Now I am no fan of bloody revolutions – their history too often leave rivers of blood, carnage of bodies and the survivors disenfranchised only in a different way to that for which their brothers, sisters, parents, lovers and friends have been mowed down on the liberation fields.
Yet sitting in this currently drab concourse outside the Hotel De Ville, a concourse drab only because of the recent rain and unseasonal closing of the sun hardened locals both French and English, and whose magnificence will shortly blossom as the spring sun returns to warm and enlighten the creamy yellow stonework, I am reminded of the success of the French Revolution. If nothing else it forced the chefs onto the streets and kickstarted the restaurant trade so delivered of the gastronauts. But more, the power remains with both people and the politicians. The lowliest commune has its Mairie, elected in cases by only large handfuls of locals keen to ensure that their voices are heard and they get more than their fair share of the Euros coursing through the corridors of Paris. The farmers, perhaps still the peasant class and proud of it, exercise their power to close the local supermarché, the shoppers patiently waiting to be allowed into the Glass Palace this is a harbinger of mortality to the way of life lived for so long.
Liberté – not to be controlled
Fraternité – all in this together
Égalité – we are all humans
I don’t know if it is worth fighting for, is anything, but it is certainly worth having.
Every now and again I end up berating myself – because I have dropped a cup, or (most recently) could not manage to change a lightbulb.
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