wear out of it. The head agreed with me and the Lower Sixth bought their scarves. Eventually my school mates calmed down.

After a school career of being rather too serious, Heather and I devised a plan for the last day of term. She arrived very early and we hid all the school bells. There were no buttons to push then. Lessons were timed by handbells rung in each corridor and at the end of the school year everything depended on the bell to announce the day's events.

The staff were furious and several of them invaded our common room demanding that we find the culprits.

"It must be some of the lower sixth. None of you would do a thing like this."

Needless to say, I was put in charge of tracking down the missing clangers and as I had a tendency to blush and look guilty even if I was innocent I was only too pleased to escape.

Heather and I decided the joke had gone far enough and I tipped off the caretaker that it might be a good idea to look under the stage. He knew very well that we were the only ones in school early that morning but, as far as I know, he didn't give us away.

Sablonneuse at 20

sablonneuse — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 21:12:00 +0100

At 20 I was at the beginning of my final year at Music College in London, living in a shared flat in Ealing with four other students.

In a way, the only things I discovered during my three years was how much more there was to learn about music and how mediocre my own skills were compared to the majority of other people there.

Let's face it, I could never sing (even if I could squeak in tune), my piano playing was OK provided I had the music in front of me (but memorizing or improvisation eluded me): when it came to written harmony I had to do it 'mathematically' as I could never hear what I wrote and as I'd never been good at 'aural tests' the only way I (and quite a few others) passed the ear training part of the final exam was, frankly, to cheat.

It was a tradition that the students with perfect pitch would write out the five or six chord sequences the examiners used and the rest of us would learn them. Then, all we had to do was recognise which chord sequence we were given. If you couldn't manage that then you didn't deserve to pass anyway!

At the end of the first term I celebrated my 21st birthday and mum wanted me to go home for a 'dinner dance' at the Norwood Rooms in Norwich. After quite a bit of haggling she agreed that my boyfriend and a few other friends from college could come too. They stayed at the pub opposite our shop.

The evening was not hugely successful from my point of view. My relationship with J, the love of my life, was beginning to go sour. Well, in fact, he was starting to get fed up with me but didn't know how to let me down gently. The problem was that he needed space but I wanted to spend every minute at his side. Looking back, I must have been like an eager little puppy who became snappy and jealous if anyone else approached.

We stayed together until the end of the academic year - with me in the hopes that things would improve while he was just patiently biding his time until we went our separate ways. However, when he asked me to find out the name of a first year student whom he saw on the train to and from Devon, because he fancied her, I had to accept that our relationship was dead.

Mum and my stepdad came to pick me up at the end of term and I bought a small bottle of brandy to drown my sorrows on the way home. But it didn't work.

In those days of teacher shortages it was easy to get a job and at my first interview I was offered a post on the spot at a secondary school for girls in the Fens. One of the senior teachers took me under his wing but things got out of hand when one day he kissed me passionately. I'd regarded him as a father figure not a lover!

The next year I found myself at an Infant school in Norfolk for the next few years.

Sablonneuse at 25

sablonneuse — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 16:33:00 +0100

Whale and I had been married just over a year, I was teaching at an Infant School (the same one I went to as a child) and we were living in the flat above my parents' shop but saving hard for a deposit on our own house.

One of ways we boosted our nestegg was to take part in the TV programme "Mr and Mrs". Unfortunately the recording coincided with a parents' evening at school so I pretended to have a migraine.

We won the jackpot but were found out by the headteacher because the school welfare officer was in the audience and recognised me.

We evntually had a bungalow built at Ashby St Mary (in Norfolk) and the builder used my own design - but it had to be reduced in size to fit our budget. It actually cost £3400 including the land and our mortgage payment was £45 a month.

The move coincided with a new job at a Primary school on the same side of Norwich but I only stayed one year because after a second miscarriage the doctor advised me to give up fulltime teaching.

I arranged to work two days a week at my old Grammar school but was already pregnant when I started in the September and CC was born in the Spring.

When Jay was born seventeen months later I felt our family was complete and settled down to be a housewife and mother until a call from the headmaster at the village school lured me back part-time (two afternoons a week) to teach music.

My mother volunteered gladly to babysit and so I was back at work if only for a few hours.

Sablonneuse at 30

sablonneuse — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 17:21:00 +0100

In spite of quite a few disadvantages this was a very happy time in my life.

I had two lovely children and a Mum who looked after them a couple of afternoons a week so that I could teach music at the village school for a change of scenery. I was also able to fit in a few piano pupils.

CC and Jay were very good at playing together and have always been close. In fact, the only time I had to keep them apart was when CC was at the stage of building things while Jay wanted to knock them down. It meant one had to be in the playpen while the other was outside.

It was interesting to note that, although we never made a big distinction between girl's and boy's toys, CC always went for the dolls and Jay was never without a car in his hand as he crawled round the room.

Later they played with Action men and Sindy dolls together but I came to the conclusion that choice of play is more nature than nurture when it comes to gender.

My early thirties were a time of almost blissful domesticity but I realised that despite giving up teaching gladly to have a family I would go back full time as soon as the children started school.

