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.