Women's magazine story

Angel

She walks past me every day. I can’t even tell if she knows I exist, I’m so hypnotized by the way she looks I actually forget to look at her properly. I just gaze at the curves of her body in her skirt suit, her endless legs resting on heels so high they would make an acrobat feel dizzy, her magnificent dark hair bouncing here and there, shiny from the roots to the ends. Whenever she walks in while I’m talking, I completely forget what I was saying and just sit there, looking at her going from the entrance door to the lift, up to the 23rd floor -I know, because I get her mail at the reception. People make fun of me because of that, and I hate it. I hate the fact that they allow themselves to turn her in such a trivial subject. She’s an angel, a wonder of nature, and she should be treated as such. And to me, she’s even more an angel in that she is inaccessible, out of my reach. Days go by, and I want her to see me, I want to make her smile, laugh, to dry her tears but never, never provoke them. But I just sit there, behind my desk, smiling when she looks in my direction, not knowing if she sees me or if she just looks through the little, insignificant receptionist that I am.
But today was different. Today, a man came in with a bunch of beautiful flowers, that smelled like heaven. I thought ‘Heaven for an angel’ and got worried. I was right to be. He came up to my desk, and ask where he could find her. I had to tell him, it’s my job, I can’t lose it. I reluctantly pointed the lift to him and he walked away. He was handsome; great smile, nice hair, expensive suit. I spent the next half hour looking at the lift door, hoping he would come out of it looking disappointed. Obvisously, he didn’t. He did end up leaving, but she was with him, holding his hand. My world crumbled, my heart was crushed. How could she do this? I’d cherished her every day since the first one, telling everyone how wonderful she was, introducing her to my parents in thousands of different ways in my head, and this was how she thanked me? By leaving with this play boy, most likely rich and shallow, not even looking back at me before disappearing in the night? I couldn’t believe it.
It lasted a few months. The happier she looked, the more miserable I felt. I still looked at her, but no longer like a believer looks at his god; more like a dog looks at his masters when he knows they’re going on holidays without him. She kept smiling in my direction, either to send me her support, or to rub her happiness in my face, I didn’t know. I started trying not to look at her. It was hard at first, but I forced myself to focus on something else when I knew she was about to come in. After some time, I actually stopped being obsessed by her. It felt good, not to be her slave anymore. I had been freed.
But on a monday morning, she didn’t come in. I just noticed, and didn’t think much of it. Except she wasn’t there on the tuesday either, nor on the wednesday. But that was it. She just let me enough time to get worried about her again, and she came back. She was smiling, and everyone seemed to be satisfied with it, but I had looked at her everyday for all this time, I knew, I could feel it was all facade. She was playing a role, there was something wrong. Her skirt suit was perfectly ironed, her hair looked shinier than ever, and her smile was bright, but something was missing. This little glance of happiness in her eyes, that made everything. And I realized, I was probably the only one to notice it, because I was the only one who truly took time to look at her. And I also realized, no matter how hard I had tried to fool myself into forgetting her, I wanted to be the one who made this little glance come back. I decided to ask her out, this very night, as soon as I’d see her.
Night came. Lights were turning off, people would randomly yell ‘good night’ accross the halls, and then silence again. The lift opened, she came out, and I found myself paralized. I couldn’t do it, me the little, insignific... She came up to my desk, with a shy smile, and simply said the sentence that changed everything: ‘Do you want to take a coffee together sometime?’.

Men's health article

‘Don’t let your saturday night ruin your sunday morning’

Yes, being part of a rugby club is really nice, and yes, it gets even better on saturday nights when you get to go to the pub with the fly-half and the open-side flanker. But sometimes, sunday mornings nastily remind you that, maybe, being part of the chess club was not such a bad idea either. So, if you can’t be bothered  finding back your 'chess for dummies’ and your geeky huge glasses, maybe it’s time to read a few tips on how not to let hangover ruin your sunday.

Drink tons of water

In times of drought, of wandering in the desert, and most importantly in times of hangover, water becomes your best friend. The best idea would have been to drink water between each of your drinks, but you didn’t do it, and now you’re moaning like a newborn. Now, don’t scourge yourself, things will get better, just give it time. And don’t forget to drink. (Water, not whiskey! Don’t you ever learn?)

