Paris Match

Perhaps living on the Right Bank has made us more image conscious. We certainly gave some thought to our outfits when we were about to set off to meet a friend at the Gare du Nord. We drew the line at the full-on, beret-topped, archetypal French look, foregoing a quick trip to the greengrocer for a string of onions to sling about our necks, but clad in black macs we surely had a whiff of garlic about us anyway. Maybe some of that peculiarly continental style had seeped into the fashions of my husband and I. Still, I felt as if my own ensemble was lacking something as I stood on the chilly station concourse. Spying a newsagents across the rows of platforms and waiting trains, I realised what I was missing: a copy of “Paris Match”.

I comprehend only a small amount of French, but for some reason I find the task of slowly translating “Paris Match”, inch by ponderous column inch, a complete joy. It has just the right mixture of politics and gossip to sustain my interest and make me want to grapple with the unfamiliar words and grammar. If I find that my poor, overloaded brain is flagging, I can always turn to the Sempé cartoon for a little mind balm. I adore Sempé, that gifted cartoonist who can evoke a Parisian street, all tall buildings and tiny, bewildered inhabitants, with just a few scribbled ink lines. The very first holiday apartment that we rented here, many years ago, must have been owned by a fan of his work and provided an introduction into his world for me. The shelves were filled with the Petit Nicolas books that he illustrated, tales of a schoolboy rather more philosophical and refined than Dennis the Menace, but no less mischievous, and the walls had framed posters advertising Sempé exhibitions. His wry take on Parisian life never ceases to raise a smile and one of the reasons I started to embrace “Paris Match” so enthusiastically was that it had his artwork in it.

It was in the unstylish, bleach-scented confines of a budget hotel room that I encountered the fabled magazine for the first time, passing through Paris after a visit to Provence last year. The workers of the nation were discontented, as they so frequently are in France, only this time matters were becoming serious. Uncollected rubbish was piling up on the streets and at the port of Marseilles oil tankers were being prevented from docking. On the journey back to the capital, the TGV had been noticeably lacking in “V”. Sempé illustrated the grievance by depicting roadsweepers massing on a picket line, and the magazine pages were full of political discussions, claim and counter-claim about who was doing what to try and solve the current problems. The policies of the city mayor were outlined in one section, whilst the presence of tennis player Amélie Mauresmo in an evening dress at a particular social event was pictured in another. The latest handbag and seasonal fashion trends sat alongside the story of a countrywide crisis. News and shoes. I was quickly hooked.

The blending of the insightful with the inane makes for a powerful potion. There are lots of small articles, simple question and answer interviews or photomontages of elegant society balls, all of which still require an effort to translate but which ultimately offer quite simple, straightforward pleasures. Then there are the longer pieces, like the interview with George Clooney, the Steve Jobs obituary and the article about Dominique Strauss-Khan and Tristane Banon that appeared in the issue last week. They could take me days to pore over, but the ensuing satisfaction lies partly in understanding them and partly in seeing the world from a French point of view. To look at Hollywood and how it is perceived through a different lens and interpreted in another language is incredibly refreshing. Seeing how global corporations and news stories with a worldwide impact are understood outside of an instantly familiar frame of reference is fascinating. It is entertaining, but if feels as if it is contributing to my broader understanding of French culture too. There is gossip and fluff, but it still nourishes and expands the mind.

So in our black macs we took the RER D back to Châtelet - Les Halles, me with “Paris Match” tucked under my arm. George Clooney's cover shot peeked out from behind the folds of black polyester, casting a smiling eye over our fellow travellers. I like to think that we looked stylish, my husband and I, he with his carefully chosen stripy top, me with my carefully tied scarf, both with purple trainers as a nod to continental eccentricity. The train was crowded, but I'm sure that at least some of the jaded commuters looked up at me with my “Paris Match” and thought I was a sophisticated Frenchwoman. Little did they know that my mac was from Marks and Spencer. You can take the girl out of England, but you can't take England out of the girl!