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.