Forget the English breakfast

Eating eggs and bacon might sound incredibly appealing, knowing that, in the case you don’t feel like you’re standing on a boat in the middle of a tempest, you’re probably starving. But control yourself, and try to stick to light, easy-to-digest food, like cereals, toasts, fresh food. Gobbling up the beloved English breakfast will only give you heartburn, which you want to avoid, because it’s not a really nice way to start the day, is it?

All pills are not good to take

You can’t even count the number of ‘hangover pills’ you can find out there (but let’s be honest, this morning, you can barely count at all). All pills are not good for you. Most of them don’t cure all the problems you can meet during a hangover, if at all. If you want to get rid of a queasy stomach, the most advised is Alka-Seltzer, but otherwise, it’s much better to forget the pills and let your body cure itself naturally. You can still give it a little help by taking a multivitanim, it will surely appreciate the team spirit and heal even faster.

Cancel the brunch with aunt Maysie

You’ll see her at Christmas, and buy her a big box of Mon Chéri to make it up to her, but for now, you need to sleep. Lucky you, it’s Sunday, you don’t have any responsibilities (or if you do, you’ll worry about them on Monday). Even if alcohol can put you to sleep quite quickly, and unfortunately doesn’t always wait for you to be in your bed, after a few hours the withdrawal your body feels will disrupt your sleep. And this, if it doesn’t make hangover worse, it sure doesn’t make you feel any better.

Honey, want to help me cure my hangover?

Sex helps. Ok, ok, technically it doesn’t have any effects on your body. Joris Vester, Ph.D., assistant professor at Utrecht University in the Netherlands, said that ‘There is no research that shows that sex will make a hangover go away, but maybe it will make the time go faster. If it makes you happy, go for it.’ I don’t know about you, but he’s a Ph.D., I think we should listen to him.

The finger in the biscuit jar

‘And this is how 

you end up in jail.’

