Once Upon a Daydream

The weather has that summery feeling again, the wind is warm and full of aromatic smells. There was a whole street near Grimaldi that smelled like someone cooking curry. Aaaah. I was out running errands earlier and I could smell the sea two streets back from the seafront, so as it had me by the nose, I went to have a walk on the prom. I just stood enjoying the waves and the lovely fresh seaweed smell. I sat down on the rail on the edge of the front, imagining white horses on pebble beaches… and yes, thirty seconds after I sat down, I got hit on.

Twice, in the space of a minute. What is wrong with these French men? What do you do in that situation? I have tried shaking my head and ignoring them, but that seems to lead me further into their hands. It’s like a beggar asking for money – the social embarrassment of the situation means you’d rather not reply, but then they get insistent, try to humiliate you for your supposed rudeness. Here’s what’s rude: persisting on hitting on me when I’m clearly trying to ignore you! I didn’t come to the promenade looking for sex: I came to look at the waves.

“I’m sorry, I’d like to be alone thank you.” There. You made me say it. You’ve embarrassed us both.

J. doesn’t really understand. Of course he’s never seen it from a woman’s point of view. Men tend not to hit on me when he’s around, and he wouldn’t have the same reaction if a woman hit on him. I always tell him. Sometimes I wonder if he believes me, since he’s never seen it happen, and it’s not as though I’m stunningly beautiful. “You will leave the apartment while I’m away, won’t you?” he’ll ask. To do what? I can’t go anywhere or sit anywhere. “Yes you can, you can go and have a coffee.” No I can’t, not by myself. A single woman is a target. The argument descended into the ridiculous: I feel slutty sitting on my own, I look like I’m trying to pick someone up! “But I’ve seen loads of French women sat on their own.” Finally I promised him I’d go out. With that in mind, I waved his taxi goodbye and went to the seafront, where I was promptly hit on.

Sometimes I wish I had a sign, or I could use the coloured handkerchief in the back pocket system: green for go, amber for maybe, red for “back off you predatory scumbag”. I was reading through some of Riverbend’s old blogs, and she was explaining how to Muslims, the “hijab” (headscarf, not veil) is to protect females from sexual harassment. “It acts as a sort of safeguard against ogling and uninvited attention.” I wonder if it actually works? Do you think a mock wedding ring would do the same thing? I hope so. Then I can just hold up my hand and say, “Non monsieur: regardez,” and no one will have to be embarrassed. Do you think women ever get pestered into marriage by these predatory men, just so they can have the protection of the wedding ring? Perhaps it’s all a male plot.

You know, you put a plot together, and then you have an idea for a twist, and then another idea for a twist, and all of these beautiful dramatic scenes you want to fit in, and you mould it and shape it and it almost fits together, except for this one thread. So you pick at the thread a bit, and play with the warp and the weft, and all of a sudden the whole weave unravels in your hands, and you’re left tied up in a cat’s cradle of your own making.

I tried to discuss The Plot with J. on Saturday night. He told me it seemed like I didn’t have it all worked out, and the damned thing proceeded to collapse in front of me like a house of cards.

Only two weeks ago I was complaining to K. about it; about the huge back-story, about how I couldn’t work it all in by “showing not telling,” about how dull I found it to write perfectly clean and neutral sentences, so I had to change from third person to first person to make it work.

The problem is that my main character was a dreamy-wise-calm thing (another Princess Grace), and of course I can’t write like that from the first person, so I had to change her whole personality, which took me days of brainwork. Except I still wanted to write from the third person as well, as she’s supposed to be a beautiful woman and I wanted to describe her red flowing curls and the way her body moves.

I was ten thousand words into the book when it just went jigsaw on me again, the whole picture breaking up into postmodern fragments, all because of a minor event in the plot, which should not have been a minor event, which would push the character involved in that event into a leading role in the story when I didn’t want him to. Can a book handle four main characters? I don’t know. I don’t have anything else to say about this character in this plot, he needs a whole book of his own to be understood.

I’m now at ground zero – researching plot structures and trying to choose a model: perhaps “Circe,” or maybe “Tristan,” or should it be “Romeo and Juliet”? It all hinges on the annoyance of this intrusive minor character and what I should do with him.

This year I’m living in Nice. Why? If you had a choice between living on the French Riviera or in Sheffield, which would you choose?

Nice has its own particular characteristics, namely: dogs, terrible parking, and terrible driving. The French have a relaxed attitude towards things like smoking and personal safety. Crossing a road in France is much like dicing with death. There is a rule whereby the right of way belongs to anyone pulling out from the right. This includes zebra crossings, which drivers will happily pull halfway across whilst pedestrians scurry out of their path. Similarly, the privilege of parking in Nice is a matter worth fighting over. Drivers can often be seen (and heard) bickering, horn-honking and shunting each other up the rear over spaces.

The dogs in Nice are the same size as their owner’s handbags, and often live in them. They regularly take their owners shopping to the local SPAR where they tie up their owners outside while they buy food, have fights on the floor and sniff the vegetables. The dogs often take their owners to restaurants too, where they will sit on the carpet waiting for tidbits (lower class dogs) or have their own chair and plate (upper class dogs). The dogs often pay for their meals with platinum cards.

Monaco is only fifteen kilometres away. In Monaco, there are big boats, big millionaires, smaller dogs, and open air escalators to carry dogs and their owners up hills. I don’t know what they do when it rains.

We went to Monaco a few weeks ago. This was a bad idea, because now I have a secret plot to live there. J. says he doesn’t like the artifice of it, but then in the same breath he’s making fantastical plans to have parties on yachts.

If I ignore my reflection, I can pretend to be Princess Grace in Monaco. I am finally getting the hang of this French notion of coordinating one’s entire outfit. I have gone out and bought lots of fifties style tweed skirts and dresses and a white tweed coat. So far I am averaging one dog jumping up it per day. All I need now is a Burberry scarf and I will look like one of those young women I truly despise when I see them walking down the street towards me.

I want so much to be chic, like Grace Kelly, the Hitchcock blonde. I am planning to buy a headscarf to wear on the seafront. The main character in my novel is called Gabriel and her character is modelled on the princess. Perfect, composed, mysterious, beautiful.

These days I am more composed and calm. I am getting better at it, but there’s too much truth in me, constantly escaping attempts to cover it up. The truthsayer has always been my curse: I lost so many men before I had them by being honest. Parrhesia is always how I have been and will be, and my failure to veil gives my adversaries the advantage – for men, indeed, are adversaries.