Now that our family was complete, Whale lost all interest in sex and told me I must be a sex maniac if I still wanted to 'do it'. We had a few arguments on the subject and eventually he said he wouldn't mind if I 'went elsewhere'.

The idea appalled me at first but then I met someone I really fancied and things fell into place remarkably easily. However, having a lover was one thing, falling in love with him made life much more complicated.

We had agreed, at first, that things would not get out of hand but they did and to cut a long and painful story short it all ended in tears.

Not just once - but twice!

Maybe I'll go into detail one day but for now that's it; there's quite enough about my love life in the blog already.

Sablonneuse at 35

sablonneuse — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 10:40:00 +0100

"She's a funny little thing: separated with two kids".

That was how I was described to Bear by the Churchwarden when the organ broke down. It was Bear who 'looked after' several small church instruments when they couldn't afford to pay the professionals' prices.

"You had better be there to explain what's wrong." she told me, so, at the appointed time I arrived at the church with the children in tow.

Bear was charming in a sad sort of way and there was a kind of immediate chemistry between us. When the repair was done I invited him back for a coffee (we lived with my parents) and he accepted.

It was easy to talk to him then and he was even pleasant to the children. He left me with the impression of a sad and lonely man. However, apart from saying I should call him next time the organ went wrong, neither of us thought about further meetings.

Until, that is, some months later when the choir I played for scheduled a concert in a church with a small organ but no piano. Now I could get away with playing hymns on an organ but a complicated oratorio was another matter.

I called Bear to ask if he would play for the concert.

He declined but offered to help by turning pages and pulling stops. I gratefully accepted and this led to several meetings to practise - sitting side by side on the organ stool. It was thus that we became closer.

I was completely hooked by the time he let it be known that he wasn't actually divorced but his tale of the hard done by husband was completely plausible (at the time) and I swallowed it hook line and sinker.

We became inseparable. He would even meet me during my lunch hour at school and we'd go for a picnic in a secluded spot.

Eventually we rented a house together but the situation was far from perfect. His Jeckyll and Hyde character came to the fore and, although I loved him blindly, I was also very unhappy.

"So, why did you marry him?" I hear you say.

I simply don't know.

Maybe I didn't want to lose face with friends and family after spending five years of my life with this man: maybe I didn't know what else to do - I certainly didn't want to move back with my parents and I couldn't afford a three bedroomed house to rent or buy.

He 'proposed' very casually by saying,

"Have you got anything on on Saturday 13th?"

"Yes, there's a concert in the evening."

"Oh, that's OK. I've booked the register office for 11 o'clock."

But that wasn't said with any sign of excitement or pleasure.

I can't remember how I felt - or what I said in reply but I know it wasn't the sort of reaction it should have been.

But I resolved to make the best of a bad job. (How foolish can you get?)

Sablonneuse at 40

sablonneuse — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 09:59:00 +0100

Bear and I had married six weeks before I turned 40.

The wedding had been a pretty low key - a few friends at the Registry Office followed by sandwiches and snacks at the house where we were to live.

It was the house Bear had lived in with his first wife and family. She had remained there after their separation but when she told him she wanted to sell up and move somewhere smaller he decided to take out a mortgage and buy her share.

The last thing I wanted was to live there but my views were not considered and it never felt like home, especially since he made it clear that he didn't really want my children to live with us.

At 11 and 12 I felt that their place was with me and I put my foot down but that didn't do much for anyone's happiness.

As I look back, it makes me think of the promise I made to myself when my mother married a man who didn't like me much either - and the feeling was mutual!

"I'll never do that to my children" I decided - and there - I went and did it!

But it made me understand how she must have felt: madly in love with a man and hoping that if she made him happy he would be willing to accept another man's child.

Looking back, I'm sure that, deep down, I knew I was heading for disaster but my heart over-ruled my head. In the early years of marriage I remember I cried an awful lot but as time passed I hardened and my love died.

When I realised that it was much more difficult for him to make me cry I knew that I was no longer in love with him. I walked out on him several times, but always on the spur of the moment and with nowhere to go - so I had to return.

The only time I actually 'moved out' was when he pushed CC while she was washing some dishes. Jay sprang to her defence shouting,

"Don't you push my sister!".

Bear turned on him and hit him.

CC and I tried to pull him away and then I rang Whale (who lived a few villages away) and we all piled into his car and went back to his small bungalow.

The children had their own beds there but I had to sleep on the settee. It was hardly an ideal situation and, for once, Bear seemed genuinely remorseful, so, believe it or not - we went back.

The only real achievement was that now Bear knew that if he pushed me too far I really would go and he never laid a finger on any of us again - although he would still shout and threaten.

At the age of 40 I decided to learn to play the flute. The peripatetic music teachers were located in a sideroom off my classroom so there were often verious wind instruments lying about and I'd frequently sneak a 'blow' when no-one was around. But I could not raise a squeak from any flute.

Then, one day, the music teacher let me try her flute with a solid silver mouthpiece and it made all the difference. After that, I found I was able to produce notes on the school flutes, so I bought one for myself and started lessons.

Despite taking exams up to grade six I never played well enough to join a group or a band but these lessons resulted in a close friendship with the music teacher and we still keep in touch and see each other two or three times a year when she comes to visit with her mum or other friends.

