An old (both in terms of age and length of acquaintance) retired-academic friend, Russell, told me I’m “becoming an accomplished peasant”, referring to my French farm adventures. Knowing him, the “peasant” bit is a play on the other meaning of the word (an uncouth, crude, or ill-bred person; a boor).
I am certainly acquiring the physical attributes of a peasant: chapped hands, dirty-looking fingernails (I say “dirty-looking” because they’re stained from processing quince for jam-making, not from being unwashed), chipped nails (from getting caught in something or other, e.g., the vegetable peeler or the kitchen knife).
But I’m far from being a peasant, never mind an accomplished one. Colette, who was brought up on the farm, cannot stand the feel of raw meat, yet she just gets on with it when she has to cook a non-vegetarian meal, which is all the time on the farm — solid (manual-)working people need solid protein-packed meals.
Yet I, who claim to love the countryside, blanch at the sight of blood, so that when it came to getting the turkeys ready for Xmas (for their own consumption and as gifts for friends and neighbours who had helped out throughout the year), I only entered the fray for the feather-plucking. Even then, I consciously avoided my eyes roving over the part of the neck where they’d dispatched the bird.
I’m not only squeamish about blood, I’m delicate, too, about the presents (both solid and liquid) the cats leave around the house, for which I get Jeanette to deal with. I also have to get her when I find a frog or toad in the shower room, although I’m not afraid of them per se.
At least, I don’t inflict long-term damage on the farm being a pretend peasant, unlike pretend academics who teach the wrong grammar and usage of language to students, leaving the students open to being marked down for their course assessments and exams. No, not “meow”. Just an observation and comment on irresponsible behaviour.
(France, 2011/2012)
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