On the Marché - France - page 112

and McDonald's. Any individuality or small-scale entrepreneurship has been all but des-
troyed, trampled underfoot either by the Internet, out-of-town shopping behemoths or ridicu-
lous car parking charges.
As yet, in France, certainly rural France, this hasn't happened. The big supermarkets are
there obviously, but Internet shopping is still largely distrusted and small towns just don't
charge for parking. In our town alone there are two charcuteries , four boulangeries , no can-
dlestick makers, but a quincaillerie (ironmongers), two florists and three independent chem-
ists; all serving a population of about 4,000. But that's not to say that the French should be
complacent about hanging on to these things, the high streets of France have their own prob-
lems. The exodus from small, rural towns to bigger conurbations continues as people quite
rightly migrate in search of work, leaving villages and the like facing a tough future. There
are other problems too. Whereas in England you might feel harassed on the streets by clusters
of dayglow-vested charity muggers with their drama school enthusiasm ('Hi, you look great,
thought about Third World Prostates?'), or intimidated by groups of school kids thinking that
they're the first generation to try and wear the school tie in a rebellious fashion, France has a
far more sinister group of street botherers: the old woman.
They gather in groups, usually outside the chemist, and no-one is safe from their unsolicited
'advice'. So far, in the time I've lived here, I've been 'advised' on what my child should/should
not be wearing, my parking, the wisdom of sitting outside a bar when surely rain is immin-
ent, food purchases, wine purchases (all purchases, in fact), the speed I walk, smoking/not
smoking and the value of a solid forward defensive stroke. OK, I made the last one up - but
on one occasion when I pointed out to a group of old ladies that the child, my child (Thérence
to be exact), who they were declaring to be a 'pretty girl' was in fact a boy, they all paused
for a second and then shook their heads in unison: 'No', they said, 'definitely a girl.' They are
a menace, like I say, and the one thing they haven't yet pulled me up on is what I'm wearing.
They've obviously never seen a full-on mod before. They fall silent and begin crossing their
chests.
Another issue I have with the French high street is piped music, which is pumped into the
streets almost daily through strategically placed speakers but with no apparent thought what-
soever as to playlist. I don't mind the idea of it - as someone who wanders through life con-
stantly with some soundtrack running though his head, I'd go as far as to say it's actually quite
a nice idea. But if you're in rural France think about what you're playing! This is the Loire
Valley, so some classical Baroque would be appropriate, the theme tune to Jean de Florette
would work well in Provence, musette would set a scene all over the country; you get the
idea. What I don't want to hear as I stroll through a sleepy town is how some sociopath, who
hasn't yet managed to work out that jeans stay up with belts, wants to 'gun his hoes down'
or do this, that or the other to his 'bitch'. Rap music may have done a brilliant job of high-
lighting racial tensions and domestic hardships in the bigger cities, but frankly there are few