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Baby On Board
Local Government Chronicle
I thought the French were too sensible for it. I thought a Cartesian race, imbued with the de-constructionist philosophy of Jacques Derrida would ask: “what is the point of it” and come up with the correct answer- “there isn’t one.”
But there it was, stuck on the back window of a Renault Scenic- that notice.
Bébé a bord. I could have choked on my baguette. It had been a good weekend until then. Sunday night at Chez Hortense was a dream. Normally you have to book months in advance to get a table overlooking the Dune du Pilat and wait for the mesmerising odour of that establishment’s extraordinary mussels to whip the gastric juices into slavering anticipation. But on Sunday it was empty- absolutely empty. France was in the world cup final and the entire peninsula had closed down.
It was worth France losing for the intellectual pleasure of the headline in
L’Equipe the next day: Aux Larmes Citoyens, in glorious parody of the Marseillaise. It was even worth the potentially alarming news that Zinedine Zidane, France’s retiring striker (sent off in the Italy match in the grand finale of his career) was buying a house in Cap Ferret, threatening the determinedly non-fashionable status of our side of the Bassin d’Arcachon. Footballers Wives on the bay – that would put a premium on the tables at Hortense even if the garlic, ham and goose-fat laden mussels were not exactly their cup of tea.
Anyhow, there was this Renault Scenic, right outside Huit à Huit, the sort of mini-store which makes you vow never ever to refuse a planning application from Tesco Metro.
Bébé a bord. Baby on Board. What are you supposed to do when you come up behind one – play twinkle twinkle little star on the car horn? Carry a spare packet of Pampers just in case? Admire the intellectual accomplishment of the driver for having worked out how the car seat fits together?
And what about the super-naff version –Princess on Board? How do you summon up a look of withering contempt of adequate intensity to express the sheer awfulness of that sign.
The world is full of daft signs, quite a number for the benefit of the hapless motorist. I still don’t know what I am supposed to do when I encounter the helpful information about “falling rocks” or “risk of subsidence.” I suppose I could send the wife to walk in front of the car to spot any offending cavities in the road or lumps of descending granite though I suspect Mrs Curry might not view this suggestion with the reasonableness it deserves.
The railways are doing their best to catch up. Heading south from Blackfriars station the other day to canvass in the Bromley by-election I found myself staring at the warning: “Do not fasten your bicycle to these railings or they will be removed.” Wouldn’t be easier, I mused, just to remove the bike?
When it comes to the totally uninformative notice airlines take some beating. “We are sorry for the delay to your flight,” intones some soothing spirit, who is clearly not wedged between two backpackers and a family of squalling children. “This is due to the late arrival of the incoming aircraft.” Well, that’s alright then.
I confess to a weakness for greetings cards. I have three current favourites. The first shows two pea-hens being confronted by a peacock displaying his feathers to their full glory. The legend reads: “cut the crap and show us your willy.”
The second features three Daleks standing in a huddle before a short flight of stairs. “This sure wrecks our plan to conquer the universe,” remarks the leader. And the third shows two men in front of a huge sign which reads Stop and Thank. One man is looking at the other. “It sure makes you stop and think,” he confides.
And there is one I keep in France, stored with the rigging for my Laser dinghy. A man is in a very small sailing boat and a huge wave is about to overwhelm him. The legend reads: “He was a very keen sailor and knew all the correct nautical terms.” There is a balloon coming from his mouth. Oh shit!
That really makes me stop and think.
© Local Government Chronicle
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