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.
26 March 2007
21 March 2007
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.
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.
19 March 2007
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.
17 March 2007
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.
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.
14 March 2007
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.
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.
13 March 2007
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.
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.
11 March 2007
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.
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.
10 March 2007
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.
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.
03 March 2007
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!
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!
01 March 2007
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)
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)
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