I'm back

I can't believe it is ten days since I last posted a blog, which means another ten days has gone by and it still feels as if there is tons of work to do. It seems as far away from being completed as it ever was.

No, that's not true actually. That is a bit of a negative take on things which isn't really like me. I am usually optimistic. The glass is half full and it will be alright when it's painted - that's me. But there's been a lot of negativity in the air round here lately and I've felt myself being dragged down into it.

It's difficult to describe without offending people but what use would this blog be if it wasn't honest to the realities of my life here in the Languedoc. So, will everyone stop telling me how to organise things and how to live my life, especially when my life is more sorted than theirs and please stop the hypocrisy and absolutely stop the racism and general doom and gloom. There - I've said it now. That covers several people in one sentence without naming any names or being too offensive I hope.

One person who has been absolutely most fabulous lately is my wife. I feel as close to her as I have ever done and I think she feels the same, which is incredible and wonderful and probably making you all sick. Hey, it's a good thing so don't you dare criticise. The problem is we are spending too much time apart from each other because of this strange double London/Languedoc life we lead. When we bought this apartment the plan was to be in London together and here together, not one here and one there. It's gone a bit pear shaped somewhere so I need to devise a plan to get us in the same country at the same time. For all the wonders of modern communications, there is nothing better than being in the same space and within touching distance.

It has been a big family week. My parents came down to visit for the first time. It might seem strange that they haven't visited before when we have had this place for over two years now. However, sadly, my father is mostly confined to a wheelchair and that makes life for him, and my mother, very difficult - and a first floor apartment that has been a building site for two years is not ideal. In fact, I'm not sure there is anywhere or anything that is ideal for them anymore which is a very sad and sobering thought. The wonderful and expensive hotel they stayed in turned out to have steps down to the room and gravel driveways are not wheelchair friendly. Very few places are - aeroplanes aren't, cars aren't and medieval castles aren't. My fathers wheelchair is very very heavy to push or to lift in and out of a car. I am amazed, and concerned, about how my mother copes with it all.

My hard working and faithful Audi/builders van absolutely could not have coped, so I hired a car for a few days to ferry my parents around and get them too and from the airport in Toulouse. The big Renault Scenic was ideal for the job but not so ideal for the archway under the apartment. It just, with wing mirrors pulled in, which makes reversing even harder, got through but then it had no room to manouevre once there. Ever the opportunist, I made full use of the Scenic's much greater load capacity by collecting the extra porcelain tiles that had been ordered for the apartment bathroom and kitchen and, after dropping my parents back at Toulouse airport, I hot-footed it to Ikea and bought back all the kitchen units for both the apartment and studio. After unloading all the flat packs all that remained to do was to take the hire car back. I am still not sure how and I am still really cross with myself, but after squeezing the Scenic back through the arch for one last time I crunched it against one of the many metal bollards that line the streets here in the bastide town - aaaahhhhhh! There wasn't much damage but there will be damage to my wallet that I could do without. I still can't quite believe it happened - especially as I was saying to myself "just one more time through the arch - be silly to scratch it now - doh!"

The other family event of the week was my youngest daughter's seventeenth birthday. I sent her a text message (actually I sent it to my wife first, who was a bit surprised as her birthday is in August). When I finally sent it to the right person, I got a reply which said "thankyou - I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?". That's great isn't it. My own daughter doesn't even have my mobile phone number on her phone so didn't know it was a message from her dad. Charming.

Mind you, with the week I've had (car scrapes and brain fades), I'm not in a position to have a go at anyone else. Let's hope I keep it all together this week - you'll be the first to know if I don't.

Dust

I really don't mind managing the renovation. I carefully account for every penny (centime) that is spent. I organise and plan the logistics of getting the right material and fixtures and fittings delivered and available when needed ( subject to the French system of not wanting to sell you anything!). I am very keen to learn new skills that will both benefit me and speed up the renovation process. I work on my London job whenever needed, at any time of day. I work on the renovation whenever needed, at any time of day. I keep the place clean. I prepare lunch and dinner every day. I do all the shopping as necessary. I leave the skilled work to the genius and help him as much as I can, which means I do a lot of labouring, and all the painting and the goddam, bloody awful, absolutely crappy job of sanding down the splatter shite that was indescriminately sprayed all over the walls and ceilings of the separate apartment and the studio.

I have raised this subject before but I hesitate not to raise it again. Attacking the walls isn't too bad as most of the dust falls straight down to the floor (most, that is). The ceilings, however, are a different matter, because they are impossible to do without getting absolutely covered with the resultant residue of plaster and dust - in my hair, in my eyes and despite my protective mask, up my nose and in my mouth.

We have tried to minimise the effects The walls are done by hand in small sections and cleaned up immediately. The ceilings are done at the end of the working day - all tools removed from the immediate vicinity, all interconnecting doors shut, the genius and his computer/music provider made scarce.

After five minutes, you are happily sanding away; arms don't ache, you can still see what you are doing and you are breathing normally but the air is a bit cloudy with the dust. After fifteen minutes, your arms are starting to ache, your eyes are getting bombarded with bits of debris, visibility is reduced and you are wondering how much more you can do. After thirty minutes you have more than had enough, your arms are burning, your eyes are smarting and clogged up and visibility is zero in the dust filled air. So I shut the door and leave the dust to settle until the morning when the first job is to clean up. In the meantime I become a walking dust ball - it is impossible to move from work room to shower without leaving a trail of dust. I look like a yeti - I look like a scary monster according to my wife. Everything I touch results in a small dust cloud. Taking my work clothes off before showering results in a large pile of dust on the bathroom floor. Please, please someone save me from the dust.

A new me?

Oh dear. My brain has stopped working. I am suddenly struggling to post a blog. I have only posted two in May so far and the last one was ten days ago. 'Struggling', I hear you say - I know, I know - I am writing now but am I saying anything? I have started writing this in the hope that inspiration will follow, but there is no guarantee, and you will be the judge of my success or not.

So, the last ten days - it has been pretty busy really. In summary, went back to London, did 3 days solid work, had a fantastic weekend with my wife, returned to France, got stuck into the renovation again, and it has rained every single day, both in London and here in Carcassonne. That sounds terribly bland, but actually it was all really good, apart from the rain, that is.

I am very happy and very excited that a second round of funding has been successfully raised for the company that I 'look after' in London. Firstly, it means that I have been paid for the first time in three months which is one great big enormous relief, to say the least. Secondly, it means that the project can progress, which will be fantastic for everyone in the entire world - I kid you not - the product under development is that good, but you will just have to wait and see to understand the magnitude of my claim. The important thing is that the project is back up and running and suppliers have been briefed and commissioned and initial agreements have been negotiated and signed.

The MD of the business keeps referring to me as her 'caped FD' - you'd have to ask her for an explanation but it is rather flattering to be thought of as some sort of superhero - and I don't mean that in any grandiose, inflated ego sort of way, because I have spent a good deal of the last two years putting myself down and thinking that I am not worthy - I have suffered a crisis of confidence in myself which led to a fairly self-destructive downward spiral.....but not any more. No more with the negative vibes. I know that this product will come to market and be a success. I know that the renovation will be completed on time and be fully booked from the start. I just know it, because I know that any problems along the way can be overcome and will be overcome - how sickeningly smug and positive is that - it is the new me.

Taking a break

Last week seemed to be really frustrating. It seemed as if progress was slow. It seemed as if the satisfaction of daily achievement had been replaced by a feeling of 'what have we done today?'

I'm not sure why this was. I say 'seemed' because, in actuality, a lot of progress was made. Most of the boarding is finished, all the plumbing is in place and just waiting to be tested with water in the pipes (a fairly essential step), the broken glass in the main living room has been replaced and so on. Despite this, somehow last week felt like we were standing still.

The extra porcelain tile order had not come in and the tile shop weren't sure why. My IKEA order for the apartment and studio kitchen looks like it will take longer than I expected to arrive and there is still a discrepancy between my order and their order confirmation to iron out. The false door on the front of the dishwasher fell off because my previously overpaid and useless builders had overtightened the screws on it and mangled the chipboard interior. I spent a large part of every day working on stuff for London, which is fine because it's my job, but is harder to manage when demands are spread over the week for an hour here or there rather than a block of time that I can devote solely to it.

So maybe it was a good time for us all to be taking a break. 'The genius' went back to England last Thursday to spend the bank holiday weekend with his girlfriend - he is back tomorrow. My wife flew down to Bergerac to stay with friends who have a chateau about halfway between Bergerac and Bordeaux - and I drove up to spend the weekend with her and them.

They bought the place four years ago and have transformed what was a house and outbuildings that had seen better days into a fabulous home and also, now, a fantastic holiday location, and they are now letting out the entire house or rooms for most of the year. Their renovation, which included extensive gardens, makes mine look like child's play, but then they had an army of workers, including 'the genius' in his previous role, to help them.

On Saturday evening they invited some English/French friends to dinner - that is English wives with French husbands. It was very interesting and a lot of fun. Both wives spoke fluent French and both husbands spoke very good English and the conversation moved back and forth between the two although mostly it was in English. The two Frenchmen were a contrast in French stereotypes. One, a wine merchant, was reserved, direct to the point of being rude and surly. Something upset him during the dinner conversation, after which he hardly said a word. The other, a lawyer and a confirmed socialist, was interesting, funny, chain smoking and wine drinking and thoroughly charming and entertaining. They could not have been more different and in their respective ways they represented both faces of France - engaging, beguiling and warm on one hand and yet reserved, distant and cold on the other. Needless to say the English wives lived up to expectation by drinking copiously and discussing their husbands intimate details with each other and all and sundry when it suited them - don't you just love them.