So my 'forties' certainly weren't that bad.

Sablonneuse at 45

sablonneuse — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 16:59:00 +0100

Sablonneuse at 45 was not a particularly happy bunny.

My marriage to Bear was strained - the shine had definitely worn off - and I was feeling decidedly miserable inside although I did my best to put on a cheerful face.

One of the main problems was Bear's attitude towards my kids. He made them feel most unwelcome in 'his' house and eventually, CC had had enough. She decided she would rather live with her dad, Whale. Less than a year later, Jay joined her.

It broke my heart, but I could understand how they felt. Also, as teenagers, they wanted lifts into Norwich to go out with their friends and that's something I couldn't (and probably wouldn't if I could) have done because school meant a very early start each morning.

Whale, who worked at a University seemed to keep his own hours and was therefore on call no matter how late at night to fetch and carry CC and Jay- and provide a taxi service for their friends.

Of course, they would come and have meals once or twice a week with me but their bedrooms remained empty.

Bear wasted no time in transforming CC's room into a study. Some years later I was to move into Jay's room.

But life wasn't all doom and gloom. I had some close friends in whom I could confide, I enjoyed my job and I discovered little ways of manipulating Bear to 'get my own way' if it were really important.

For example I quietly insisted that the children and my Mum came for Sunday lunch nearly every week. Bear complained occasionally but I ignored him - and it worked!

On the other hand, when I tried to persuade him to allow Mum to have a bungalow built on part of our garden I was less successful but he did agree to sell the plot some years later and I finally replaced the kitchen I'd been forced to live with ever since moving in.

We spent most school holidays in France, often house sitting for friends and it began to feel more like home to me than our actual house. We talked about retiring to France but Bear seemed more enthusiastic when we were with friends than when we were back at home.

I began to realise that he would probably never leave that house even though he knew I was unhappy there.

Sablonneuse at 50

sablonneuse — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 15:20:00 +0100

This is going to sound very petty but the first thing I remember about my fiftieth birthday was that Bear prevented the party I was hoping for.

After organising and catering for many a celebration for his 'big birthdays' I tried to arrange something for my big day that didn't involve doing most of the cooking myself. I actually got as far as enquiring about caterers but when estimates were mentioned Bear decided it was too expensive - even though a friend offered a very good deal.

So, with the help of CC and Jay we prepared a selection of curries, a coq au vin, a cheese board and desserts, bought in a supply of wine and beer and sent out fairly last minute invitations.

The children ordered a fantastic cake in the shape of a grand piano with black (!) icing as a big surprise.

It has to be said, that, despite the frantic preparations, I did have a really good time and the children still have a photo of me looking extremely merry after several brandies. (Before you ask - no, I wouldn't publish it even if I knew how!)

As you may have gathered, the marriage was not very happy. The few interests we shared no longer kept us together. He didn't want to come to any concerts I played for, either at school or with the choir I accompanied, and I had to admit that belonging to the organists' society was rather boring although I dutifully treekked along on organ crawls round draughty churches.

Then there were chartered train trips which Bear adored but it meant a very early start on a Saturday morning and several hours journey either side of a three or four hour mooch round some distant town. The return trip was inevitably delayed through breakdowns or track repairs and that left Sunday to do the washing and ironing and preparation for school on Monday.

Bear was already retired so he could stay in bed.

It was more bearable if we went with friends as we had someone to talk to plus we took a cool box full of goodies for the meal on the way home.

It has to be said, though, that frim the age of 50 I was beginning to feel kind of trapped in the relationship with Bear. His constant efforts to pull me away from my children only served to drive a bigger wedge between the two of us.

I had long since given up trying to convince him that I had had enough love for everyone at first, but it was he, himself who had killed off the love I had for him.

Oh, this is getting depressing. Time to stop!!

Sablonneuse at 55

sablonneuse — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 15:08:00 +0100

At 55 I was teaching at my last and favourite school - a middle school near Great Yarmouth. The best part was that they ran a secondary type timetable so that staff could 'specialise' in the subjects that they preferred - well, most of the time, depending on the constraints of the timetable.

When I started there I was fortunate enough to have lots of music lessons and the rest of my timetable consisted of Maths and English with a bit of History, Geography, French or R.E. from time to time.

It was a huge relief not to have to do anything remotely ressembling Sport or Science but every spare lunch time was taken up with Music groups - recorders. Windband, flute and clarinet. Eventually, I became a 'floating teacher' - in other words, I didn't have a class responsibility so I was able to fit in more music before Assembly while everyone was doing their register.

By 1999, however, with ever worsening eyesight, I was beginning to find life difficult. The problem was that I needed such strong correction (-17 and -19) that it pulled my eyes into a squint - particularly when I was tired.

An operation to shorten a muscle(?) didn't help much so I had to live with undercorrection and therefore far from perfect vision, despite wearing contact lenses plus one of several pairs of glasses for various distances.

Life became most uncomfortable and I had to go for early retirement. The head obviously didn't realise how bad things were because she was amazed when my application was granted. I wasn't even allowed to finish the school year and left at the end of June 2000.