The gardens were full of carved pumpkins, the streets were full of children in cotsumes. And now his porch was full of «TRICK OR TREAT!» for the eleventh time of the evening (he had counted, because his television was broken and he was incredibly bored).
«Ugh, I hate Halloween...» He dragged himself along the corridor and went to the kitchen, so as not to be seen by the little buggers. He decided he would drink a cup of tea, eat a couple of biscuits, and then go to bed. And if the bloody kids were to ring the bell again, he would take his Boogey Man dummy out on its chair, and that would do the trick. He had almost gotten arrested two years before because of that dummy, but he had made a group of kids cry, and he still thought it had been totally worth it.
The water was boiling. He poured it on the chamomille tea bag, added a bit of sugar, and grabbed the biscuit jar. «Halloween is stupid anyway, just a bunch of small fry getting so much into the spirit of the holiday that they end up being scared of their own shadows. You and I are not scared of anything, are we, Basker?» the big brown hound was not able to answer (precisely because it was a dog) but if it had been, it would have explained to its owner that, no matter how huge it was, it was in reality the dumbest creature on earth and had actually almost been scared to death by the noise of its bowl against its claw, no more than an hour before that. «No we’re not, we’re absolut- » his hand had just touched something at the bottom of his biscuit jar. And it was not a biscuit, he was absolutely sure about that. He slowly took the unidentified object out of the tin. If he didn’t vomit, it was probably because he was too busy being completely blown away by what he was holding. A tiny, child-sized, and also completely wizen, finger. «Well now, what do you think about that, Basker? A finger... In my biscuit jar. It was not there yesterday, I’m pretty positive about that.» The dog, if it had been able to, would have answered «biscuit».
Reality eventually found its way to his brain, and he had to run to the bathroom, dropping the finger on the table. After he was done fouling his porcelain toilet, he went to the sink and splashed fresh water on his face. When he turned the tap off, though, he heard voices. He couldn’t quite distinguish what they were saying.
«Ah! Here...you... time.»
He got closer to the door and opened it. He grabbed his baseball bat from behind his bedroom door, and walked to the kitchen, silently. It was a woman talking.
«Goddamnit Steve, how many times have I told you to be careful with your fingers?»
«Sorry, mum...» That was definitely a little boy. Where was Basker? Why was the bloody dog not barking after the strangers? He glanced into the room, and saw a woman and a boy, who was approximately thirteen. Well, who had probably been thirteen when it happened. Because it was pretty obvious, even if neither Basker nor its master were specialized doctors, that this lovely family was dead. And not to mention rotting on the kitchen floor, which was not the best in terms of hygiene.
«Zombies....?» he was pretty sure he had whispered, and yet the woman and the little boy both shushed and looked at him. The woman looked scared, and she put herself in front of the little boy as if to protect him. Apparently she had been hit by a car, but wasn’t hit by the irony of her gesture, that was for sure. She started talking. «Can you... Can you see us?»
«Why, yes, I must admit it’s not my style to enter my kitchen armed with a bat and randomly say ‘zombies’, ma’am. No offence, but this is a real stupid question.»
She coughed, obviously embarrassed. «Ahum, none taken, I guess you are right...» She turned to the boy «I think he touched your finger then...». The boy remained silent, apparently the tone meant ‘no dead squirrel for you tonight, young man’.
«What was that? Yeah, I found your finger, nice present, really, cheers. But what does it have to do with me seeing you?».
«Well... When people die, they don’t exactly go to Heaven...»
«No Heaven for the rotten!»
«Steven!!»
«Sorry mum... To stay simple, when we die, we come back to a kind of afterlife, but we stay invisible to living people. The only way they can see us is if they touch one of us.»
«...Or a part of us.» the mum added. «It created huge problems in the past. We had to kill the people who discovered us, because being revealed would harm our community. Some people were just so frightened they turned mute, which saved us a lot of time, but sometimes they wouldn’t shut up. You know that Martin Luther King guy? My father touched him by mistake, he discovered us, and then he started ranting over and over about how zombies should be integrated into society and all that... I kind of liked him, but the zombie leaders decided he was too dangerous because people, for some reason, seemed to listen to him. So we had to kill him and pretend he was murdered by a lunatic.»
«Good Lord, that is a lot of information there. So you’re telling me there are zombies wandering everywhere around us, but we just can’t see them?»
«Basically, yes. But most of them are civilized! And clean. Most of the time.»
«Ok... I may have to sit for a second.» The door bell rang, leaving him no time to do so. It was a group of trick-or-treaters. «Aren’t you opening the door, mister....?»
«Ben, my name’s Ben, and I... I actually am. Hey Steven, buddy, would you lend me your finger for a second?».

Short story competition- Scrabble

For the short story competition, I chose the Scrabble theme, and turned it into a horror story. My general idea made me think of these short movies we can see late at night on TV, supposed to frighten us but terribly cliché, and I decided to play with it. I chose very common American names, and decided to write my story in a cheesy, American urban legend style.

Scrabble.