It was very, very good to spend some time with my wife away from the usual daily pressures of either Carcassonne or London. I think it was good for us both to be together outside the usual environments and made me realise how long it has been since we had a holiday together. I was especially happy that she decided not to go straight back to London, but returned with me to Carcassonne before we both return to the UK together tomorrow.

Mind you, the frustrations have carried on into the new week. As we came off the autoroute this evening I pulled into Tridome with the objective of ordering the seagrass flooring for the spare room. I was told that they didn't have enough and that they would only re-order when they had sold what they currently had - let's hope there is someone out there who wants a 2m piece of seagrass really soon! - what sort of stock management system is that? - I thought they would order another roll on the basis that I was a confirmed sale of 5.2m worth, but instead I was told to come back in about 15 days! - no wonder this country is falling apart from an economic point of view - like my previous experiences with the Audi service centre, they actively do their best not to make a sale wherever possible.

Bank Holiday

It was a bit quiet yesterday. Actually it was a lot quiet. It was quieter than a fairly quiet Sunday, which, if you've ever spent a Sunday in France, you will know is pretty quiet.

It was a bank holiday. In England that means thousands of people at IKEA and Tesco and Homebase and Oxford Street and Longleat and the beach if it's sunny and traffic jams on all roads, even those that don't lead anywhere. In France it means there is one boulangerie open for about three hours, enough for everyone to get the bread that is vital to their daily existence, and that's it. Even the swallows seemed to stay in their nests.

Mind you, it rained all afternoon and evening. Two weeks of fabulous sunshine and then it rains all through the bank holiday - isn't that typical?

There is a race course here in Carcassonne, down on the bank of the River Aude, a little to the north of the town. I think it is used about twice a year for horse racing and trotting - a rather bizarre sport for us English to grasp as it involves a horse and a cart not running as fast as they could because they are only allowed to trot - so the one that runs medium fast very quickly will win but the one that runs too fast i.e. gallops, will lose!. Well, yesterday was one of those two days a year and sadly it rained all afternoon so no fun was to be had there, whether galloping or trotting

Also, the French Rugby League Cup Final, played here in Carcassonne, was subject to the ongoing deluge, which rather dampened the atmosphere for the home town side and was possibly a factor in the lacklustre performance and eventual defeat on the night. Oh well, it was not to be.

However, the renovation doesn't abide by bank holidays so it was full steam ahead, despite wifely thoughts from afar that we are not "getting on with it". I understand her frustration because it feels to me, at times, that it is all taking rather a long time and I have the benefit of seeing every little thing get done. Today we hope, finally, to connect the water into the separate apartment and test all the new plumbing lines. Fingers crossed that we don't have the same deluge inside as we had outside yesterday.

Cathar castles and Cup finals

I took myself off for a drive yesterday, not wanting to spend a lovely sunny Sunday sat inside the apartment, especially when there is so much to see, and so much that I haven't seen, within a couple of hours fabulous drive from here - and fabulous it is to drive on virtually empty French roads, and with the roof down on the car the countryside seems so much closer.

I decided to visit a Cathar castle that I have been meaning to go to for quite a while. My wife and I had driven to Peyrepertuse one Sunday two years ago after a Saturday that I'd like to forget when our relationship was at it's lowest ebb - inevitably there was a tenseness in the air that day, which was completely at odds with the stunning scenery and the spectacular location of the chateau. We drove up as far as we could but didn't make the final walk up to the remains of the chateau - in a way my visit felt like unfinished business.

However, instead of just the one, I visited two, because the route I took went right past (3km detour) another Cathar castle, at Puilaurens. One of the features of Cathar castles is that they were built, as were many middle age castles, in defensive positions on top of high ground. Now in England that probably means you have to walk up a slight rise to get to the castle, whereas in the Languedoc it means you have to be an experienced mountaineer with a strong heart and no dodgy knees. These things were built on the top, and I mean the very top, of mountains. How they achieved it, a thousand years ago, with the technology they had is an absolute wonder and a miracle. So visiting one was a good workout, and visiting two in a day required determination and stamina.

At Puilaurens you can see the chateau from the village, sat on it's promontary above, and it gets closer as you drive up the windy track until it disappears from view in the trees when you get to the car park and ticket office. You might think you are there but no, there is still a 500m virtually 45 degree climb up through the trees to get to the 'defensive zig-zag stone stairs' leading to the main gate. When I reached the top my thighs were burning and I was gasping for breath - I really couldn't have spoken for a couple of minutes and everyone else who was there had clearly gone through the same experience as they looked on in sympathy from their seated positions inside the walls - and inside the walls is an apt description because you can't get to look at the best thing about climbing all that way - the view. What a let down. You can walk around this medieval wreck with it's piles of rubble and trees and wildflowers where there were once dwellings and stables but all you can see outside is a glimpse through an arrow slit, here and there. The upper walls have crumbled or been stolen and are too unsafe, even by French standards, to let the public up there.

Between Peyrepertuse and Puilaurens is the Gorge of Galamus, which frankly sounds like something out of The Lord of the Rings. I expected to see trolls and elves and whatever the really ugly baddies are called, as I drove through, but mostly there were motorbikes of all shapes and sizes, and Gandalf didn't ride a motorbike, although in a contemporary version of the film he'd probably be on a Harley. Still, it seems that riding through the Aude countryside in convoy on a Sunday is a big thing to do - and who can blame them because I was enjoying the drive as much as the scenery and places I visited.

You can see Peyrepertuse a long time before you get close to it. It sits on top of a limestone ridge and defies description or explanation. You watch the changing angle of it's perspective as you drive along the valley to the north and then briefly lose sight of it as you round the end of the ridge before dropping into the town that sits below the chateau and then starting the long winding road up the mountain. You get as far as you can go, park up, pay and start walking - disconcertingly downwards at first as you walk around the end of the ridge to the entrance high up on the opposite side. Once inside you appreciate the vast size of this chateau and that it was constructed in three parts, you now only being at the lower end of something that climbs up with the ridge for at least another two hundred metres. The top of the topmost top bit of this chateau is absolutely awe inspiring. You feel as if you are on top of the landscape - you can see everything down four valleys on every side - even if the climb hadn't done so, the view would take your breath away.

By the time I got home I had been out for six hours and after the two climbs was feeling a bit weary. The day before I had taken my bike out for it's first (overdue) outing of the year. A gentle cycle down the banks of the River Aude which turned into an hour and a half of cycle exploration as I rediscovered the joy of pedal power. I used to think that going to a gym three times a week was how to stay fit - how wrong I was - Cathar castles, pedal power, a big property renovation and a diet of duck confit, garlic and red wine is the answer, and if anyone nicks that from me I will sue them.

Tomorrow (1 May) is a bank holiday here in France. It is also a Tuesday, which means there is this odd day between the weekend and the holiday. Proprietors of businesses up and down the land have said to themselves "Is it worth opening up today?". No. The fact is that because today was a Monday half of them weren't open anyway and the other half needed very little excuse to stay in bed. There are three bank holidays in three weeks here, all falling on Tuesdays or Thursdays, which basically means three, three day weeks, which you either respect or hate but either way it's going to happen.

Despite that, there is vast excitement in Carcassonne at the moment. The rugby league team has reached the final of the French rugby league cup. It is 15 years since Carcassonne won the cup and they have lost two finals since then - but they are in the final this year, which is being played tomorrow night in Carcassonne. The whole town has been abuzz all week as only a town can be when it is involved in a cup final - it reminds me so much of an FA Cup Final town in England, especially when it is not a big city involved. They have been talking about it all week and selling club shirts and tickets in the market and the bars and at Tridome, our favourite DIY store, who sponsor the local team. It will be a party whatever but I am really hoping for a home town win - I think the knock-on effect will be enormous, but also, I will be proud to be a Carcassonnais for the day - "Allez les jaunes et noires"

Down but not out

It's Friday night and I am feeling a bit weary and, to be honest, a bit down. It has been a strange week in many ways and it's hard to put my finger on why I am feeling like this - it's not as if we haven't made any progress with the renovation and nobody has done anything to upset or annoy me, and yet I feel a bit tired and a bit frustrated and a bit sad for some reason.

My wife went back to London a couple of days ago and I am missing her terribly. I know that at this very moment she is on the roof of a Shoreditch penthouse apartment at a birthday party that I should be attending, and would be attending, if I wasn't living this double life in different countries. There are lots of good reasons why I am in France and not at the party and there are also many good reasons why I should be in London - my wife most importantly and my friends too.

Normally, at times like this, 'the genius' and I would go to the bar and talk the night away about sport and computers and cars and stuff that blokes talk about to each other which would help us both cope with not being with our 'ladies' - but he's suddenly gone on the wagon and all introverted and won't go out, which, frankly, is a bit bloody selfish if you ask me!

Perhaps it's the distinct feeling of Spring in the air that is getting to me. The swallows are swooping and whooshing, one chasing another, over the rooftops at dusk. The fields are full of wild flowers and, most dramatically, red poppies, whilst the hedgerows are full of wild iris and purple and white lilac - all plants that would cost a pretty penny in a London garden centre. The air is warm enough to have the windows open 24 hours a day and either the sun or the moon beams down at all times.

