À la une
Interdiction de doudous à la maternelle. Today is la rentrée, and it wouldn't be quite French without some new legislation to keep the tots on their toes. As of this year, in Toulouse at least, little Frenchies-in-the-making are no longer allowed to bring their security toys with them to class in preschool. Exceptions will be made for nap time, but absolutely no concessions for lunch time, play time, or story time. (I read the paper version of this story this morning, in the always hilarious southern daily, La Dépêche. This quote, from a Toulousaine teacher, "le doudou ne franchit jamais la porte de la classe," made me want to start a pro-doudou movement in front of the local elementary school.)
Are you also imagining rows of sneaky doudou addicts stuffing their precious dolls and blankies down their overalls, furtively caressing them during particularly scary plot twists or indigestible cantine dishes? I am, and I'm also reminded of an anecdote we like to tease my younger brother with. When Hugh was around 2, my aunt Lisa was watching him and, as is wont to happen with toddlers, one minute he was with us, the next minute- nowhere to be found. We scoured the house, and finally discovered him in her delicates laundry basket. Surrounded by silky underwear, teddies and bras, Hugh had passed out in a thumb-sucking paradise.
In other news, the superfluous comma between the number and street name of your French address is officially obsolete: BIEN RÉDIGER VOS ADRESSES. Shape up, or you may find yourself spending superfluous amounts of time conversing with the mad hatters at the dreaded - yes, DREADED - post office (for which you will most definitely need your own doudou.)
Are you also imagining rows of sneaky doudou addicts stuffing their precious dolls and blankies down their overalls, furtively caressing them during particularly scary plot twists or indigestible cantine dishes? I am, and I'm also reminded of an anecdote we like to tease my younger brother with. When Hugh was around 2, my aunt Lisa was watching him and, as is wont to happen with toddlers, one minute he was with us, the next minute- nowhere to be found. We scoured the house, and finally discovered him in her delicates laundry basket. Surrounded by silky underwear, teddies and bras, Hugh had passed out in a thumb-sucking paradise.
In other news, the superfluous comma between the number and street name of your French address is officially obsolete: BIEN RÉDIGER VOS ADRESSES. Shape up, or you may find yourself spending superfluous amounts of time conversing with the mad hatters at the dreaded - yes, DREADED - post office (for which you will most definitely need your own doudou.)
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