«S-T-R-A-N-G-E-R. Stranger. Gives me 14 points. So, how’s Sarah?»
«D-R-I-F-T. Drift, 9 points. I don’t know, why should I? I haven’t seen her in ages.»
«Oh really? It’s strange though, I think I saw you with her yesterday!»
Mark was tired of these incessant quarrels. And yet, he felt he was down for another one.
«Well, you must have imagined things, honey, I haven’t seen her in months... I broke up with her for a reason, I wouldn’t see the point of hanging out with her now!»
«Oh I’m imagining things now, aren’t I? Well you know what, just imagine I’m tired of your lies, I’m tired of you! I’m out of here!».
Karen stormed out and slammed the door after her. Mark stood still for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do, and finally ran after her. But, by the time he reached the door, Karen was gone. No trace of her in the path, or in the street. He tried calling her name, but a barking dog was the only answer he got. «Ah well, she’ll come to her senses after a good night of sleep... I hope». Looking back, he saw that all the letters on the Scrabble board had moved, probably when Karen had got up in fury. But, looking closer... He saw that the letters were actually forming words. He bypassed the coffee table to see better. What he saw made his hair stand on end. «She is not coming back» he could read.
«What the... Karen? Karen is that you? Come on babe, it was funny, ha-ha, come out now.» There was no sign of a living soul in the house to respond to him. He checked the two bedrooms and the downstairs bathroom. No one. His parents were away for the week-end and Jamie, his little brother, was with them. He was alone in the house... No, no, it had to be Karen, that was it.
He came back to the living-room, and slowly walked to the table. The words had changed again. «She is gone».
«Karen, is this your way of breaking up with me? It’s really childish, and I-» he suddenly stopped, realizing something. He had stayed in the hallway while checking the house, and the living-room and kitchen were in an open space. If someone had had been in the living-room, he would have inevitably seen them. But the fact was, he had not seen anyone. «What the hell is going on here?» he whispered. «Where’s Karen? What does it mean, she’s gone?». He could not take his eyes off of the board game, waiting for an answer. Two long minutes went by, and nothing happened. Mark was beginning to feel really tired, and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. No more than ten seconds... When he opened them again, the letters were all over the table, as if nothing had happened.
«Well, you must be really tired my man... let’s go for a cup of coffee.» He went to the kitchen. While waiting, he looked outside. The night was pretty dark, even though it was only half past seven. «I hate winter...» he thought gloomily. A little squeaking noise made him look up. It came for the table... He couldn’t see the Scrabble board, which was hidden by the couch, but he was too petrified to move forward. After the sound ended, he waited a moment before moving. The letters had been displaced once more. «A closed door will never open again». Mark could feel his body was shivering, but could not stop it in any way. There were blood stains on the pieces. And he might have not been the cleverest boy at the North Dakota High School that year, but he didn’t have to think really long to know who this blood belonged to. «Karen...». A frightening shriek answered to his whisper. He dropped his cup of coffee on the carpet, and his heart stopped beating for a few seconds. It came from the basement. «Karen!» He grabbed a flashlight and got closer to the door. The doorknob was freezing. «Cold as death...» he thought, and slowly, silently opened the door. It was pitch-black in the staricase, and by instinct, Mark knew he didn’t need to try and turn on the light; it wouldn’t work. «It’s a nightmare, just a nightmare, it’s ok, I’ll be fine...» He whispered while undertaking the descent in the dark.
Mark Harris and Karen Collins were never to be seen again.

Writing in the style of... Stephen King

For the "writing in the style of a popular fiction author", I chose Stephen King, because I read a lot of his books and really like his writing style. The piece I wrote is a fictional scene for the book Desperation. All the characters are present in the book, but the scene is made-up. The plot and characters can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desperation_(novel) . I decided to focus on the character of David, an 11 year-old boy who has a strong relation with God.