I thought this was because the LEA was too mean to pay my salary through the Summer but when I saw my dossier at the hospital I realised that my specialist had said I was as blind as a bat - though in more technical terms!

After retirement the thought of living a Derby and Joan existence with Bear was a pretty unappealing prospect and having failed to 'escape' on the previous occasions when I'd walked out, I decided to plan carefully for a new life in France.

It took the best part of a year to arrange things but on October 6th 2002 I left home and started a new adventure across the Channel. You can read about it in the Dear Diary section.

Sablonneuse at 60

sablonneuse — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 20:14:00 +0100

In view of the various parties I'd never had I was looking forward to having a good bash to celebrate becoming 60.

It was not to be. Despite having promised various friends that he was going to spring a surprise 'do' for the occasion, Bear found his best excuse yet and arranged his knee replacement operation for the week before my birthday.

Needless to say, he was in hospital on the day and when I went to see him that morning (it was a Sunday) he threw a card at me and deliberately avoided saying Happy Birthday. I didn't stay long.

In his defence, it should be said that the next day he was completely out of his head, talking about seeing black insects all over the wall and suffering from high blood sugar. (He has type 2 diabetes).

Of course, the nurses didn't know he was gibbering nonsense, and as he took his own sugar levels with his English meter they didn't realise there was a problem.

When I alerted them, his cache of sugary treats was whisked away and he was subjected to loads of tests and a strict diet. As he had been extremely bad about eating sensibly this came as a quite a shock.

Because of this little setback he stayed in hospital for a fortnight instead of the usual ten days so the rest of us had a pleasant 'holiday' from his bad moods.

And the birthday? Well, CC and Jay cooked a lovely meal at home and we celebrated in a relaxed and stressfree atmosphere.

Sablonneuse at 65

sablonneuse — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 20:10:00 +0100

On Saturday I turned 65 and enjoyed a really lovely weekend thanks to family and friends.

With a bit of prodding from CC, Bear bought me the whole set of DVDs for Upstairs Downstairs, but what I appreciated most of all was the fact that he remained incredibly sweet tempered the whole time!

Yvette invited us for cake and champagne in the afternoon and then Jay cooked a delicious meal of carrot and beetroot soup followed by cod in provencale sauce and rounded off with the most beautiful chocolate gateau I've ever seen - or tasted - which came from a very good patisserie in town.

Coffee was accompanied by a 25 year old Armagnac - a present from CC and Jay - and then we ALL played Trivial Pursuits until well after midnight.

Bear won and I came second but we realised that our sets of questions are terribly out of date. We'll have to get some new ones.

As for presents, I've never been so spoilt. My friend from Athens sent this wonderful display of flowers and Yvette gave me a trinket box, an ornament of a cat and Dewey, by Vicki Myron - the true story of an abandoned kitten who was adopted by the staff at a library - translated into French.

Our friends from the next village gave me some hyacinths nicely arranged in a hanging basket, my neighbour popped in to present me with a cat themed manicure set and matching notepad and pen, Bear's elder daughter sent me some handcream, (she always remembers my birthday - bless her) and, as well as the wonderful armagnac, CC and Jay gave me a CD of Mozart's Horn Concerto.

You'd think that was enough of a celebration wouldn't you, but it continued on Sunday, in a way, because it was the Christmas Repas des Anciens.

When we left at quarter past twelve I was still feeling very full from the previous evening and rather regretted that I'd accepted the invitation for the meal.

However, once we had arrived and kissed or shaken hands with everyone there was quite a long wait before the meal began.

First came the champagne and nibbles, supplemented by slices of pizza. The starter was salmon in sorrel sauce, followed by the Trou Normande - sorbet with mirabelle brandy - and the main course was venison accompanied by apple and cranberries, sprouts and dauphinoises potatoes. Then came cheese (brie) with lettuce and desert consisted of individual raspberry charlottes.

Coffee was served with tarte au sucre, a local confection of round brioches liberally coated with sugar.

This year's entertainment was a couple who, between them, sang and played accordeon, saxophone and keyboard with a 'canned' accompaniment. It wasn't bad, but they weren't as good as last year's performers and they were far too loud

Bear and I were among the first to leave at about 6 o'clock but no doubt the dancing went on for another hour or so.

I have to say it was the best birthday weekend I've had for many a year but, even today, I'm still feeling incredibly full!

Chaleur

sablonneuse — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 18:29:00 +0100

Pretty though our fireplace may have been, the fire itself was ineffective and so we have decided to have a wood stove installed.

Our trip to Leroy Merlin was disappointing as the only fires they had in stock were ultra modern and not at all to our taste, but there was at least a two week delay on anything else they could order and I would have to choose it from the catalogue without seeing it 'in the flesh'.

All the same, we decided to go for an estimate and an artisan came round to have a look. He reckoned he'd have to wreck the marble fireplace to get the 'insert' out unless we were prepared to have a pipe coming down from the top of the wall. Yuk! No thank you!

It looked as though we were stuck with the fire as it was.

Fortunately Bear saw an advert for stoves on offer at the Deville factory, in town and so off we went. There was 40% off everything and we could see exactly what they looked like.