The downside of the open window environment is the increase in 'noise pollution' (don't you just hate that phrase) from the street. It is a by-product of living in the town, which I am used to from my many years in London, but the noises are different and unique to France and are exacerbated by the narrowness of the streets in the Bastide town where I live. French teenage boys have a love affair with mopeds far in excess of those in Britain and their ability to rev the shit out of them between the junctions 20 metres to the right of my apartment and 20 meters to the left is unparalled - it is a sound that renders any ongoing conversation futile at that precise moment. In addition, souped up car stereo systems reverberate off the narrow walls, which is very occasionally pleasantly classical or jazzy or spanish but is more often than not French techno or rap - the most hideous music style known to man.

Well, if that's it, I don't have a lot to put up with or complain about, do I? So I better snap out of this malaise and just get on with it, which of course I will.

More car madness

Sadly, my wife has now gone back to London. It has been great having her out here for a few days. She is the design inspiration for the renovation, so it has been very important for her to see where we have got to, see the room spaces for herself, confirm tiles and paint colours, socket placement, kitchen layout and many other decisions that needed to be made. We now have some firm thoughts on areas where there were unanswered questions and can crack on with the work. She has been known to change her mind occasionally, if you can believe such a thing, and many an email has been received starting with the words "What if..." or "How about ...". As she says "Hurry up and finish it and I won't be able to change my mind any more". Quite. We are doing our best, believe me.

As part of that decision making process, we went to the IKEA store in Toulouse to look at kitchen cabinets and door fronts and sinks. I don't really enjoy visiting IKEA stores but some of their stuff is good - it's the whole store experience I can't cope with; you either end up not finding what you want or coming out with a load of stuff you hadn't bargained on buying in the first place. Our four hour round trip on Monday, which elicited much confusion about the kitchens we need to install and the purchase of just three under shelf light fittings, was pretty much par for the course.

I am glad to say that the kitchen confusion has now been resolved - all that remains is to order it and either collect (another trip to Toulouse and not sure if it will fit in the car) or try to arrange a delivery that will actually come to my door instead of depositing the goods two blocks away.

My poor mis-used car had to cope with more hard labour yesterday when I went to collect the new tiles for the studio kitchen and bathroom (the ones we managed to secure at a bargain price at the end of last week). 25sq metres worth of tiles is pretty heavy and despite spreading the load between the boot, back seat and vacant passenger seat, I was seriously concerned for the well-being of the rear suspension and had to drive home very carefully, praying that nothing occured that required an emergency stop - because it wouldn't have stopped very quickly, that's for sure. The guys at Tridome, the DIY and materials supplier we generally use, appear to be no longer surprised by what goes into the back (or on top!) of an Audi Cabriolet - so we will have to come up with something in the weeks to come or they will have nothing new to talk about over their lunch.

Talking of cars, I have just had the most bizarre and surreal conversation with my wife. She is in her car, trying to find somewhere in East London, and had got herself lost and couldn't work it out on the map - so she phoned me, mobile to mobile, so that I could talk her through the route from where she was to where she needed to be using a map on my computer here in France - how mad is that - absolutely stark raving bonkers. I guess it's another skill I can add to my CV - a sort of real-time GPS navigation system provider - actually, for the cost of the phone call we could probably a bought a GPS system but then they don't have a sense a humour and they know left from right, so they wouldn't be anything like as amusing!

Happy and sad

It feels like winter has finally been despatched for another year. It has hung on grimly here for longer than strictly necessary or welcome, for that matter. There have been moments over the past couple of months when it felt as though Spring was just around the corner; when it was warm enough to sit outside in the square for lunch or an early evening aperitif, but they proved to be just false hopes, a little tease if you like. Indeed, we had lunch outside in the square on the 2nd January and some blossom was out at the end of that month. "You've gone too early", I thought, and so it proved. The March cold and damp went on and on, week after week caused by unseasonably bad weather sat over the Iberian peninsula, apparently. A brief respite for three days over the Easter holidays and then back to more rain. All the while, it was cheerily sunny, warm and dry in London.

This week, however, instant summer has arrived. Well, for a Northern European boy it is instant summer. It is not the uncomfortable blazing heat of July but it's plenty fabulous for me. At seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, I am sat at my kitchen table with the windows wide open. The sun is already casting it's golden rays onto the buildings across the street and there is a haze to the blue sky which hints at the heat to come later in the day. Swallows swoop low over the rooftops in courtship. It is still quiet apart from the bells and the occasional 'clip-clop' of shoes on the street as the sensible shoppers, baskets in arms, make their way down the hill to the market to get their pick of the best produce before the out-of-towners, tourists and late risers all converge on the square later in the morning. The local asparagus season is already a month old and delicious local strawberries are now in abundance. There is a heady sense of anticipation about what new treats are to be had - the first figs or melons perhaps? (having been to the market, I can confirm that it was melons - still quite small, but absolutely bursting with juice and flavour).

The only problem with this fantastic weather is that the last place I want to be is inside working on the renovation, but the timetable is unforgiving so work we must. Progress has been good this week - the last bit of demolition and rubble removal has been done, the plumbing is nearly finished and the frame for the new doorway to the bedroom has been put in place. Having pondered long and hard and changed our mind a few times, we have saved some money on the doors for the bedroom by deciding to use the spare ones that we found in one of my cellar spaces. I'm not sure where they came from originally but they match all the other sets of double doors and so are perfect. It was in fact a good week for saving money. I had, fortunately, delayed ordering the new tiles for the studio kitchen and bathroom and finally went to do it yesterday. My wife, who is over for the weekend I am happy to say, then found almost exactly the same tiles on offer at pretty much a third of the price - what a result that was - and, what's more, they have them in stock as well, rather than having to wait six weeks for delivery from Italy.

Also in my cellar, we found two pieces of glass, cut to size for the standard panes of the large double opening windows that adorn each room. This was lucky on two counts. Firstly, the apartment has always had one pane of glass missing from one of it's windows and I had been meaning to get a piece of glass cut for it. No need for that any more - and more money saved. Secondly, we now need to replace another pane of glass, in the main apartment, after some 'petit merde' threw a bottle at the window in the early hours of Friday morning. We were awoken by a strange sound in the night but couldn't place it. A quick look round in the dark didn't reveal anything and fortunately I didn't stand on any of the broken glass in my bare feet. All became apparent in the morning - a small hole in the cracked pane, a beer bottle top and broken glass in the living room and a broken green beer bottle in the street down below.

Talking to one of my neighbours later that day, I got the distinct impression that she thought France was going to the dogs with the disaffected, mostly Arab, youth the main reason for the decline. I have no idea if there is a link, but the day before France votes for a new President, means that it is an issue on everyone's mind just now. I don't know what makes someone think it is big or clever to throw a bottle at a window, or why someone has so little respect for other people and their property, but it saddens and angers me. 'C'est la vie' as they say around here.

Back with a bump

Just when I get used to the pace of London and the small apartment and putting a suit on to go to work, I'm back into travel mode and on my way to France once more - following my ever so familiar route from North London to the Languedoc. Actually the familiarity and repetetiveness of the journey is quite reassuring. It makes the whole thing very stress free because everything is in it's order and it's place and happens as it has happened a hundred times before on all my previous journeys. I know what to do to make it easy and I know what to expect at every stage.

So when the cab driver arrives at home in London I know he will say what a fine/dull/wet/cold morning it is, before confirming that I am going to Tottenham Hale station and then asking if I am going to Stansted. Affirmation of this will bring forth a sales pitch for taking me all the way in the cab, which I will politely decline because I already have a Stansted Express ticket, after which silence will descend apart from the overly cheerful attempts from Capital Radio to awake it's listeners and the odd muttered expletive from the cab driver in the direction of other road users.

On the Stansted Express I will talk to two people. Somewhere between Tottenham Hale and Harlow/Bishops Stortford, the ticket inspector, always male, will say "tickets please", then scrawl on or stamp my ticket, to which I will say "Thank you". The young lady pulling the buffet trolley will ask if I would like any "drinks or snacks", to which I will say " No, thank you".

At Stansted I will go straight to the security gate, where I will be asked if I am carrying any liquids or toiletries, which I won't be because I never do. I will wait patiently, while non-regular travellers go back and forth through the metal detector because they have not removed their keys/phone/money from their pockets. I'll be one of the first on the plane and then it's a well trodden routine of "Please sit anywhere after row 3/4/5" and "This is your captain speaking" followed by "Two at the front, one left and one right" (accompanied by the appropriate hand gestures), "any drinks/snacks", "any rubbish/empties", "flight crew, ten minutes to landing", "welcome to Carcassonne ten minutes earlier than scheduled" and finally "thank you for flying ryanair, we look forward to seeing you again".

But today the calm stress-free routine was blown away right at the last moment when the pilot decided to dump the plane on the runway instead of the usual smooth-ish landing. He came down so vertically that he must have thought he was flying a Harrier jump jet rather than a Boeing 737. I'll be surprised if the runway isn't dented. The woman next to me exclaimed aloud "that didn't seem right". "Not right!", I said, "That was rubbish". Whilst waiting to disembark, the head stewardess apologised and laughingly said it was the first officer's first flight. I said I hadn't noticed the 'L' plates when I boarded and maybe he needs a bit more time on the flight simulator, which made her laugh all the more. She was the only one on the plane laughing.

The genius was there to meet me and asked if I didn't mind going home via our favourite DIY store, Tridome, for a few bits and pieces that he needed. A few bits and pieces he said - a good walk round the aisles with a long list in his hand - and another €100 euros gone in the blink of an eye. That was the second hard landing in the space of an hour. So much for comfortable stress-free travel.