Scene from Desperation

David closed the door, short of breath, and sat on his bottom. Well, fell on his bottom would be the word. He suddenly felt really tired, as tired and sad as an old man who would sit behind his window all day long, watching life go on without him. He had escaped the giant policeman, yes, but his mom and dad were dead, and he was all alone now. He couldn’t get the look on the man’s face out of his mind, this crazy look he had while he was ripping off his dad’s left arm. And what had he said to David? The little boy didn’t pay attention on the moment, too occupied that he was to be horrified at the sight of his parents being butchered by a representative of law and order, but now the sentence kept rolling in his head. «Where is your God, now, David?». He had said it with the kindest voice, full of empathy.
He got up on his feet. The room was plunged into darkness, and David couldn’t see past his nose, but he had no doubt about the smell. Maybe he was only an eleven year-old boy, but what he had lived though in the past twelve hours was enough for him to be able to recognize the smell of death until his last day - which, he thought, might come sooner than expected. Suddenly, the weight of what he had just witnessed fell on his shoulders, and he crumbled to his knees, hands put together in a prayer. His knees touched something flabby and there was a wet noise, but he decided to ignore it. He started focusing on what he was doing. He obstructed every negative thought, and began. «God, it’s David Carver, and I need your help...
Where is your God now, David?
... I need you to tell me what to do, where to go, I can’t do it on my own, help me, please. Please...»
Where is He, David?
A loud noise made him come out of his trance, and raise his head. He was holding his breath, without even thinking about it. He was coming for him. It was coming for him. A noise of footsteps got closer to the door of the room he was hiding in, and stopped. David felt his trousers become warmer, and realised he had just peed himself. If his friends heard about that... The doorknob began to move. David tried to step to the back of the room, but he slipped on something slimy and fell on what he thought to be a corpse. Under nomal circumstances, he would have vomited, cried or at least been horrified. But he didn’t, because his brain had switched to another mode, and was now similar to the one of a hunted deer. All he could think of was «It heard that, it definitely did. It knows I’m in here». And he was right. The policeman -the beast- started striking the door more insistently. «David, open the open the door, everything will be fine, the bad monster is gone». The boy could hear that the voice was trying to be sweet, but didn’t manage to do the trick. It was thick, like the voice of someone whose throat was full of phlegm, except it was not, and David knew it. It was blood. The thing inside the policeman, whatever it was, was slowly killing him, piece by piece. The last time David had seen him, about an hour ago, one of his eyes was already falling out of its orbit. He was probably in a bad shape now, and the beast probably wanted to find a new host.
The door was really close to giving up now, and David’s heart was too. He had never been more frightened in his life than at this exact moment, and couldn’t think of anything to do. Stepping back, he reached a table and crawled under it. It was only a matter of seconds before it would enter the room... His pupils had widened and he could see better in the dark. The shape he had identified as a corpse was John’s body. The head must have been somewhere in the room, but not in David’s sight anyway. The little boy reacted in a quarter of second, trying not to realize what he was doing. He grabbed the body, and after a few seconds of struggling, managed to cover himself with it, so as to be hidden from someone who would stand on the doorstep. He didn’t have time to refine his cover, because the door slammed open as he stopped moving. It was inside. David could hear the policeman sniff out the room, looking for him. Chasing him.
Where is your God now, David? Not here, not now.
The boy heard another wet and disgusting noise when the policeman kicked another corpse. He glanced upon John’s shoulder, and saw it was Peter. Or what was left of him. The man was getting closer to the table, and David was really worried about the smell of piss covering him. The thing inside the policeman was definitely an animal, and it would smell that.
A second before David was indeed discovered, something saved his life. A cry. The most dreadful cry David had ever heard, and would ever hear, in his life. And what made it even more terrifying was the fact that he knew who was screaming: It was Cynthia, the hitchhiker girl with pink hair. David did not know why she was making this noise, but it made the policeman look up, and after a few seconds, go away, and it was enough for him. Once he was sure the beast was far enough, he crawled out of his hideout and touched his limbs to check he was really alive.

«Thank God.» he thought.

The Voice article: A day in the life of...

A day in the life of...

A French Student

Morning
I open my eyes as the alarm goes off,and look around. Where am I?! Oh, right, I’m in Worcester, I live here now, I’m not completely used to it yet. I get up, go to the kitchen, open the fridge. Bacon, eggs? Hell no! As willing as I am to fit in the British society, having eggs for breakfast is really too strange for me. I’ll stick to my sophisticated French breakfast, thank you very much. Coco Pops it is.
Once sated, I head to the bathroom for a shower. What is up with these two seperate taps? It’s either «Welcome to Winterfell, Jon Snow» or «your hands deserve to burn in Hell», nothing in between. Ok, let’s be fair, the shower system is pretty cool, and economic.

Noon
I go out to face my biggest fear in this country: the roads. Now, don’t be mistaken, I’m not scared of roads or cars themselves, I’m just afraid I’m going to die before the end of the year («Calendar year or School year?» asked one of my friends. Rude.). I never know where to look when I cross a street. Left, right, left, left, right. I think it’s good. WHOA, no, it wasn’t, I did not see this one coming! I tick my record. It’sonly the 47th time I almost got ran over since I arrived. Not too bad.
I get to the university ground, safe and sound (and with a rhyme, apparently). Worcester has a really beautiful university. Looking around, I can see a little squirrel running in the grass. How cute. The weather is wonderful today, the sky is blue and the sun is shining. I’m going to grab a snack. I buy chocolate, and get out of the shop. The rain is pouring. What?

