OECD Paris part
2
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
I was a six
month auxiliary typist at the tax free OECD
working at La Muette, Paris in the posh 16th
arrondissement, which was full of dog shit.
In the large typing pool, the English and Irish
typists were seated on the left, while the French
ladies on the right were all married with
children and spoke only French. I asked to sit
with them bien sur and thus improved my every day
French.
In charge were two Irish supervisors. One was
Oona but other Colleen was a jealously bitch. She
was trapped in a 9 to 5 job most days and was a
sour puss. Oona on the other hand was delightful
and lenient. Colleen didn’t find typing
errors in the spreadsheets, she actually looked
for them and today I must thank her because I
vowed I would never work for a company and a
supervisor again. It was a turning point and my
life was about to change.
After the six months were up, and presumably you
passed your trial period, you gave two months
notice if you were leaving their employ. There
were several benefits for staying on such as yoga
twice a week with Madame Weil who was the best
Hatha yoga teacher I have ever had. At the back
of the typing pool were offices for the delegates
to look over the typed papers but as I was a
qualified TEFL teacher and had put a discrete
notice up in the coffee bar, the rooms were
perfect and quiet for giving private English
lessons in my lunch break or after work.
My first pupil was the Austrian delegate who sent
his personal assistant for lessons. In the end I
never touched my salary but could live off the
money I earned from the lessons.
One day the bitch came up to me telling me I was
wanted by her boss upstairs. Why? I demanded to
know, convinced she had reported me for bad
typing. ‘How should I know!’ She
retorted angrily. With that I marched confidently
up to the first floor and dramatically knocked on
the door.
‘Avanti’
the Italian said.
I responded in
English aggressively,
‘You
wanted to see me?’
‘Yes, I
have the honour to offer you a contract!’
Holding a rolled up paper in his outstretched
hand.
‘Can I
think about it?’
He was
surprised because women were desperate for
contracts with the OECD, a status job not to be
sniffed at.
‘Please
let me know your answer within 48 hours’, he
said bemused.
I stayed having decided I was going to be an
antique dealer between London and Paris which
happened gradually, beginning with an incident in
Portobello market under the bridge.
I had to leave my lovely one bedroom flat in a
courtyard at 27 rue Campagne Premiere,
Montparnasse famous because the film ‘Breathless’
was shot in the street. Also Modigliani committed
suicide throwing himself from his building. The
flat came with the job and I was given notice by
the landlord thinking that being an impoverished
brocante dealer I would not be able to pay the
rent. He was wrong!
Written
5/12/24 at Nightingale
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