Thursday, November 27, 2008

Christmas market

With the spectre of the Christmas market looming ever closer, for the past two weeks I have been trying to motivate my fellow mamans into helping create gorgeous bijoux items to sell on the school's stall.  Mmm.  Whoever thought the French had impeccable style and taste obviously never hung out with the creative hotshots round here.  I am, in short, rapidly losing the will to live.  Whilst I have dug deep and released my inner Martha Stewart, fashioning christmas trees from ric rac I found whilst jostling for service for some embroidery threads in a tiny haberdashery shop in Plancoet that smelt of wheat and talc, the other mothers are taking inspiration from colour blind two year olds and magazines that show, in 10 easy to make steps, how to turn ugly rubbish into, well, different ugly rubbish yet with a decorative slant.

On Monday I held a workshop for the willing few and thought I'd hit creative gold by roping in someone who told me that they made "stunning" table decorations.  Turns out she lied.  "Stunning" is not the term I would have used for blob of stale bread with two holes gouged out and plugged with two red candles so that they stick out like Spacehopper handles and then gluing clots of tinsel and random plastic figurines on sale from Lidl (which, incidentally, when said by S. in his heavy Eurotrash accent, actually sounds like an exclusive thermal spa resort of the 1920's) before receiving a final squirt of fake snow.  All of the maman helpers were delighted with their efforts and went onto to gamefully churn out 16 of these creations that will provide the mainstay of our stall.  Yesterday, I wrapped them in cellophane to give them the wedding veil treatment and when the big reveal is made at the customer's home, we luckily will have already pocketed their six euros and packed up for the day. 

Back in Camp Anglais, I am hand-stitching button snowmen onto toile, loosely stuffed with cinnamon and lavender to hang off the christmas tree so when they fall off for the millionth time over Christmas at least they will emit a faint puff of scent.  Mmm.  Last count?  Why, nine of them.  Ahh.  Understanding why  Nike employ children for their similarly thankless task of stitching footballs.  They are not fools.  I, however, clearly am.  For when I'm finally through with my bodkin and buttons, I'm on door wreath-making duty, weaving together foliage harvested from the hedgerows, local produce and the skin from my finger tips and I, quite frankly, I don't think they'll be lurid and gling gling enough for the target market.  God damn it.

One mother gave me a magazine that she said was full of great ideas and thought they were so marvellous she actually wrote her name on the magazine lest it slip unnoticed into my collection, or I might be tempted to keep it.  Or perhaps she feared that it may end up in my recycling pile whilst on loan.  I tell you, it was so difficult to choose between making the reindeer place settings using an old wine cork, four burnt matchsticks, a jolly glitter tassel tail and a paper cut-out head and the tea light made from an old glass yoghurt pot rolled in glitter that I put the magazine down and haven't looked at it since for inspiration.  I know thrift is the new black this season, but taste never goes out of style.

Don't get me wrong.  I am very grateful for the help that is being offered by the other maman helpers, it's just that it needs such careful channelling.  And they need to WANT to be channelled.  And that, is hard to come by in these parts.

It really doesn't help that the one mother who is really very good at art is avoiding me after I made a careless, glib comment to her weeks ago that just did not translate in the way it was meant and I have managed to mortally offend her for ever more.  The short of it was her complaining about the amount of toy catalogues coming through the door in the build-up to Christmas.  I snorted in agreement and said (or thought I was saying) that the Jouet Club magazine, in particular, was like "toddler porn". Mmm.  After the loud whoosh of complete stillness, she looked at me, all horrified and said very slowly "You give your children porn to read?".  No.  No.  No.  I desperately trying to re-explain and say "I don't give them porn to read; it's just that those magazines, for them, are like I would imagine porn is to over 18s, not that I've ever really seen any anyway...not even films or that...or...well", I ended up trailing off  rather hopelessly as Mme I'll-Never-Draw-Again-For-This-School-Again mother's stoney stare silenced me. We haven't made eye contact since.   And right now? Why I curse the moment I thought I was being insightful about christmas marketing tactics aimed at the maternelle.

Yep. Two weeks.  Eight creatively challenged helpers.  Three puncture wounds.  And one big cold shoulder.  My presidential cabinet is looking a little wobbly.


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