Afternoon
I did not take my umbrella before I left, so much for the walk in the park. My lecture is about to start anyway. Studying media and culture in the United Kingdom, how interesting.... Except when you’re not from the United Kingdom, and you have no clue what is going on. «Do you remember this story, three years ago, that was all over the news?». Uh, nope... Three years ago, I still thought The Full Monty was a Monty Python movie, so tell me about the news.
After my lecture, I’m heading home. The weather is wonderful again. This country is strange.. Being extremely careful, I manage to get home without being hit by any kind of vehicle. Phew.

Evening
What would be a good student life without going out? Tonight is my first night in a club. I can’t decide what to wear. Jeans? Too prude. Skirt? Maybe, but I’m afraid it’s a bit short... I go for it anyway, with black tights. When I get to the city centre and look around, I realize my mistake. Even my skirt looks too prude, after all. I complain «I look like a school girl compared to them!» my friend tries to lighten my mood «mate, even compared to school girls, you look like a school girl.» Great.

Night
After this crazy party, I finally get to lie in my bed, and think about my day. All in all, it’s nice being a student in Worcester. There are just a few things you should always have with you: your umbrella, some cash to buy one of the Pear Tree’s yummy paninis, and an interpreter, in case you need to speak to someone from Birmingham!

Interview: Growing up in France in the 1960s

I decided to interview my parents for this assessment. First of all, I think it's interesting for British people to see how people grew up in a different country that is France, at a different time. And I decided to interview both of my parents because they come from totally different backgrounds. I focused on their childhood and their entry in the world of work, so that my classmates can relate to it. I asked them exactly the same questions. My father's answers will be marked with F, and my mother's by M.

Stephane, my father, 51 years old

Sylvie, my mother, 50 years old

F: I was born not far from Paris, in a council flat, at the 3rd floor of a ten-storey building, situated in an estate. My city, just as all the ones around at that time, was communist. The estate population was of course really popular: there were a lot of immigrants, of large families. But overall, the environment was pretty quiet, there were trees and parks to brighten up these buildings and we didn’t feel like we lived cramped together. Paris being close, we only had to take the bus or the subway to have access to the great cultural diversity offered by the capital.

M: I was born in Nantes, quite a big city, with a lot of History behind it : it was notably Anne of Brittany’s hometown and belonged to her at some point.  When I was born, it was not such a beautiful city, but at least it was quite dynamic, open to shipping business and some industries, such as the LU biscuits, that were a great part of my childhood.  My family and I lived in a flat, not really in the city center. I remember having a little backyard, with a pond full of goldfish. My aunt and uncle lived a few houses away. To sum it up, even if I lived in an urban environment, it was quiet and not far from the sea.

F: A word to describe my family as a child would be «really odd». My sister and I were not expected -but the birth control pill didn’t exist yet- and my mother already had 3 children from a former marriage, lived alone when she met my father, a really jealous and short-tempered man who left his wife and children to live with her. He was then 57 and my mom was 40, and the birth of these two kids was more of a surprise than a real desire to fund a new family! Our step sisters and brother, 15 years older than us, were there to raise us more than to share our games. I grew up as a shy puny little boy, who somehow stuggled to get integrated in this estate environment, but always found a way to make some friends thanks to humour, which became a way to compensate for my lack of confidence and charisma. 

M: My family was quite a traditional one for that time. My father was a sailor, which means he was away from home 9 months out of 12. A kind of heroic figure for children, you know? He sails everywhere in the world, brings dolls back for you from every country he went to, but when he’s home, he only thinks about resting, not about being a father... My mother was a saleswoman (I don’t remember what she sold), and she had to take care of the whole family almost by herself. I can’t say much more about her, I don’t remember, she passed away when I was really young. My older brother, well, he was the one who carried the family name, and even if it was not necessarily blatant, it made a difference in the way our father considered us (and I think it is somehow true in every family). For the rest of my family, we were quite close, during the holidays we would gather with all the cousins, aunts, uncles... The discipline was quite strict, but I still keep nice memories of these years.

