A Letter from Gillian

I like the stillness here.

The only real movement in this town is in the heavy winds and the waves that curl up on the beach.

I am far removed from everything, on a traditional French vacation, caring for two small children at their grandparents' before my role as an au pair is officially finished.

I enjoy the grandparents' company. I enjoy the long meals the grandmother prepares for lunch and dinner, and that she warms up baguette every morning and puts out bowls for coffee. I like the grandfather, a serious man of few words, and the way he always refills my wine glass with a robust red.

They are old however, and I am here to be the energy for the children. I must keep them busy, clean and alive, in this funny little town with little to do. There have been many ventures to the rocky beach, to the park to play tennis, and to the garden to play soccer. They are difficult though, and nothing comes without dispute. I am constantly pulling my hair out trying to solve arguments, stop crying, and decipher what's right or wrong. To all the mothers of the world: I salute you.

The sun isn't always shining up North, but there are times it shines brightly enough that if I squint, I can pretend I'm on a real vacation. I love the water and I love the beach. I enjoy maintaining a messy beach look of toussled hair, flip flops, and a sandy bikini.

Unfortunately my love of French cuisine hasn't buttered me up enough for me to acquire hips, breasts, or a real bottom. ("Excuse me waiter, could I have a side of cleavage with my bikini?")

And so the adventure continues for this sandy little mongrel. Yes, I am lonely, and yes I have considered drowning myself and/or the children, but I will see this French adventure through to the end.

If nothing else, the sea air will see me through.