Not quite there yet

Just when you think you are getting the hang of things, something goes awry to let you know you've still haven't cracked this foreign communication malarkey. A few days ago I was congratulating myself on arranging a delivery of building materials from the DIY store to the apartment, situated in the narrow streets of the bastide town.

"Je suis en centre ville", I said. "Oui", she replied.
"Pas de problem", I probed. "Non", she replied, implaccably.
"Bon", said I, unknowingly

So, naturally, when the delivery driver phoned me on Tuesday afternoon to say he was on his way, he casually mentioned that his lorry was too big, 'un grand camion", and that the best he could do was drop the stuff at the top of the hill in the car park some 200 metres from the apartment. When he arrived at the car park, where I had gone to meet him, I tried in my best French to ask why, when he knew I was in 'centre ville' he had not come in a smaller van, under the allowed weight limit for the bastide, as arranged and agreed. That one expressive shrug of his French shoulders and downturned pout of his French mouth said, without saying a word, 'This is the lorry it's on, I can't go down that road, I can put it down here or I can take it back to the depot, It's your problem and I don't really give a rat's ass either way, take it or leave it'.

So take it we did. Twelve 3m and six 4m lengths of wood and twenty-eight, yes 28, 3m x 1.2m sheets of plasterboard. If you've ever tried to lift a 3m sheet of plasterboard you will know that it is very heavy and you need two people to carry it or it will bend and break. Help was needed.

Help arrived in the form of my trusty Audi, into which, in roof down mode, we piled the wood for the short journey down the hill - two trips and it was done - relatively painless apart from the continuing damage to the leather seats. We briefly toyed with the idea of balancing the plasterboard on the back of the car and rolling down the hill at walking pace but the length of the board ruled this out. There was only one option, it had to be carried.

My other help arrived in the form of a little and large team from Ireland. Not that they are a comedy duo or a team, just that one is a big bear of a man, an artist and fellow resident of the town, and the other is a slight, gentle man from Dublin who had arrived the day before for a quiet week in his holiday apartment situated on the second floor above my own. I felt very guilty in imposing on them both and would not have been surprised if all manner of pressing engagements had suddenly occured to them, but they are both kindness personified and leapt to the task unhesitatingly with, well, not quite enthusiasm but certainly determination.

So it was, in two teams of two, that the plasterboard was ferried down the hill in relays, under a hot afternoon sun and to the amusement of many passers by who were no doubt sniggering about stupid foreigners who thought they could get material delivered in town. The verbose, constantly chattering Irish team must have used as much energy talking as they did carrying and the stoic anglo-saxon team whose only word was "ready" at the start of each trip. Fourteen journeys of 200m carrying board is 2.8km plus another 2.8km walking back up the hill meant 5.6km each in total. Now that is a good workout, and we had only got it as far as the arch so far; We still had to carry it up to the first floor. Time for a tea break.

By 6.30pm, three hours after delivery, the job was done and four bottles of cold lager were consumed in 10 seconds flat. My enormous thanks goes to my generous Irish friends - without them the genius and I would still have been out there at 9.00pm for sure.

It was a day that appeared destined for trouble from the beginning. What should have been a relatively straighforward trip to Tridome for plumbing parts for me and paint for my Irish neighbour turned into a two and a half hour tour of four DIY stores and one plumbing wholesaler. There appears to be a national shortage of 12mm copper pipe, all other sizes available but not the one we wanted. At the last location, we couldn't even find where the copper pipe was being kept because they were in the middle of a major re-organisation of both the gardening and DIY stores which resulted in hosepipes on the same shelf as paint and plumbing parts in 3 locations. It's hard enough to find what you want at the best of times but when the store staff don't know where everything is and they are not sure what you have just asked for, in less than perfect French, you don't really have a chance. This is the store we once walked round for half an hour looking for radiators and towel rails, only to be told, quite bluntly, that they were in the gardening section. How stupid could we have been. Of course they are. Eventually I found someone who understood what I wanted and knew where it was - it was in the storeroom at the back and not on display at all - I just had to ask!

At last. They had a 3m length of 12mm copper pipe - mission accomplished. And so the intrepid band made it's way home. Me and my irish neighbour in the front, a 1.2m square showerbase wedged in behind the front seats forming an impenetrable barrier to the genius, equally wedged in, on the back seat. My Irish neighbour clutched the copper pipe like a flagpole out of the top of the car. It really should have been flying a pennant with my colours fluttering in the breeze - it felt like I had won a battle, although the afternoon's events proved I had not won the war. The showerbase allowed me no direct rearward vision and the genius no forward vision and was a very effective sound insulator, which made reversing the car into the arch an act of pure blind faith and total reliance on having done it a hundred times before. Practice makes perfect and perfect it was - despite the muffled concern from the other side of the showerbase.

And so it was we all breathed a great sigh of relief and wondered what aches and pains would materialise over the days to come.

The following day, before my flight home, I was back at Tridome buying steel for ceiling frames. I needed four 5.3m rails, which were a bit long, even for our lavish open top Audi escapades. So, having bought said steels I laid them on the floor just outside the pick-up point, produced a tape measure and a pair of cutters (or snips as I think they are known in the trade) and proceeded to cut said steels into 3.5m and 1.8m pieces, under the gaze of the disbelieving but, I think, begrudgingly respectful, Tridome employees, before loading them once more into my poor maligned car. I just know they will be thinking 'what are they going to ask for next and how are they going to get it in that car'. I like to think we may have a few surprises for them yet.

Seeing my past

I am back in London and feeling rather out of place. I have been in France for 5 weeks in a row and maybe it is taking longer than usual to get back into the pace of the big city. It's not the noise, or the traffic, or the sheer volume of people or the restricted size of our London apartment compared to the French one - all those are the obvious physical differences - it is something less tangible and more surreal.

Take this very moment, for instance. I am at work, yet I am not. The business that I work for is run out of an office located on the first floor of a warehouse building in Shoreditch. The joint owner of the business, and managing director, lives with her partner and children in the apartment located on the two floors above - a classic live / work scenario. The office was once an apartment so has a bedroom at the rear of the space.

I have a key to the building and the office so that I can let myself in as necessary. This morning there was no-one in the office when I arrived, which is not unusual. I got my computer out, picked up my post and paperwork from my in-tray and settled down to catching up on what had been going on. But something wasn't right. It was the gentle sound of snoring coming from the bedroom no more than 10 feet away from where I was sat. This made me feel rather uncomfortable and a little intrusive.

Now, my MD is a very good friend so I decided to go upstairs to the apartment. The door was open but nobody appeared to be home. I called her mobile but no reply. She could be asleep upstairs for all I know but I am not going to find out. It feels to me like the morning after a very big night before, the sort of big night that used to blight my life in London. It feels very odd to walk into this scene, as I said, very surreal - I feel like I have been transported in to look at my past from the outside. The strange thing is I have felt absolutely no pressure from my past either ahead of this visit or since I arrived. The most important thing on my mind was seeing my wife and continuing to try and heal our relationship - something which I feel, know, needs time and patience.

The other thing on my mind was catching up on work after being away for five weeks and now, I feel slightly irked that half a day has been wasted. Maybe I am getting there after all. I certainly hope so.

First Time

It's the Easter bank holiday weekend. It's 10.00pm on a Saturday night and I am sat here at the kitchen table, on my own, looking at my computer. The genius has gone to England for a couple of days for what is a well deserved break. Somehow, my wife and I didn't get our act together to be in the same place, either London or Carcassonne - it wouldn't have mattered which - we should just be together rather than missing each other by email, text, instant message, skype or telephone - there are so many ways to be in touch, without being able to touch.

It has been good to have a couple of days off from the renovation work. A couple of days not covered in dust or paint. A couple of days to let the aching shoulder, knee, ankle and wrist have some respite and I feel better for it.

When I realised I was going to be on my own, I made a conscious decision to do something different and that is how I ended up with a pig's trotter on my kitchen table. Yesterday was the first day that I had ever bought 'un pied de porc', either in France or England, and, in fact, it has turned out to be a few days of 'firsts' of all sorts.

On Wednesday, I successfully ordered, paid for, and arranged for a massive delivery of plasterboard and wood for the ongoing construction work of the separate apartment and also the studio, which we will tackle immediately after the apartment is finished. It is all due to arrive on Tuesday afternoon - so I hope I am not being premature in patting myself on the back - it isn't here yet, but I have every confidence that what I think I have organised will happen as it should.

On Thursday, I had my hair cut in a 'coiffeur pour hommes'. I have, previously, always managed to fit a haircut into my schedule on my flying visits to London, but two months had passed since I last had a trim and I was beginning to look a bit wild and woolly - so as I passed by on my way back from the market, and I noticed that no-one was currently in the hot seat, I popped in to make an appointment and ended up getting sheared there and then. In London I always go to a salon where a sixteen year old trainee washes my hair and gives me a scalp massage and an extremely nice but slightly mad German girl takes an hour to cut my hair and charges me £35. Here, a slightly effeminate Frenchman with a dodgy seventies hairdo and tache washes and cuts my hair in 25 minutes and charges me €17, and because it's so quick and we don't share a first language, there is a very respectable silence throughout the whole event - there is no "And where is sir going on holiday this year" type repartee to put up with. What's more - he actually gave me a decent haircut.