F: Christmas was quite nice when we celebrated it at home with the family, but I remember some of them spent with people who babysat us while my parents were God knows where. These one left us more of a bitter, empty taste in front of the Christmas tree. 

M: Christmas... Whatever happens, this holiday is always magic to children! It’s a period of truce - for a couple of days we forget the tensions going on within the family. There were always enough presents under the tree, we had titanic meals -but the memory that particularly left a mark on me was this show on television, I can’t remember the name, but it would broadcast some Disney movies extracts and we never missed it! Just remember there was not so many TV programs at that time, and we didn’t know what a DVD was.. As far as the actual celebration was concerned, there were never any religious rituals, we would just play some games and then open the long-awaited presents!

F: Don’t scream «ew!», but if there’s one plate that reminds me of my childhood, it’s lamb’s brain with white butter and caper. My mother cooked it quite often, and I loved it...

M: I can’t say there’s really a specific meal that would remind me of my childhood, only the smell of strawberry jam. When my grand-mother prepared it in a big copper pot with some strawberries from the garden, it would perfume the whole house!

F: My family nowadays has abolutely nothing to do with the one I had as a child. And I’m actually happy about that, I have too many memories of misunderstanding and heartbreaking moments, and that feeling that every character of this family was added against their will. Family spirit was for me a fictional concept read in books or seen in movies.

M: It’s hard to say if the family I have as a parent is similar to the one I had as a child. The roles are reversed, and how could we know how our children really feel? However, even if it’s a common thought that parents tend to recreate the pattern they knew as a child, I think things are different today: we listen a lot more to our children, we are less strict when it come to little things in everyday life, we give them more freedom in their life choices, we try to give them everything they need and want. On the other hand, we’re less present for them, because of the time spent at work, and our family is quite scattered, which makes family links wind up. One thing I love in my family as a parent is how liberated we are to tell what we think, and how much we communicate. We’re always making fun of each other when someone makes a mistake, but at the same time we share so much love, it’s properly amazing.

F: My parents - and by parents I mean my mother and step-father, my father having left us to go back to the family he had left to give life to us- were too occupied tearing each other apart to give any attention to my school life, and could only observe my failure afterwards. When I reached the age of 15, my mother «placed» me as an apprentice with a butcher, arguing that «at least, you’ll always have something to eat». After a year and a half of ordeal, I decided to take care of my own life.  I left and became apprentice somewhere else, this time for a job that made me dream a little bit more. And this is how, when I turned 18, I became a professional photographer. 

I don’t really think being born in 1990 would change much to this, 

I actually think when you have to put up with a life you don’t want, it’s more about your willingness to get out of it than really about an epoch. 

M: The integration in the world of work was simpler before, even without diplomas, it was possible for us to get a job, but it meant getting in by the back door, of course. Practice rather than theory was our experience, and this is how we evolved from a place to another. Nowadays, employers unfortunately tend to give more attention to diplomas than to the humane quality of their candidates. I think this is your generation’s main problem: being able to build on your theoretical knowledge while finding enough strength to make a way through all this. At least when we started from nothing, it gave us a kind of resourcefulness and combativeness. Moreover unemployment wasn’t as spread as it is today, disturbing for your generation. 

F: The previous generation parents’ main concern was to see their children succeed professionally, marry someone good, have the right number of children to be well integrated in «Society». Maybe there are common points between these ones and the current ones,but some major differences occurred with time. As parents now, we hope to see our children’s dreams come true, and basically hope they’ll make choices that make their lives as happy as possible, whatever their decisions.

M: I don’t really think about where my children will be in 10 years, because life is so turbulent, you can never know. You can start studies you actually never finish, and choose a completely different direction. Nothing is ever sure. All you can do is remain open to all possibilities, and go with the change instead of just putting up with it. I’m just reassured by the fact I have two clever children, and I trust them to find the right path without getting lost. I think the role of a parent is not to plan their child’s life, but to be there for them whatever happens. All I hope is that they’ll always make the choice that makes them happy.