Grosse negligence
Why are French kids thin and British ones fat?
GAVIN MORTIMER
A
decade ago a book called French
Women Don’t Get Fat took the
Anglophone world by storm. It was
a bestseller in Britain and America because,
as the blurb explained, the French author
‘unlocks the simple secrets’ of why her
people aren’t fat. So here is my sequel: Why
French Kids Don’t Get Fat.
Admittedly, there are a few who look like
they know their way to the boulangerie, but
in general most are slim, healthy and fit. The
stats back me up. Last year, the French min-
istry of health reported that obesity levels
among nine- and ten-year-olds had fallen to
just 3.6 per cent. In Britain, an official report
last year said ‘nearly a third of children aged
two to 15 are overweight or obese’. This sum-
mer, Public Health England said obesity lev-
els at age 10 and 11 were at a record high. The
British Journal of Family Medicine warned
that if these children don’t slim down, their
adult years will be blighted by diabetes, heart
disease and certain cancers.
How can there be such a contrast
between two countries separated by 20 miles
of water? Please, not the old nonsense about
the ‘Mediterranean diet’. There’s nothing
Mediterranean about Paris in winter. It’s just
like Britain: cold, grey and miserable.
My 13-year-old daughter goes to school in
Paris and after all the years I’ve spent waiting
for her at the gates I can count on one hand
the number of obese kids I’ve seen waddle
out. And it’s not just the middle classes. Her
mother teaches in a state school in Seine-
Saint-Denis, one of the most deprived regions
in France. Her pupils are diverse in colour
and creed, but none is obese. Their parents
take pride in their appearance because they
see it as an extension of their education.
It helps that parents have the full sup-
port of the authorities. Vending machines
are banned in French schools and, as of last
month, so are phones. Recreation is about
running, jumping and letting off steam, not
gaming and texting. Schools don’t permit
packed lunches except in cases of severe
allergies. Pupils eat in the cafeteria and get
a well-balanced diet with fresh, nutritious
ingredients. My daughter’s school’s website
has a ‘menu’ tab and last week she could
choose between pâté or green salad with
Gruyère for a starter, fish or veal with veg-etables for the main course, and Mimolette
cheese or natural yoghurt for dessert. Water
is the only drink available. There may also be
croissants and brioche for breakfast, a crêpe
or cake for goûter (tea). Crème brûlées,
tartes Tatin and eclairs, too. But French chil-
dren do not snack on crisps, chocolate and
fizzy drinks outside of meal times.
I feel sorry for British children. Super-
markets and corner-shop shelves groan with
confections and sugary drinks. Shop assis-
tants ask customers if they’d like to add a
supersize chocolate bar to their basket. For
years the NHS has been alerting us to the
dangers of obesity, as they did about smok-ing. We heeded those warnings and smoking
rates are at a record low (only 7 per cent of
15-year-olds now smoke against 20 per cent
in 2006). But, as if to compensate, we stuff our
faces. And far from condemning the obese
for the damage they do to themselves, we
cosset them and celebrate fat as ‘fabulous’.
The French are not shy about this. ‘Fat-
shaming’, or grossophobie, is commonplace,
a point made last year in a book by a mas-
sive madame called Gabrielle Deydier, who
moaned about the discrimination she faced.
The Observer claimed the book ‘ignited her
native France’. It did no such thing. If you are
grossly overweight in France, you are regard-
ed as weak, lazy and indisciplined.
The author of French Women Don’t Get
Fat, Mireille Guiliano, did fatten up during
her time as an exchange student in America,
and was told by her father that she looked like
a sack of potatoes. So she slimmed down and
wrote about it. The French couldn’t under-
stand all the fuss about ‘unlocking of secrets’
that so astonished the Anglo-Saxons. What
she wrote was, to them, common sense. Like
keeping an eye on what your children eat.
The reason for the supersize difference in
weight between British and French children
is simple: the French are better parents. They
are stricter and more mature. They don’t see
their children as their friends; they are their
offspring, to be educated, disciplined and con-
trolled. The French aren’t afraid to say non.Vending machines are banned
in Fren ch school s an d, a s of
last month, so are phonesWorld Mental
Health day raised again the issue of
suicide, still regarded as happening
only among those ‘whose balance of
mind is disturbed’. Not necessarily,
Romans would have argued.
For Romans the manner of one’s
death was as important as that of one’s
life. As Seneca said, ‘Like a story, the
important thing about life is how it is
played out. It does not matter where
you stop. Stop wherever you want
to, but just attach a good ending.’ On
his deathbed the emperor Augustus
invited those gathered round him to
applaud him for acting well his part in
life’s comedy.
The key was to face death like
a man, or a woman. Lucretia won
everlasting fame when she committed
suicide after Sextus Tarquinius raped
her. Arria showed her condemned, but
hesitant, husband how to die, saying
‘Look, it doesn’t hurt,’ as she stabbed
herself. Cato the Younger, bitter
enemy of Julius Caesar, killed himself
rather than allow Caesar to ‘forgive’
him. Seneca praised three gladiators
who, rather than killing others, killed
themselves, one by suffocating himself
with the sponge with which Romans
wiped their bottoms (‘that really was
a way to tell death to get stuffed’).
Seneca suggested one should take
action before physical incapacity set in
so that one would not die ‘lying there,
inert and helpless’.
Death brought as much anguish
to the living as it does to us, but for
Romans there was no modern notion
that death and ageing were disastrous
aberrations of nature. Typical epitaphs
suggested the dead were very relaxed
about it all: ‘We are all going the same
way’; ‘Live for the day, because there
is nothing else’. One, celebrating
freedom from arthritis, starvation and
debt, exclaimed ‘In fact, my lodgings
are permanent, and free!’; another
imperiously dismissed the whole
phenomenon — non fui, fui, non
sum, non curo (‘Wasn’t, was, am not,
don’t care’). Take that, Grim Reaper.
Atlantic publishes Peter Jones’s
Memento Mori: What the Romans can
Tell Us about Old Age and Death on
1 November.
— Peter JonesANCIENT AND MODERN
Death and the Romans