Great! We bought one and the chap agreed to come and fit it for us. He came this morning and took out the old 'insert' without too much trouble or too many swear words.

It seems the bricks it was standing on were not right and had been damaged by the heat. The former owner has a lot to answer for. He was supposed to be an electrician and builder but it seems he was more of a cowboy.

Anyway, after less than three hours our new stove was in place and working. It sticks out a bit fiurther forward than we had expected. Bear was cross but I discovered he had left just enough room for the vacuum cleaner to pass behind and I'll be able to reach the marble to polish it without having to perform to many contortions - or lose too much weight. . . . .

He lit it for us and the heat output was fantastic. However, we had to shut all the cats in the the conservatory and throw open the doors and windows to get rid of the smell of new paint until the stove was 'burnt in'.

It will take some getting used to but I think we'll be warm at last!

New Site

sablonneuse — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 11:06:00 +0200

Although I will sometimes publish a post here, this blog has moved to a new site HERE.

All previous posts remain here for you to browse.

Invitation to lunch

sablonneuse — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 14:06:00 +0200

This was the idyllic setting for a barbeque. The hedge has grown since our last visit to this house so you can no longer see the Meuse but the towering hills of the Ardennes are a wonderful sight to enjoy as you have an al fresco meal.

We were invited for Sunday lunch because they had a favour to ask; would we help their younger son with his English during August?

After a champagne aperitif and plenty of food and friendly conversation it was impossible to say no. But when I realised they meant Quentin to stay with us for several days at a time I began to see a few problems.

As far as I'm concerned it would be a pleasure. This young man, now 17, was the tiny baby we looked after when his uncle had a heart attack almost at the same time as we arrived in the village to stay in the holiday home belonging to another of his aunts.

The whole family went into shock. People rushed hither and thither and his mum pushed the baby into my arms with breathless instructions for finding bottles and nappies etc. and disappeared in the car.

Sadly the uncle died and we went to stay in our friends' 'real' house in Charleville, leaving the family to grieve and organise the funeral in the village.

So now, we are going to be left 'holding the baby' again, so to speak. Bear is a bit grumpy about it, especially as I don't know how long he's going to be with us. We kind of arranged that they would bring him next Sunday evening and we'd 'see how it goes'. . . . . .

CC and Jay are sympathetic as they realise the poor lad probably doesn't want to come and live with an English family whom he doesn't know very well but they do feel it is a bit of an imposition.

As far as I'm concerned, I enjoy having visitors but am aware that some of the work will fall on CC and Jay's shoulders if my knee doesn't improve soon. We are all looking forward to meeting Sophie with Chris and Chaddy on Friday and some more friends are coming to stay at the end of August. Trouble is, I can't be sure what will happen with Quentin in between.

It looks as though next month is going to be 'interesting'.

Who dunnit?

sablonneuse — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 21:10:00 +0200

Some time ago we noticed that the 'second telly' -

the one I use to watch French TV - was behaving badly. The colour came and went and sometimes the picture narrowed.

This week we decided to take it to be repaired. The man put it on his bench and connected it while we were there.

"Strange," he mused, "ir's not a fault I've seen before. Leave it with me and I'll ring you within 48 hours."

Yesterday he telephoned to say he could repair it for 75 euros. It was not as bad as he had feared but 'did we have a cat because they had found evidence of liquid. . . .?'

"You mean a cat has done a pee in the television?" I asked.

"Erm, yes. It's quite possible."

"Well we do have six of them so it's highly likely."

We collected it today and the man explained how he had cleaned it all inside.

"Our repairs are guaranteed for three months," he announced as we left.

"Even against cats?"

"No, sorry!"

So who's the guilty party I wonder.

Parsley likes sitting on the computer monitor,

or in the laundry basket.

The twins prefer to share an armchair.

Chloe likes a radiator.

Toby patrols to keep all the girls in order,

but suspect number one is Holly, as she spends quite a lot of time on the boxes behind the television.

Fourniret in Court again

sablonneuse — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 10:44:00 +0200

Yesterday, Michel Fourniret, already serving a life sentence without remission, was before the court again to answer allegations concerning Joanna Parrish.

This 20 year old English girl was found raped and strangled in May 1990. Monique Olivier had accused her husband of the murder but she later retracted her accusation.

Fourniret, himself was more co-operative about answering questions but denied the crime, although he admitted it did have his hallmark.

Lawyers for Joanna's family asked how it was that Monique Olivier knew certain details about the crime and had originally accused him of being the perpetrator.

Fourniret couldn't explain it but said perhaps the police had told her.

After the summer recession the Fourniret's will be back yet again.

UPDATE

sablonneuse — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 16:25:00 +0200

I shall be posting

here from time to

time but, in effect,

this blog has moved

to:

http://sablonneuse.wordpress.com/

All past posts are still here so

feel free to browse.

Fournirets to be transfered

sablonneuse — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:26:00 +0200

The prison at Charleville will soon be back to normal. Alpha and Beta, the nicknames of Michel Fourniret and Monique Olivier, are on the point of leaving for other prisons.

He is being taken to Chalons-en-Champagne and she is going to Valencienne. They are still in 'temporary accommodation' until the files are completed for the cases still being investigated.