On Friday, I cooked. I find cooking a deeply satisfying and extremely relaxing way to spend my own time. I think it's very therapeutic and, therefore, a perfect way to pass the hours on a 'non-work' day. It also helps that I adore food, all good food, and am willing to try anything, both to eat or to make myself. As a result, a piece of salt cod sat in a pan of, regularly changed, water and the aforementioned pig's trotter appeared in my kitchen. The salt cod was for making 'brandade du morue' an unctuous mixture of fish, cream, oil and garlic. It is described in the Classic Conran cookbook as 'a deeply comforting dish that might even encourage one to have spiritual thoughts'. Quite. I agree entirely. The pig's trotter was to provide the gelatine for 'jambon persille'. It was a bit odd and even a little sad to have a trotter on my chopping board. Pig's are such lovable creatures. The trouble is they taste so damn good - end of discussion really.

On Saturday, I made jam - definitely a first, but probably not for the last time. The idea is to have jam and other home made goodies available when we start letting the apartments, so it was about time I got some practice at it. My enthusiasm was also fired by the large boxes of strawberries they were virtually giving away at the end of the market - there is such an abundance of good fruit and veg and people have always used this surplus in this way - so why not me too? There are now eight jars full of home made strawberry jam sat proudly in my kitchen, and even if I say so myself, it's very very good.

Hammering Away

I'm very happy to report that we are now building, not destroying, in the separate apartment. The first steels have been fixed in the construction of the new bathroom walls and the toilet waste, which had been causing concern (the poo pipe problem, as it became known) has been fitted into place. "I'm not going to let this shit beat me" said the genius. Quite so. I've worked with him long enough now to know that no 'shit' will get the better of him.

I'm not sure that the neighbours appreciate the distinction between the sawing, bashing, thumping and smashing of the demolition phase and the sawing, thumping, hammering and drilling of the construction phase. Obviously there is a world of difference but to people with no ear for music it probably all just seems like really annoying noise. For Gods sake, it's as different as garage and house - what's wrong with them?

As soon as it commenced, we have decided to put 'Operation Barney' on hold. It was playing havoc with the town's refuse disposal. The dustmen would turn up, hop out of the lorry, wheel (drag) the bin over to the hoist at the back of the truck and press the button that was supposed to lift the bin and tip it's contents into the back. The bins were so heavy that the handles were being snapped off. Mind you, I am very surprised that there is no provision for recycling in the daily collections here in the Bastide. Anyway, all debris is now being carried downstairs to an unused space on the ground floor until we can figure out how to get it from here to the 'dechetterie' - the waste disposal depot on the outskirts of town.

The ferocity of the work has also seen the demise of a much loved and much travelled friend. My lovely twenty five year old wooden handled hammer came off second best in an argument with a skirting board of indeterminate but definitely older age - snapped it's head clean off. I've put many a crooked nail into many a wall with that hammer. I'd like to say, as tribute, that the well worn wooden handle used to fit snuggly into the palm of my hand like an extension of my arm - but that would be a lie. However, I have owned it for a long time and I'm glad I was there to witness it's demise - it went down fighting.

I have, immediately, purchased a new hammer - one needs a hammer. It has a fancy, as far as I'm concerned, metal shaft and promises to hammer home all my needs. We shall see. I bet I can still do a bent nail with it.

Operation Barney

It has been a busy week, and for one reason and another, I haven't been able to sit down and update this blog. However, the sun has just unexpectedly come out, after a week of drizzly, cold, grey and windy weather and the church bells are giving it their all, somewhat more than usual, probably because it is the Sunday before Easter which, from the depths of a long since and mostly forgotten religious education, I believe is a day of some significance - Palm Sunday, I think. Ah, you see, I'm not totally senile yet - the brain just about clunked around to the correct data cell in my head in time for me to put that in as I was typing this paragraph. That has cheered me up no end.

The church bells are a constant and mostly welcome part of my life down here. They ring the hour from seven in the morning until midnight and also each quarter hour with either one, two or three 'bing-bongs' respectively, and contrary to expectation, they are not at all intrusive or annoying. In fact, they are extremely reassuring. The deep sonorous tones of the hour bell mark the passing of time in a steady, calming and respectful manner. The warmth of the tone confirming that all is well and life goes on. I think I would miss them more if they weren't there. I certainly feel their loss when I return to London, where either bells are just not rung anymore or you can't hear them most of the time if they are.

On high days and feast days, like today, the bellringers are given the chance to really show what they can do and the resultant cacophony of noise at the beginning and end of the service is a joy, so much so, that if the windows aren't open, I will get up and open them to listen. I live between the two cathedrals in town - St Vincent and St Michel. St Vincent is the oldest and slightly nearer and has the loudest bells. There is a third cathedral in the Cite, Basilique St Nazaire, which makes this a wonderful place to visit if you like nosing around places of worship.

When I first arrived here I was amused by the fact that the hour appeared to be rung twice. At first I thought it was the two cathedrals competing with each other in some centuries old disagreement about when the hour had been reached - each refusing to back down, each using their own sundial on the church wall, each insisting theirs was correct, each refusing to use more modern techniques - "C'est deux heures maintenant", "Non, c'est maintenant". I was quite disappointed when I read that St Vincent deliberately rings the hour twice, two minutes apart, so that if you missed the first one you get a second chance. I then noticed a third ringing of the hour, usually between the other two but sometimes overlapping - this was St Michel's bells which are not as loud, slightly further away and fainter due to the usual prevailing wind direction here. The result of all this is that, although marking the passing of time, there is an element of relaxation in the exactness of the passing of the hour, which in this hectic, time precious world of ours, I also find quite reassuring and a little quaint. The time in Carcassonne, for example, at this very moment is two-ish o'clock.

Earlier I mentioned that the bells are mostly welcome. There is one set of bells in St Vincent that they ring for about an hour on a Sunday morning during the church service. I am sure that they are playing a tune. Many a time you think you recognise something only for a discordant note to throw you off the scent - and discordant is the problem. The pitch and tone is just at a level that is really grating and annoying on the ear and together with the half-grasped tunes makes for unpleasant listening. I usually put some music on to drown them out, not always successfully. I don't know anyone that finds them pleasant. My theory is that it is some sort of penance - if you can't get your arse down to church on a Sunday morning then you will be forced, God forgive us, to listen to this instead.

I said I had been busy this week and busy it has been. The building work has gone full circle - at one end of the first floor in the main apartment the finishing touches are being put to two bathrooms and a guest room and at the other end the separate apartment has been reduced from a habitable space to a wreck of rubble, broken wood and twisted pipes. "My God, what have you done" shrieked my wife when she saw a picture of the carnage. When 'the genius' cheerfully came to tell me that a wall had fallen over when he took a door frame out, I knew it was time to tell him to "Stop what you are doing, put the sledgehammer down and step away from the wall with your hands in the air" It's a good job I have total faith in his ability to rebuild.

The demolition destruction derby has bought another problem - how to get rid of all the rubble and rubbish and unwanted sanitary ware, as, once again, my cabriolet is not proving to be the ideal transport for the problem. However, there are quite large bins on most street corners in the bastide town and we had noticed that a large number of strange things appear to be dumped either in or next to them and that the local dustmen, who remarkably come three times a day, every day, do seem to take everything away. So 'Operation Barney (Rubble)" is underway. Each time we go out a bag goes with us and is deposited in a different bin on a different street corner. Little and often is the way. We have evoked the wartime POW spirit of The Great Escape where the dirt from the tunnel was dropped down trouser legs onto the vegetable patch. "We'll soon have it all gone, chaps, if we all pull together". I'm thinking of asking visitors to take a bag each when they leave.

The bath is going to prove a bit tricky but then I haven't had a dinner party for a while ...

Meeting Expectations

The big moment arrived at roughly 3.30pm on Friday afternoon when my lovely wife stepped out from the quaint, little, Carcassonne airport customs hall into the cold sleety drizzle that had just started to fall. This was the first time that we had seen each other since we parted on bad terms some three weeks ago. During the intervening period, we had conversed by text and email and instant message, but had spoken rarely, just twice - so it goes without saying that I was both extremely pleased to see her and also, very apprehensive. Both emotions were vindicated. She wasn't going to waltz back into my life as if nothing had happened without letting me know it, but I could tell from her smile and her eyes that she was glad to see me.

The second big moment, and in some ways even bigger moment, came some fifteen minutes later after we had driven the short distance from Salvaza airport to our apartment in town. Would the hard work of the past four weeks and the two months before Christmas live up to the billing I had given it? Would it pass the scrutiny of a designer with exacting standards? Would it have the 'Wow' factor that was so desired and demanded?

"Oh my God, that's fucking gorgeous - look at that!", just about summed it up, I guess. There were many more exclamations, expletives and expressions of joy to follow. She liked it, I'm very pleased to say, and on behalf of 'the genius' I must say, we are both very relieved that our efforts have come up to scratch - at least on the bathroom building front that is.

There is no let up though. Once the euphoria of both stroking the American Black Walnut vanity tops and marvelling at how well the Rum Caramel paint scheme blended with the so, so problematic, Spanish porcelain tiles had passed, the conversation switched very rapidly to the unresolved design and build issues of the separate apartment and the studio that we hope to be letting to British holidaymakers in the not too distant future - meaning, in less than three months' time! As a result there has been much discussion about layouts, tiles, paint colours and finishes - each one impacting on the other and each one with a cost / complexity equation to be factored into the mix. The resultant brain stress has not made for a relaxing weekend and trips to the local DIY and tile shops have only served to add complexity to the available options rather than the clarity that was demanded.

