In the UK we have a stereotype of French life which is little short of idyllic. Whilst we beleaguered Anglo-Saxons are busy sheltering from the omnipresent drizzle by eating soggy sandwiches at our desks (where we will remain until at least 10 pm) our Gallic counterparts spend most of their time visiting the market, eating baguettes and cheese, and drinking wine under the midday sun. When, after a few weeks, this gruelling regime of long lunch-breaks and gastronomie begins to take its toll, they go on holiday, usually for weeks at a time.
It is therefore very difficult for us Brits to imagine that our Gallic neighbours could be anything other than sublimely happy and smugly self-satisfied.
In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. As the author of a blog whose raison d’être is moaning about French life, I may be skating on thin ice here, but I find myself daily taken aback by the extent to which French people complain about every aspect of their lives.
Take holidays, for instance. I have an English friend who is allocated a grand total of 51 days of holiday per year by the company they work for in France. About 30 of those days are what I might describe as “annual leave”. The remaining 21 days are RTT—or “time off in lieu”—allocated automatically on the (correct, in this case) presumption that the hours this person works routinely far exceed the statutory 35-hour working week.
Bearing in mind that this person only ever had 21 days of annual leave when they worked in the UK, this holiday policy seems wildly generous, insane even, given the current state of the French economy. American friends have pointed out that this allocation exceeds the total amount of maternity leave awarded to many American women after the birth of their child, which is, after all, an exceptional event. And yet my friend is awarded these 51 days every single year, without having to go anywhere near an epidural or a squalling infant.
It seems that the employer in question is beginning to experience mild unease about their previous generosity with regards to holiday days because, recently, a consultation was launched within the company with a view to cutting down on the total number of RTT days a person could take each year, bringing the total number of days spent away from the office down to 42.
Whilst my friend has never actually been heard to grumble about the fact that he is permitted not to work on 51 working days each year, he has faced this consultation with considerable relief. It was, after all, difficult for him to get his job done in the paltry few working days remaining to him after he had finished sunning himself on the beach, throwing himself down the mountain, or just lounging in liberty at home.
Not so his colleagues. Oh no. The proposed reduction in holiday allowance is, it turns out, an infringement on their personal liberté, and a severe breach in fraternité on the part of management. How dare their company suggest that they eek out their existence with merely double the holiday allowance of their British counterparts, or quadruple that of colleagues in the US? Can you think of anything more appalling? Or cruel?
All-staff meetings have been held. Whereas in the UK, employees might have voiced their discontent with some tight-lipped remarks before having recourse to their Stiff Upper Lip, in France these are out-and-out shouting matches. People are angry. They express their dissatisfaction loudly, and with feeling. It is a miracle that chairs are not thrown. They are contemplating taking to the streets to air their grievances more widely. Surely the general public will sympathise with their appalling plight… 42 days’ holiday, putin. No doubt soon they will be forced, forced, I say, to go en grève.
The British might be masters of the sotto voce grumble (my husband used to suffer in mortified silence as I muttered audibly about the way that my fellow tube passengers had just barged in front of me), but for the French, complaints are something to be shouted from the rooftop. Never, ever, give the impression that your situation is satisfactory or comfortable: if you do, who knows what they might decide to deprive you of next…