Emmanuel Macron and Brigitte and why they couldn’t be British

I have been the thinking all week about the French president elect and his wife Brigitte. Their relationship has caused quite a stir in the world’s media. I am no expert on their relationship after having read a few newspaper articles but I find it gladdens my soul, which does not seem to be the reaction of most British people.

Macron met Brigitte when he was fifteen at school in a drama class. She was twenty-four years his senior and his teacher. They formed a bond. Macron’s parents became worried about the relationship and sent him away to Paris to finish his education. The relationship endured this and they became a couple when he was seventeen. They later married and their relationship continues successfully to this day. They lived in Paris where Macron pursued a career in the civil service and then in banking until finally he entered politics.

Comments in the media and social media seem full of the usual bitter vitriol to such a woman. It is paedophilia to some, to others inappropriate because of the teacher-pupil relationship. All this may be factually true but the fact remains they have an enduring, loving relationship that has stood the test of time and disapproval of others. This is no mean feat for any of us. It seems to me to be true love, a meeting of soul mates rather than just a tacky sexual attraction which is short lived. How lovely. How rare.

I knew what  the reaction of the British public would be to the relationship because my novel Pearlcasting which dealt with a similar subject got a very luke warm welcome. It makes people feel icky apparently.

I can’t help feeling that if Macron and Brigitte had been modern day Brits their story would not have ended so happily. Brigitte would have been placed on the sex offendors register and probably imprisoned. Public office would not have been possible. Puritanism would have won the day. The French have draconian privacy laws and indeed their age of consent is only fifteen. They seem to take a much more relaxed view of such things.

I don’t know too much detail about their relationship and in a way I don’t want to know as it might spoil the love story for me. It gives me hope that somewhere somehow real love can actually exist beyond the conventions of society.

What is it with the British and our ever more draconian laws about sex and other aspects of people’s private lives? Indeed it is not just the British. The USA has even more stringent laws on this subject and Canada, Australia and New Zealand seem much the same. There is something about Anglo-Saxon culture that just can’t stand the fact that someone some place might actually be happy. Paedophiles, the definition of which is cast ever wider, should be jabbed with pitchforks seems to be the widely held view. Falling in love with a fifteen year old is not paedophilia to me or to some experts on the subject but this is where we are as a society. Of course young children need protecting but the hysteria surrounding this  reveals something very dark about Anglo-Saxon Judeao-Christian societies. The thriving nature of teen porn in the darker reaches of the internet tells us all something. Something we don’t want to think about.

I am glad Macron and Brigitte found love and I hope it continues for many years to come.

Vive la France!

A Romantic Event

Today I have been thinking about romance. As a novelist of twisted romances I suppose I should be thinking about it all the time.

I have found real romance to be very rare. Having been married for twenty-one years there isn’t much room for it any more.

I always remember something that happened to me which was as close to a truly romantic gesture I can think of. I was at university and sitting in the library reading room. I was a first year. I went away to get a book and came back. When I sat down there was a note on my desk.

It said: You are absolutely beautiful and I’m not one for absolutes.

I looked around but I couldn’t see anyone who could have left it. I thought about asking the girl opposite if she had seen who it was but I didn’t. I knew it was someone in my Philosophy class because we had been studying Plato’s absolute forms that week.

I didn’t ever find out who it was.

This sort of thing doesn’t usually happen to me and men don’t normally tell me I’m beautiful except my husband who probably does it because he thinks he has to. I always wonder why whoever it was didn’t reveal himself to me. It was a gift given without hope of return. Now that is romantic.

It’s a beautiful memory.