However, their departure will be a great relief for the local residents. They will have their parking places back and they won't be subjected to the convoys to and from court with sirens wailing.

As for the prison staff, they can, at last get their breath back after 24 hour surveillance over the couple; 25 guards in shifts, checking them every fifteen minutes.

Some of the 'normal' detainees had been sent to other, already overcrowded establishments during the trial and those who remained noticed a difference in the routine with all staff on full alert for Alpha and Beta.

Before the arrival of the Fournirets the prison was already over full with 34 prisoners but only 23 places. However, those who were sent away hope to be returned to Charleville.

It could be said that everyone will breathe a huge sigh of relief to see the back of this couple.

Visit to the Vet

sablonneuse — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 22:22:00 +0200

We have managed to reduce our routine visits to the vet to just three times a year - two cats each time.

Last week it was the turn of Toby and Chloe and we knew that if anyone caught a glimpse of a catbasket they would all disappear under the bed or behind the computer. So I prepared the willow basket and a new cat carrier that the vet had given us last time in the garage and then went to find the victims.

Toby was curled up on an armchair so it was easy to pick him up but when he saw the basket he became amazingly active and it was a bit of a fight to get him in. Chloe, bless her, was more trusting and quite curious about this new bag so she didn't protest too much when I zipped her in.

Toby made loud cries all the way there but Chloe didn't make a sound. Maybe she was too scared. Toby was sick within a few minutes and also did a poo. We had to open the sunroof and the windows - just a bit.

In the waiting room I managed to clean Toby's basket (he's usually carsick so we were prepared) and the receptionist took the 'Carnets de Santé'. The vet invited us in and proceeded to examine her patients before administering the jabs. I remember her when she started, five years ago, and was a bit inexperienced but now she handles the cats with calm assurance and sticks the needle in without making them flinch.

She gave them both a clean bill of health, made sure they didn't have any 'habitants' (such as fleas) and then we went to the desk for her to add up the bill. She didn't have a large bag of cat biscuits in stock but promised to bring them to us this week. it was then we discovered she has lived in our village for the last three years.

The only time I've seen her is at the surgery when we were both waiting for the physio. It was the season for 'bronchiolite' in young children and her seven month old daughter was booked in for her first session of torture.

Yes - torture! From what I gather they squeeze the child's chest to make her cough and it must feel like choking or being asphyxiated. The poor little things cry with terror and as the treatment is on a daily basis most of them start screaming as soon as mum parks the car outside the surgery. I'm sure they don't do that to children in England.

Anyway, to return to the visit to the vet, we bought six phials of 'Advocate' which treats fleas, worms, ticks and earmites (I like to use this twice a year but it's more expensive than Frontline which only repels fleas and ticks) paid in advance for the biscuits and came out with our precious bundles of fur 221 euros worse off. Veterinery charges are increasing but I think they still compare favourably with costs in Britain. All the same, it's definitely worth it to protect them from most diseases, including rabies.

A Good Read

sablonneuse — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 15:36:00 +0200

Some time ago I discovered Susie Vereker's blog and was intrigued by the title of one of her books - 'Pond Lane and Paris'.

Yesterday the package from Amazon was delivered and I was hooked. In the first couple of pages I was immediately drawn to the heroine, Laura, and couldn't put the book down till it was finished.

If you like Joanna Trollope you'll like Susie Vereker but I'm not going to give away any more details about the story.

Having a book in English completely distracted me from my resolve to read in French. I've borrowed Gerald Durrell's "Ma Famille et Autres Animaux" from the library (in large print) but it's slow going.

Yvette has lent me Caligula (Camus) and another play, Clerambard, by Marcel Aymé (whom I'd never heard of), so, you see, that's why I haven't had so much time to write or read blogs recently.

Meanwhile, I apologise for the lack of anything interesting to report regarding daily life chez-nous.

Fourniret - is it really all over?

sablonneuse — Thu, 29 May 2008 16:38:00 +0200

After a hearing lasting 35 days Monique Olivier and Michel Fourniret entered their box surrounded by police.

For the first time since March 27th, the jurors appeared relieved. All present held their breath as the verdict was read out.

Michel Fourniret was sentenced to life imprisonment with no remission or early release. Such a sentence has only been passed three times so far.

Monique Olivier also got life but may be eligible for release after 28 years.

It is pretty certain that neither of the accused will appeal.

However, the Fournirets were given this warning:

"N'imaginez surtout pas que la police et la justice belges et francaises vont vous laisser tranquilles"

"Don't imagine for a moment that the Belgian and French police and justice will leave you in peace."

They are gathering evidence implicating the couple in the disappearance of Marie-Angele Domece and the murder of Joanne Parrish.

There could be another Fourniret trial.

Fournirets' defence and sentence

sablonneuse — Wed, 28 May 2008 14:04:00 +0200

After more than a month of prosecution testimony the last two days have been given over to an attempt at finding a defence argument for the Fourniret couple.

On Monday, Monique Olivier's lawyer could only argue that although she had no alternative but to admit her guilt, her crimes were slightly less horrific than her husband's, and therefore, he hoped that her sentence might be a bit more lenient.