But for however many unresolved design and build questions there are, there is for me, always, the self-inflicted uncertainty of my relationship; the one conundrum I would give all to be able to resolve. The one that will, probably, never ever be fully resolved, because that is the way of human nature. Mind you, this place. the Languedoc, Carcassonne, the South of France, is doing it's very best to heal the wounds and fix my malfunctioning mind. Earlier this evening I experienced one of those moments of lucidity, of calmness, of peace of mind that brings a sense of clarity to the confusion in my head.

My wife had retired to her bed, as she does sometimes at this hour, to watch a movie or to snooze. The genius had taken a glass of wine and gone to sit in the bath and ease the aches of another day's work. I was sat at the kitchen table reading an old English newspaper. I hadn't noticed that the the CD I was playing had come to an end - I was engrossed in an article about suckling pig. I was then aware of the church bells ringing the hour at seven o'clock - sometimes I don't hear the bells at all because I'm playing music or the traffic is too loud or the wind is in the wrong direction - but tonight I heard the bells very clearly, sonorously marking the passing hour, making me realise how little other noise there was just at that moment. Immediately I heard the first ring, I walked across the kitchen and opened the window to hear the peals more clearly and was struck by the fabulous sunset at the top of the street, later than previous because of the summer time hour added the day before, and the moon visible directly above my head, and the lack of wind and a sudden feeling of spring after the week of wintry weather that had caught us all by surprise after the shirtsleeves of the week before.

I can't really explain what I felt just then. A moment of peace with myself? An acceptance of my problems and issues and their place in my life? I don't know really. I felt happy and content in a way that I hadn't done in London for many years. I immediately thought of the people most dear to me, my wife and my children, and wanted to share the moment with them.

It sounds ridiculous when I try to put it into words but it obviously had an effect because I overcooked the sausages for our supper and, believe me, that's something I'm really upset about.

Online Sport

For all my trumpet blowing about the many advantages of living in the the south of France - the sunshine, the food, the wine, the entire, relatively (to London) stress free life - there are, naturally, some drawbacks compared to life back in the land of hope and glory.

Yes, I know, it all sounds so fabulous as I describe it, but I have never said that I don't like London or England, or that I am not English to the core - I most definitely am. I miss bacon sandwiches and cheddar cheese and my wife's green curry and a proper pint of Guinness (a London pint of Guinness is 10 times better than a French pint of Guinness but, admittedly, it's not a Dublin pint of Guinness). Most of all I miss not being able to watch decent sport very often.

Obviously you can watch top class rugby. It is shown on French terrestrial TV and on the TV of every bar in town. We are in the middle of rugby country in France - it is a way of life - it is 'de rigeur' - there are more people walking round this town with 'cauliflower ears' than there are chou-fleurs in the market on a Saturday.

But that is it. Everything else pales by comparison with the sports coverage in the UK. The French football, Ligue 1, is all on cable (Canal+) and it's French football. It doesn't have the intensity, the speed, the excitement, the crowds or the personalities of the Premiership - the fact that Gerard Houllier manages Lyon, who have won the league for the past 5 years and are 15 points ahead this year, sums it up - it's dull.

If you shout 'handball' in France everybody thinks you are talking about an obscure game played indoors where teams of either sex seem to jump up and down and generally leap about with a small ball and throw it at great speed at a poor defenseless goalie with no protection who's only job seems to be to stand about waving his/her arms as if they are drowning and then pick the ball out of the net from behind them if they were lucky enough that it didn't hit them full in the face to begin with. Remarkably, the daily French sports paper 'Equipe' gives this nonsense a whole page to itself every day.

The real problem, right now, is how much coverage 'Equipe' and the TV channels are giving to the cricket world cup which is taking place in the Caribbean at this very moment. As you might expect the answer is "What cricket world cup?" or, in fact, "What is cricket?" There is no coverage, no reporting, not even the scores listed. France calls itself a fully fledged member of the international 21st century community. Hah! - even the Dutch play cricket and have a team taking part in the West Indies - so c'mon France, get your act together and find the Eric Cantona of cricket and we will respect you all the more for it.

In the meantime, I am forced to watch sport on the interweb thingy. Even that is not as good as it might be, because 'contractual obligations' stop the BBC transmitting live commentary or video to anyone other than UK users and somehow they seem to know that I am sat looking at my computer in France - angry, exasperated, frustrated, confused and thoroughly pissed off - what difference does it make what country I am in if I am logging on to the BBC website?

So I sit here, staring at my computer screen - 'this page automatically refreshes every two minutes' it says - and time passes ever so, ever so slowly as I wait to see what was scored off the next delivery or whether Bolton have conceded a goal (you always think the worst when you support Bolton Wanderers) and my mind drifts back to days sat in English football grounds when the ball hit a player and in unison the crowd shouts 'handball' and we all knew what we were talking about.

Painting, Sanding and Snowing

I have spent most of the last five days painting - not sat by the canal with an easel and a box of watercolours, pretending I am Monet - but a laborious shoulder burning and wrist aching undercoat and two topcoats of walls and ceilings. I can't even pretend I'm Michaelangelo because it's all one colour.

Mind you, the end result is as sexy as the Sistine Chapel with sunlight cascading through the stained glass and the best choir in the world on top form belting out Johann Sebastian Bach's St Matthews Passion. It's damn good. It's so damn good it's fantastic. My wife, to whom I sent a picture of said paintwork over the wonder of the modern interweb thing, was equally beside herself with joy, which means I feel a little less stressed about her imminent arrival this weekend to check on the progress of all things building related.

Now I never doubt my wife's interior design capability, her knowledge of colours and typefaces and everything designer in any sort of designer field you could care to mention is second to none, but I was well impressed by the matching of the paint colour to the tile colour and the resultant overall cool look of our walk-through his and hers shower room. The tiles, as previously mentioned, were bought here in France, and the paint was bought in London and brought down to Carcassonne in the back of a van last September. The remarkable thing is that the paint colour was chosen with only the memory of the tiles for reference and the match is perfect. Oh, she's so very good at this interior design stuff and we now have a sexy bathroom to prove it - well once we've finished fitting the sink tops and the sinks and the grouting and mounting the towel rails and, oh God, still lots to do.

I don't really mind painting but I can't really do the edges. I have always had shaky hands - yes, even before I reached the age of alcoholic consent - so trying to paint a straight line between say, wall and ceiling, has always been a problem. I start off okay but by the end of the day, when I'm getting tired and my arm feels like lead, it looks like I was painting in an earthquake.

I do mind sanding. According to the Genius, when you get to sanding, you know it's nearly done. Yeh, but I'm doing the sanding and it's a crap job. The so-called 'workmen' who converted this building decided to spray all the walls in the apartment and studio with some sort of splatter shite that covered a multitude of sins, mostly not very well or discreetly. If I knew the French for cowboy I would now use it. After much deliberation, 'we' have decided that 'I' should sand the top off said splatter shite so that 'he' can then plaster over it to give us a much better looking and lovely smooth wall. I know that plastering is by far the more skillful task and I respect that totally, but the picture says everything about the experience of sanding - and I had a protective face mask on! Only about 30 sqm to go.

All that white powder leads me onto the change in the weather. It might have been Spring on Saturday but it is most definitely back to Winter today. I awoke to temperatures at least 15 degrees colder and intermittent heavy showers which have slowly turned to sleet and then snow as nightfall arrived. I am sure that there has been much snow on the Montagne Noire to the north and the Pyrenees to the south. Not only was the salad supper that I had in mind completely inappropriate, I have had to put a jumper on, close all the windows (which traps the paint fumes nicely inside) and put the really expensive electric heating on again. At least it might kill the mosquitos.

A good buzz and a bad drone

Yesterday morning I witnessed ten minutes of civic ceremony that was both a microcosm of French civil administration and an indication of the ambition of this town and the region.

The occasion was the official opening of the newly refurbished 'Les Halles' - the meat and fish market. They have spent fourteen months renovating the nineteenth century building and a grand job they have done of it, with a new roof, cleaned up stonework and modern stalls for the traders inside. The place feels much cleaner and healthier than the old temporary market building, which is a good thing when you are buying food. The acoustics are also amazing, such that the daily banter of shoppers and traders echoes around , giving a very buzzy atmosphere to the place. It actually opened it's doors on Thursday, but they weren't going to let an opportunity like this go without a bit of official razzmatazz - especially as public money was involved.

So at 11.30 there was a little gathering of civic dignatories by the front door of Les Halles. There was the Chief of Police and the Chief Fire Officer, both in full official dress, buttons gleaming in the sunlight, M Le Maire, of course, and various official bristling moustaches, all neatly trimmed for the occasion. One thing you notice in France is that these are pretty much all male events.

Two poles had been erected either side of the front door, with the 'Tricoleur' and the flag of the EU mounted on top, fluttering in the breeze. Stretched between the two poles was a red, white and blue ribbon. The dignatories gathered at the appointed hour and, after the obligatory five minutes of kissing and handshakes, they lined up behind the tape with the Maire centre stage. The cute six year old girl who's turn it was this week, approached the Maire holding in her hands a crimson velvet cushion on top of which perched a polished pair of scissors. Cue the photo opportunity, Maire and cute child, which we will no doubt see in tomorrow's local paper, and then snip, ripple of applause, band strikes up and it's off for a glass of champagne in the adjacent 'Halle aux Grains', the fifteenth century open-sided market hall which was renovated two years ago.

