France is famous the world over for its attention to mealtime detail. None more so than the Christmas Eve celebration of “Le Réveillon de Noël”.

Once a simple word for a regular townsfellow, the term "bourgeois" has travelled through centuries of revolution, ridicule, and refinement. Its journey from common noun to common mirror, reflects our own uneasy juggle with progress and social aspiration. It is neither really a word of belonging, but perhaps more one that suggests "becoming". The hapless work of the sausage roll that wants to be a "Pork Wellington"...

Generally, the French go at Christmas less hard than elsewhere it is celebrated. They don't post a shopping day countdown, or fall out of bars wearing reindeer horns from mid-November. France (mercifully) lacks the pub culture that brings the English "together". Nor, might I add, do they have TV programs of a necessary standard to keep people at home on the sofa. I cannot think of a single French TV show, where a Christmas Special wouldn't be acutely painful.

There’s a funny comedian who asked this of the audience “who here is a glass half empty person?” Half the audience raises their hands. “Show of hands for the half full?” The rest go up. Now that everyone had defined and labeled themselves, he delivers the punchline.

Hello again dear Platform 13 readers. Is it December already? Wow.. where did the year go? Christmas... Some, like my husband Kris, just don't like it, but most people love that dark period of the year where lights and candles shine and give us a special feeling. Our eldest son especially loves this time of the year, just because of the lights everywhere. On the streets, in the gardens strung around the house …

Every year, I hear someone say "It just keeps getting earlier"... referencing the sudden appearance of Christmas in late September. Like it matters. For me, any season that is associated with joy, giving and connection to loved ones can start its shift as early as it damn well pleases. Many do not share my view here and I fully respect that. For some, the hoildays are strongly linked to sadness, stress, depression and anxiety, for which I am profoundly sorry. That must suck.

A note on some feelings which recently surfaced, when Vanessa and I ran into a couple we hadn't seen for a while, and what began as a pleasant enough conversational exchange, soon had us on the back foot, in a sort of panicked display of what can only be described as "anxious over-explaining". It was very aparent that this was a central tenet to our personal sense of being in the right place.

French supermarkets at Christmas-time are irresistibly mesmerising. Perhaps it’s the seasonal theatre of it all - quarries of oysters; gentlemanly rows of sincere-looking Champagnes, serious wines that require a quick chat before being chosen. Stockpiles of chocolate logs arranged like artillary ordanance. Or maybe it’s simply the Star Wars scale of the Hypermarché itself, which in December feels less like a shop and more like an obstacle course in Oz. "It's ok, I've got this

We all hear of superfoods - Goji berries, chia seeds… the list goes on and changes like the seasons. Fortunately, emotions don’t follow these trends, but as we head into the season of gratitude, let me highlight why it is your Superpower and why it’s the ingredient you’ll want in your morning mental smoothie.

I know... some of you will not see relocating as an "art". Perhaps viewing it more of an extremely daunting prospect, a discomfort to be avoided, or just something that other people do. Particularly, of course if it involves not a mere change of post code, but a move that crosses time zones and international date lines. We benefit from a built-in bias around the beauty of staying put. Home is where our friends are, or the kids live, or the climate suits. It's where we "belong

Our understanding of the contemporary meaning of etiquette is possibly aligned with what the dictionary tells us - "The mindful, intentional practice of creating respectful, kind, orderly interactions". It still feels like a term that will always be a little distant, perhaps the domain of the snobby English, the word itself residing in a tidy cottage, somewhere near Wimbledon. We see the meaning plainly - as the opposite of queue jumping or asking a woman how old she is. Thin

OK.. I will admit, I did not know that was what a pre-picked lentil looked like. Which got me thinking around what else I did not know about lentils - and don't imagine I am suicidally bored, or at the wrong end of a bag of California's finest gummies. There is always a tin in the cupboard, thanks to Vanessa, who will gleefully stir them into to pretty much anything. I saw lentils more as a food to be consumed when all else is gone. When the sirens blast, sending us scurrying

Admit it or not, we all admire the effortless, DNA chic of the French. They could throw a bolt of fabric down the stairs of the Paris Métro and it would somehow have design purpose. What makes things that are put here or placed there, so utterly “French”? It's a big country with distinct and varied regions, each with their own style, so defining it as a particular binary “look” would be impossible. No matter where you find yourself in France, there is that unmistakeable “je

Why is it, when we see the ruins of a great castle, the knarl of an ancient olive tree or the oldest grave in the cemetery, we become so awestruck and admiring? We are so absolutely enchanted by the sheer age of things. We respect them. We willingly keep off the grass of history. We admire the flaws and crumbling imperfections. We feel a loving and protective instinct, despite no sense of personal ownership. It runs deep in us and we feel proud to be a product of our creative

Hello again dear members and readers of Brave Seeds - "La voix de Platform 13" - That is a free French pun, by the way - Voix means voice, and Voie (pronounced the same) is the railway line that runs along the patform.. funny non? Maybe it is Belgian humour, which is more sophisticated..

In France, where "bread is life", what happens when the bakery closes? Few countries keep such extensive data around bakeries as France does. According to a 2017 government report, 73% of the French population lived within half a mile of a Boulangerie. Of course, in a country where 8-out-of 10 people live in largely urban areas, it is plainly not a city-dwellers problem. It is in rural France where the loss of the village bakery strikes like a family bereavement. For the purp

Friends often tell me they dream of picking up and moving abroad. That is, until the thought of logistics, language, visas… makes it feel too daunting a challenge. Change is hard when our ego says we are "fine where we are", but there's more to it than that. Where do we even begin? Perhaps just begin, by beginning… A little about little me first… When I was eight years old, I was watching my mom put on makeup, when I blurted out “I want to move.” Confused, my mom asked “oh,

"Labeling makes the invisible visible, but it’s limiting. Categories are the enemy of connecting." ~Gloria Stienem www.theletgo.com Everywhere we turn, there’s a statement about who we are—based not on our being, but our doing. And often, those statements trace back to childhood trauma, as if our adult choices are merely echoes of early wounds. We are constantly offered explanations, often unsolicited, that attempt to decode our lives through the lens of lack. But what if our

Is food really better in France? Not in that romantic "strolling through the market with a cute wicker basket" way, but in a pure sense of basic taste. And I am not talking about Michelin-starred fine dining or €500 truffle tastings. I am referring to bread, cheese or tomatoes. A roasted "poulet frites" in a budget bistro. The kind of food that should be pedestrian enough not to even warrant effusive praise, yet still makes you pause, mid-mouthful and smile. Butter, infused w

The French have a verb for a very specific pastime. The dictionary has it as - Flâner… (v) to wander about with no particular purpose. Pronounced - flan - as in pan and ay - as in hay. She (or indeed he - Le Flâneur) was an individual who elegantly ambled the streets and squares with no desire to get anywhere specific, but simply to be there. To observe. To absorb. To walk with no agenda other than the call of curiosity.