Yesterday, it was the turn of Fourniret's counsel. How does one defend the indefensible? Just one of his crimes should merit a life sentence but the court had endured a whole catalogue of horror.

If he searched for a grain of humanity he couldn't find one. All he could say at the end of his summing up was that Fourniret would not appeal.

At three o'clock the sitting was almost over. The accused were asked if they had any final words. Monique Olivier mumbled her regrets. Fourniret wanted to read out more of his scribblings - some even in verse.

His lawyer held his head in his hands.

One of the victim's fathers muttered. "Pauvre type".

All rests now in the hands of the jury.

The Sentence:

Fourniret is to serve the rest of his life in prison. His wife is to serve 28 years.

The families of their victims will also serve the rest of their lives mourning the young girls who fell prey to this evil pair.

Fourniret and Olivier - trial nears the end

sablonneuse — Thu, 22 May 2008 15:45:00 +0200

During this week many lawyers and expert witnesses reached the conclusion that Fourniret and his wife were equal partners in crime. Indeed, she may even have masterminded the operation, or at least given him his 'licence to kill'.

One advocate said to Olivier, "Vous etes une insulte aux femmes." "You are an insult to women"

She likened the accused to the wolf in Red Riding Hood and a witch: Fourniret ensnaring his victims with politeness and Olivier, cunning as an old crone.

At least, Fourniret knew how to tell his daughter he loved her but Olivier seemed unable to understand love in any form. She showed not the slightest compassion for their victims when she lured them into the traps which would lead to their death.

It is not surprising then that they are asking for the same penalty for both the 'executioner and his accomplice'.

The families are not seeking pity nor revenge. All they want is justice and the knowledge that lessons have been learned from this case. There were many weaknesses in the judicial system which allowed the Fournirets to get away with murder for far too long.

Serial killers are, more often than not, caught by chance and not because of an allout effort to find them.

One lawyer pointed out mistakes made by magistrates, and other incompetent goings on which extended Fourniret's freedom to carry on. At the moment the French judiciary comes out badly compared to the system in Belgium.

All the families of the victims share the hope that criminals like these will be caught before they can commit so many heinous crimes again.

Fourniret breaks his silence

sablonneuse — Sat, 17 May 2008 12:11:00 +0200

(Other posts on the lighter side of life to be found here)

This week, according to the local paper, Fourniret started speaking and it was difficult to stop him.

When the news first hit the headlines and there was talk of finding bodies in a Chateau he had once owned I remember wondering how he could have lived in such apparent luxury.

The answer came this week.

He had been in prison with a certain Jean-Pierre Hellegouarch and the pair had become friendly. Jean-Pierre promised Fourniret a share of his booty from a previous crime if he would 'rescue' it before the rest of the gang claimed it.

Fourniret agreed but when he was released he killed Jean-Pierre's wife and took the 80 kilos of gold for himself. When J-Pierre appeared as a witness he explained how he had tracked them down over a year later and even fired a couple of shots at him but missed.

In his testimony he described his wife, aged 30 at the time, and said there was no need to kill her to steal the gold.

Fourniret decided to speak about his crimes, relishing the details and not sparing the feelings of his victims' families.

He likened himself to a poacher, hunting for prey but despite his verbosity and precision he was tripped up over the case of Marie, who escaped his clutches. He tried to say that he let her escape because he wanted to be arrested to put an end to his activities.

It was pointed out that her wrists were bleeding because he had tied her so tightly. It was obvious he was trying to twist the truth to suit himself.

As for Monique Olivier, the court tried to come to a conclusion about her mentality and personality. A psychologist for the defence wasn't able to testlfy but several experts for the prosecution claimed that there was no evidence of mental illness, that she knew perfectly well what she was doing in helping her husband and showed not the slightest compassion for their victims. They dismissed her claims of being a passive slave to his will.

Fourniret's wives give evidence

sablonneuse — Thu, 08 May 2008 16:31:00 +0200

(The lighter side of life in France is now to be found on my other blog, here.

Both of the previous wives of Michel Fourniret had been won over by a man who seemed kind and considerate, a hard worker who seduced them by his way with words and his letters to them.

Annette was his wife for four years. She said their marriage had no major problems until the time he attacked a child in his car. It was the daughter of one of Annette's employees and it spelt the end of their marriage.

She never remarried but brought up their son on her own. Fourniret seemed to take a wicked pleasure in blaming her for setting him on the path of crime because she had lost her virginity to another before they were married.

When she asked him to break his silence his hatred of her was apparent.

However, he was much better disposed towards his second wife, Nicole. She, too had been seduced by his love letters and they married after a short courtship. But she explained that she felt she never really knew the real Fourniret. After thirteen years of marriage, when he was arrested for a series of rapes and sexual assaults, Nicole divorced him.

A police officer who tried to gain his confidence at that time was convinced that he was still in love with Nicole.

Their children, Jean-Christophe, now 44, and Anne, 36 had never really known their father but these three people are the only ones whom Fourniret seems to care about.

When Nicole asked him to speak, he sobbed and eventually promised that he would break his silence. But he said before saying anything in public he would have to try to gather his thoughts together.

We shall see if he keeps his promise.