I was interested to see that the ribbon once snipped was then cut into smaller pieces and given to the dignatories, as a memento of the occasion, I guess. I bet some of them have box fulls of bits of ribbon at home, in the same way that people used to collect bus tickets when I was a boy.

And this isn't the only renovation going on in town - there is scaffold up somewhere on nearly all the main streets as the old townhouses are smartened up. There is a major new underground car park being built and plans have been announced in the last two weeks for a new mutiplex cinema and a new 365 bed hospital. I'm sure all this investment is partly due to the increased number of visitors to the town and region, a result of the partnership with Ryanair at Carcassonne airport and also a very forward thinking Maire who is constantly trying to find ways to get the million plus visitors to the Cite per annum to come and spend some of their dosh in the bastide town. Then, there are people like me who have bought property here and are busy renovating them - and just in case you think I have been slacking, I've spent a day and half of the weekend painting ceilings and walls - less than a week now until the 'Inspector of Works' turns up. Help!

All this investment and all these people are exactly what I need to make the renovation of my apartments a success. It already feels as if the season has begun so I am definitely a bit late. The town was thronging with people yesterday with a party atmosphere helped by the live band and the fabulous Spring sunshine. Every outside table was taken all day as people firstly shopped at the market (local asparagus and Spanish strawberries already here in stall creaking proportions) and then watched the six nations rugby and finally celebrated St Patrick's Day, with a street party outside the Irish pub.

The other reason I know that the season has started is because there was a mosquito in my bedroom last night - in March! We don't usually get very many here even in the height of summer - I hope this wasn't a sign that this year will be different, perhaps as a result of the mildest winter on record. I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard that ominous drone buzz past my ear. I looked for it but I couldn't find it so had to concede defeat. There are two bites that I am aware of so far, one on my forehead and the other on the inside of my elbow. It was easy to find it in the morning. It was too fat and too slow, full of blood, my blood, which is now splattered across the top of a newspaper. Hah! Depressingly, I don't think the battle is won just yet.

My work is my life

The renovation work continues to make great progress. Well, it's progressing as fast as two men working flat out can achieve. It has been a busy week so far and I admit to feeling completely knackered already.

Today, I spent three hours sanding plasterwork, a horrible job, in preparation for painting tomorrow. By the time I had finished I looked like I had aged 20 years with completely grey hair, eyebrows and beard. Actually, I felt like I had aged 20 years.

Late this afternoon, we went to buy a joist to support the upper part of a wall that we plan to take out. As you do, we popped down to the local DIY store, called Tridome in this case, with an Audi Cabriolet of all vehicles to bring home a 4 metre wooden joist, 10 x 20 centimeters thick. Now the Cabriolet may be a brilliant car for cruising about in the 300 days of sunshine a year we get in this neck of the woods but it's hardly the ideal builders van. Undaunted, we rocked up, ordered and paid for the 'tree' and backed the car up to the collection point, roof down, naturally. As the yard man drove up with our purchase balanced on the front of his forklift, his face was a picture of disbelief. "C'est votre voiture?" he asked. "Oui", we replied with dead straight faces. 'Ze crazy Eengleesh' - his face said.

One end in the passenger footwell, between the front seats and up and out of the back of the car - a sort of reverse jousting pole for anyone who got too close behind - our own personal portable telegraph pole. We got some funny looks on the way back and a woman, in classic 'Buster Keaton' mode, nearly walked slap bang into the beam when I stopped to reverse the car through the arch. Oh that would have hurt, but I don't think we would have been able to not giggle at her misfortune.

Yesterday, we removed an old 200 litre water heater from the bathroom in the separate apartment. My God, it weighed a ton, even when empty. It was mounted above head height, held by only three bolts onto a 2 inch thick crumbling eighteenth century wall. A combination of a scaffold, a ladder and two men who have seen better days just about managed to lift it, lower it and, thankfully, not drop it. We then had to manoeuvre it down three flights of stairs to my basement storage cellar. It's probably a miracle that it hadn't found it's own way there, taking half the house with it. In a continuation of the silent movie theme there was a definite 'that's another fine mess you've gotten me into' moment as the French 'timer' light went out, plunging us into pitch darkness halfway down the uneven stone cellar stairs with a tonne of water heater slipping out of our grasp between us. Funny, it wasn't.

That job came after two hours of shifting boxes. We had been using the living room of the separate apartment as overflow storage space whilst renovations progressed but with a now imminent need to start work in that space it needed emptying. This must have been the fourth or fifth time that I have carried some of those boxes up and down stairs, in and out of vans or just from room to room. You might say that as they have yet to be opened that I clearly don't need them and they should be thrown out, but no, they have become a symbol of my own private battle with my demons. They will be carried and moved no matter how many times until they can be unpacked and put in their place when the job is finished - they are my personal private baggage, and this renovation will be my redemption.

The unity of sport, or not.

It was a weekend of rugby internationals and this being rugby country in France, the bars were full to watch the matches live on television. They weren't just full of French supporters either, there were supporters of all the 6 European nations taking part in the tournament as well as some of the many Antipodeans and South Africans that live over here making wine and playing rugby and, of course, the North Americans who all decide that they are Irish really. Mind you, it's St Patrick's Day next weekend, so everybody will suddenly find their 'Oirish' roots, to be sure.

The Irish bar in Carcassonne (there is an Irish bar in every town in the world, I think) is called O'Sheridans and is about a 60 second stroll down the hill from the apartment, which makes it both handy and dangerous at the same time. Unlike the Basque bar, referred to in an earlier post, which is clearly Basque, O'Sheridans is a strange mix of French and Irish, of bar and pub, a sports venue and a live music venue. It is a meeting place but not somewhere for a quiet chat.

The French owner always welcomes me with a handshake and a friendly "Ca va", but he obviously works on his muscles, has steel in his eyes, tattoos everywhere, a very large dog and a short temper. He is not a man that you want to annoy.

The Irish barmaid either welcomes me with a kiss on both cheeks or an insult - that's barmaids for you. She speaks fluent French and Irish but her English is a bit dodgy. She said that my blog finally got her off her arse to write her own - you can find her story at cacazone.blogspot.com

The rugby bought out the nationalism in us all. There was nothing aggressive or untoward, just boisterous, friendly banter and general bonhomie. A little joshing here and there but general agreement about who deserved to win or not and much commiseration and congratulation at the end of it all - an example of the power of sport to bring people together.

Well, all except for one conversation with a Canadian (who claims he is Northern Irish), who out of the blue started talking about the protection of one's nationality, which was quickly linked to Jean-Marie Le Pen, tests for immigrants to prove French nationality (they already exist in Britain in a similar form) and the crime problem in France. My mind raced through "What crime problem?" to how is that linked to immigration to what has that got to do with nationality and arrived at the following conclusion - "If that is true then you and I and all the other people who are non-French in this bar are responsible for the non-existent French crime wave and should be deported immediately back to where we came from" which I am glad to say doused his fire - but like all true fanatics, didn't stop him dead. He is probably expounding a similar but refined argument to someone else as we speak.

It's a similar tune to other ex-pats I've met here who are trying to justify their current abode. "I don't like London / England any more - it's full of immigrants" or "It's not like it used to be with all the foreigners there now". Wake up everybody - you are all now living in a different country to the one that you were born in, which technically makes you all immigrants too, so what is the point of your complaint, your argument. Maybe there is no point. Maybe they are moaning and complaining because it is human nature to do so - to see the worst in things rather than the best.

Me, I try to look on the positive side. England did beat France this weekend after all.

Looking in the mirror

I apologise for the delay between this post and the last. I have had real difficulty putting into words the events of the week and what I wanted to say about them.

The week started well enough. I returned to London for work and, more importantly, to see my wife. We had a lovely evening out on Monday and discovered, ironically, a perfectly charming little French Bistro just down the road from our North London apartment. It has been there for 20 years and we've never been before - how ridiculous is that. Our dinner was as classic a bistro dinner as you could imagine - fish soup with croutons, rouille and gruyere cheese followed by fillet steak, lyonnaise potatoes and green salad and a chocolate fondant with pistacchio ice cream shared for dessert - all washed down by a fruity red made no more than 30kms from our French home in the Languedoc. As my wife pointed out, "It would be great to have a little bistro like this in Carcassonne". Strangely, it seems that good little classic bistros are quite rare outside of the big cities in France.

From Tuesday evening onwards the week went downhill and it was entirely of my doing, which makes me feel particularly rubbish about it.

You see I have this problem - the reason for my mid-life crisis - an issue that I am trying to deal with and rectify - the reason I spend more time in France than I do in London. There are no problem demons in France. There are a lot of problem demons in London. There are a lot of problem demons in my head which I am trying to remove and to be honest I thought I was winning the battle but now I am less sure. For 6 months I went back and forward to London and coped, at first quite easily but oddly it became harder the longer I managed - I still don't understand that.

Then I fell down. A moment of weakness. It made me feel just awful and very ashamed but it had the effect of re-focusing my energy, my determination. I came back to France with renewed vigour and launched myself back into the renovation. You see I didn't fall down this week in London but on my last visit a couple of weeks ago. No, what I did this week was in fact worse. What I did this week was deeply hurt, again, the person who has stood by me through all of this, my wife. I hurt her because I lied to her - I denied my moment of weakness when, of course, I should have told her. She would have understood. She would have helped me but when, naturally, she found out from others that I had lied to her the sense of betrayal, of lack of trust was overwhelming.