Fourniret sheds a tear.

sablonneuse — Wed, 07 May 2008 15:52:00 +0200

Fourniret's elder brother, André gave the impression of being an honest man, very intelligent and not in the least like his sibling, who appeared even more insignificant, stuck behind his glass screen, obstinately mute.

André prefers to be known as Fournier nowadays but that doesn't mean he wants to deny his relationship with his brother. However, he admitted to being pulled in opposite directions, not wanting to to attack a close relative but not being able to defend a murderer and paedophile.

He wanted to tell the families of the victims, face to face, that his sympathy for them was stronger than his blood ties.

Fot the last five years he had been trying to understamd the dual personality that made up his brother: the 'good Michel', kind and hardworking and the 'bad', an assassin he could only condemn.

He demystified Michel's pretensions of being ultra clever - some sort of super being - with the words:

"Son intelligence est surfaite. Il a une bonne memoire. C'est un pseudo-intellectual, megalomane, excellente manuel, mais sans competence administrative ou commerciale."

"His intelligence is over-rated. He has a good memory. He is a pseudo-intellectual, megalomaniac, excellent with his hands but has no administrative or business sense."

He went on to dismiss claims of incest between Michel and their mother or sexual abuse of their sister by Michel, as sheer fantasy. He described their parents as a well balanced couple.

When asked about the humiliation claimed by his brother, André explained that he had a complex about his small stature, but this wasn't enough to turn him into a killer.

His theory as to why Michel refuses to speak at his trial is this: 'he is made up of two personalities, like a werewolf. Inside his head he is a martyr and the tragic loss of two of his own children reinforces this. According to this persona he has done nothing wrong but when both sides of his personality come together and he tries to reconcile black and white he could kill himself.'

"Do you think he would have spoken 'in camera?'" asked one of the mothers.

"He would have spoken but he wouldn't have said anything" was the response.

When asked at what point his brother changed, André was convinced it was when he met Monique.

'He needed an audience, an accomplice, an alibi, material assistance and someone with a passive nature so that he could show himself as all-powerful.'

Then it was the turn of Dominique Catoire to take the stand: the daughter of his late employer, Georges Catoire - a man he idolised.

He showed not the slightest emotion during the descriptions of rapes and murders of his young, innocent victims but bringing up his past when he worked for Georges Catoire was enough to crack the hard shell he had so meticulously built up during his trial.

Dominique reminded him that her father had taught him love and respect and that he would be ashamed of him. Fourniret cracked and shed a tear.

The lawyers tried to press home the advantage but Fourniret would not respond. He quickly put up his wall of silence to hide behind. His ultimate protection.

Monique Olivier's Character

sablonneuse — Tue, 06 May 2008 11:58:00 +0200

(For everyday stories about living in France please see my other blog here.)

The court has been trying to uncover the true personality of Monique Olivier. Was she another victim, under the thumb of Fourniret or was she his accomplice?

The three main witnesses gave conflicting evidence.

Her brother, Michel Olivier, appeared indifferent to her fate and was more concerned that he wouldn't be shown on television.

He remembered a happy childhood but claimed he couldn't keep track of Monique's "vie mouvementée" as they grew older.

He described her as having a sturdy character, not someone you could push around.

Her ex partner, André Michaux, on the other hand, spoke of a somewhat bewildered person - rather withdrawn. He had used her as a model for some of his paintings but most of them had been destroyed in the fire caused by Fourniret as part of the her revenge.

Monique had accused him of humiliating and torturing her but he denied doing anything to her.

"Vous n'etes qu'une menteuse, une infabulatrice. Je vous ai sauvée de plusieurs merdier. De celui-ci, je ne peux pas."

"You're nothing but a liar and story teller. I've saved you from several sticky situations but I can't get you out of this one."

He went on to describe how he was aware of being hunted and of having three attempts on his life.

"People thought I was mad. They even made me see a psychiatrist".

At this point Fourniret fixed him with an evil glare.

Michaux accused him of being a coward because he attacked little girls openly but only dared go after a man behind his back.

The rest of his evidence didn't go well for Monique. He told how he had brought up their two sons alone, sometimes having to sleep in the car for lack of money: how he had even taken in Selim, the son she had with Fourniret.

The third witness was her eldest son, Murphy, a young man of 28. He may have seemed relaxed from his appearance wearing bermuda shorts and sandals but he came over as confused and nervous when he had to speak.

He couldn't bring himself to refer to Fourniret by name. He called him "Cet individu", "ce personnage" or even "cette chose" (that thing). As a young child he hated him because everyone had to do what he said and they were so nervous they would jump at the slightest noise.

When they asked him why he thought his mother stayed with Fourniret he said he didn't know. He claimed she was always in a nervous state and must have felt trapped..

Thye asked about his father, André Michaux. The young man replied that he had always done his best for the boys, given them a good education and never been violent.

When the Fournirets were imprisoned it was Murphy who went to fetch his half brother, Selim, and André had no problems welcoming him under his roof.

André's one big question was "Comment se fait-il qu'une femme puisse amener ses enfants aupres d'un tuer multirecidiviste?"

(How can it be that a woman could let her own children near a serial killer?)