I still can't explain why I didn't come clean. Yes, I was ashamed of myself. Yes, I felt guilty after doing so well for so long. But none of those things explain my deceit. I have deeply upset the one person who means more to me than anyone else and I feel totally crap about it.

I am also determined that it will never, ever happen again - but then I've said that before.

French customs and futile objections

For the first time that I can remember it was colder when I landed in Carcassonne than when I left London. That's not supposed to be the way of things. It was a glorious Spring day in the UK but it was murky and windy and decidedly fresh in the Languedoc. It was also the bumpiest, most turbulent flight over that I've experienced.

At least there was someone to welcome me at the Customs desk this time. The last time I flew in there was no-one about to check passports, but being terribly British, my fellow passengers had decided that we should wait until officialdom put in an appearance. There was a time when I would have done exactly the same and fallen into line. I don't know if it's a sign of my assimilation into France and adopting a more revolutionary streak to my character, but I felt that if they can't be bothered to turn up and look at my passport, why should I stand around waiting for them. So I walked straight through customs and out into France, unchecked and free, ha ha, and headed to the car park to find my recalcitrant motor and the more pressing concern for me of whether it would start or not.

Lo and behold, the reluctant British queue had followed me out. Sheep? Us? A fellow passenger remarked what a shambles it was and that it could only happen in France. Of course. "That's why we love the country and live here" was my response. The idiosyncrasies of this country, it's culture, it's laws, it's inconsistencies and it's quirks are what attracts us to the place to begin with.

Lo and behold, also, the car started - wow - that's two times running the car's starting running without outside assistance - amazing. So I pootled on home to see what progress had been made with the renovation whilst I'd been away in London for the week.

What I found was a man cursing about tiles. Now this man is my building genius which means that if he's cursing then these have to be the world's worst tiles ever to work with. We are installing two bathrooms at the moment and are putting the same tiles into both. My wife has a fantastic designer eye, it is her job after all, and she knew when we saw these tiles in our tile emporium on the outskirts of town that they would look fantastic. Unfortunately, the genius wasn't with us at the time because I'm sure he would have tried to talk us out of buying them. Indeed, he is insisting on coming with us when we go to choose the tiles for the bathrooms in the separate apartment and studio just to make sure we don't go down the same route.

They are beautiful tiles. They are porcelain not ceramic, which means thay are as hard as nails and very difficult to cut. I now own two tile cutting machines and neither is perfect for these tiles but they are so noisy that I can hear them in operation from 2 blocks away down the hill. I feel sorry for my neighbours, especially the music teacher downstairs. It must be impossible to practise your scales when you can't hear yourself. They have polished edges rather than bevelled ones which means there is absolutely no margin for error in lining them up - so laying them is difficult. They are large at 60 x 30 cms which means it is much harder to lay them level, especially on old uneven floors and walls. You get one corner right and the opposite is out so you push a bit there and the other corner moves, so you take them up and add or take out adhesive and start again and so on and so on. Their size makes them heavy which means we can only do one row at a time on the shower walls. If we do two they start sliding down with the weight.

Apart from that they are no problem and, don't forget, they are beautiful. "Haven't you finished yet", said my wife. It would be fu-tile to ignore her.

Bars, Basques, Lingerie and a Lucky Escape

It's been a fuzzy sort of weekend - the result of an excessive Friday night. As always, it all started out so innocently and as usual, it went on longer than strictly necessary - but it was a lot of fun, which is as much to do with the characters that inhabit this little town.

And it is a little town - the population is only about 50,000, which is an enormous contrast to London, where I have lived for nearly 30 years. This is an intimate place to live, without it being intrusive, as perhaps a small village might be. I feel I know people and they know who I am, but without them knowing everything I do. I have certainly been made to feel very welcome by my French neighbours and the French people that I have met.

Mind you, this is a very cosmopolitan town too. There are a lot of different nationalities either living here or passing through, and that's not including the millions of tourists that just visit the Cite during the summer months. In the last 48 hours I have spoken to English and French, naturally, as well as South African, American, Canadian, Irish, Belgian, Scottish, Dutch and Spanish.

Then there are the Basques and Catalans, those proud people straddling the Franco-Spanish border at either end of the Pyrenees, who insist that they are neither French nor Spanish. We have a lot them here. In fact the Catalans can be further subdivided into Catalans and Occitans, to the south and north of the border respectively. All three have their own distinct and indecipherable languages - too many X's going on for my liking. Basque scrabble would be interesting if they use a standard English game because they would only be able to make one word!

There is a great Basque bar, The Makhila, at the top of my street. As with a lot of bars here, well anywhere, it is all about the people rather than the decor. The decor is the usual French bar variety - glass fronted, cheap tables and chairs and a dreadful colour scheme. This is enlivened by bullfighting prints and posters and rugby shirts and memorabilia - rugby and bulls being their two main passions. The people that frequent the bar though are a fabulous collection of eccentrics with a single common theme - they are always having a really good time. This isn't a bar with sad lonelies staring into a glass. It's all inclusive, pleased to see you back-slapping and laughter. They also do some outstanding plates of tapas that cost next to nothing - food being their other passion (I'm not sure the old ham bone left hanging from the ceiling really added much though - other than flies!).

The other common theme of the bar is interesting hair, both the top of the head and facial variety - and the men are even worse. In fact this is moustache central - big bushy black or grey ones are favourite but Hercule Poirot waxed ends are also very much in vogue. Strangely, a large proportion of the customers with interesting moustaches also have bald heads - a sort of cross between Salvador Dali and Yul Brynner. Those without moustaches go for top of the head eccentricity with pony tails a la Karl Lagerfeld and if you thought that the 70's perm of Kevin Keegan or Stavros of Kojak fame was a thing of the past then think again - it's alive and well in Bar Makhila.

The first time I went in there was quite scary as 20 bizarre looking people turned round to inspect me and I wondered if I'd stumbled into some sort of strange theme party. Before I'd even got served the barmaid threw a glass of something at a customer three down from me at the bar - and everyone just laughed even louder. After three visits, not in particularly swift succession, I've been made to feel very welcome. The bar owner warmly shakes my hand, the barmaid warmly smiles and everyone else insists on talking to me in their thickly accented Basque French that I find impossible to understand. Apparently we talk about food and wine and rugby and everything is very very funny.

It was the combination of a bar, good wine and eccentric characters that could have got me into trouble this weekend. Luckily, my 'don't be so bloody stupid' alarm went off in time. In the melee of the conversation and laughter it appeared that I had an apartment with big windows and original features and possibly good light on a sunny day and a mad American model/actress wanabee needed some lingerie portfolio shots taken by her equally neurotic mother!!!......and these two scenarios could have come together at the prompting of my so called friends if I hadn't been suddenly totally alert to the situation and the ramifications, pulled myself together and said a very big "NO". I can't begin to think how I would have explained that and even the fact that it might have happened is probably enough to have me hung, drawn and quartered. Ouch!

Power Mad

It has been a very good day, today. One of those days when you think you have achieved something. When you think you deserve a beer at the end of it. When you can't stop smuggly smiling to yourself.

When I tell you what it is, you will probably say "Oh come on, it's not all that", but I tell you it has been a niggle and annoyance for 2 years now and finally it has been solved. I am right chuffed about it.

You see, the separate apartment has never had any power connected to it. There is a fusebox and wiring and all that other electricity stuff was there, but not the meter. The previous owner had the meter taken out. Why I don't know. Why not just turn it off and leave it for the next occupant. No. Gone. Removed. A little tag from EDF (French electricity company) left in it's place. Thanks very much.

Now if the meter had been there we could have just turned it on again and phoned EDF to let them know of a change of ownership - as we did with the main apartment. But no meter - well, large intake of breath - it will cost me €800 and an EDF electrical survey and probably a new fusebox and wiring, if it's not up to scratch, which it wouldn't be and well, frankly, bollocks to that.

So for the best part of two years it has sat there, powerless to be a living space. We weren't that bothered because we weren't going to use it immediately and we had so much work to do on the other bits of our hideaway in France. It served as a very useful storeroom for boxes of stuff that we had no more room for in England - having downsized, there, from a three storey Victorian terrace to a newly built shoebox of an apartment.

But that has all changed. Nowadays, I can't afford to have space sat around not contributing, so it has to provide income of some sort - holiday lets, for instance - and for that to happen it needs power. The problem was how to get it connected without spending a fortune or doing anything illegal or killing myself in the process - electricity being pretty dangerous stuff, especially when we are talking about mains connections!

For some time I had discussed the problem with my French registered, but English, lesbian electrician - not now, I'll tell you about her some other time. There were suggestions of drilling through walls and cables running across ceilings but to be honest those ideas didn't fit with the vision that my designer wife has for our beautifully appointed and tastefully decorated rooms.

Fortunately, I know a man who is a genius and a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to building work, which is no bad thing. He also happens to be a really good bloke and a mate and is currently living here with me to help me get all this work done - surely you didn't think I was doing this on my own? - credit where it is due. He's not a man to countenance unnecessary holes in walls and unsightly cables across ceilings, so he thought about it and he looked under this and behind that and above the ceiling and he found the mains supply to the apartment and he crawled into the space above the studio bathroom and cut the mains supply and reconnected it to the studio fusebox and lo and behold there was power in the apartment and there were fireworks exploding and champagne flowing and dancing girls.

Actually, the fireworks and champagne and girls bit didn't happen but it felt that good. Remarkably all the old lightbulbs still work and a two year itch has finally been scratched - hurrah!

Onwards and upwards (just like my EDF bills)