One thing leads to…a moment in time

I’m always writing. It’s more than a hobby; it’s a necessity. When I took my sabbatical year in Provence in 2007, I wrote a whole book. Eighty thousand words. And yet I failed to mention a small incident which I suddenly recalled this evening. Perhaps it seemed inconsequential at the time. Possibly I failed to recognise that the other person involved would still be my good friend five years down the line and in another country.

Post Christmas, feeling a bit down, I took myself to the sales. Well, just one sale actually, but, nonetheless, very satisfactory. The dress and top I’d yearned for two months ago were available for half the price as was a pair of shiny, flat black patent shoes (not those I mentioned in a previous blog, but as good as). And a pair of baggy black trousers with white stars…a stellar purchase if ever there was one. Of course, as the shoes had no heels, the trousers were too long.

It’s always tricky taking up a pair of trousers on your own. You really need someone else to pin up the bottoms in order to achieve an even hem. And whilst I was mulling this over, I was unexpectedly transported back to the tiny village of Graveson in the south of France where I was standing on the dining table of someone I barely knew. Beverley was doing her best with my new, fresh from Avignon, Armand Thiery trousers.

I’d arrived alone in an unknown place where I knew no-one so I advertised my presence at a shop whose main customers were ex-pats – Best of British.
English woman seeks friends.
Well, no good beating about the bush. And Beverley answered my call. Beverley had led a peaceful existence up until then. Later, her daughter would tell me:

My mother just used to sit in the sun and read before you arrived.

Sorry Bev. She should’ve told me sooner. I misjudged that one.

Bev took me to St Remy for a quiet coffee. I took Bev to Avignon for shopping and lunch and people-watching. I made Bev and Martin come and eat in my tiny bed-sit. I instigated walks where we got lost in the heat of the day. Together, we organised a bilingual wake. I helped them move house and virtually moved in. I was a NOISY interruption.

When I was ill, she didn’t believe me and made me walk around St Paul de Mausole before leaving me in the car-park outside Intermarche whilst she went in to buy meat that no-one would eat.

They didn’t eat it because she’d rushed me to the hospital where she waited for hours. She got my daughter over, housed and fed her, visited me for a week and took me back to her house on the eighth day for recuperation.




For want of a nail maybe. For want of a few pins I found a lovely friend.

English woman seeks friends.

Another one bites the dust

And off they went. Half a league, half a league. Some to the north; some to the west. Some so far away I have no idea of direction. Cannon to the right of them. Cannon to the left of them. Cannon in front of them. And a shed load of cannon behind them. And none with a mobile phone between them that works. Or if it does, you’re not allowed to use it. The man-child sends a text which reads

It costs me £1.27 to send a text. There’s another £1.27 gone then son.

Here’s a couple of puzzled looking folk. Perhaps they’re wondering how long it will take to clean the joint up. Not long. Three loads of washing, some dusting and vacuuming. A sensible decision to ignore the carnage in the fridge. A replacement of garden chairs. Bob’s your uncle. Fanny’s your aunt. Job done. Man-child sends a message. Having made the effort to post some photos so he can see Christmas in Poole from a distance, he writes to say he’s noticed his slippers seem to be on his brother-in-law’s feet. Was there a man dismayed?

And boldly we will ride and well tomorrow as we make our way into the jaws of death. Well, Clarke’s Village at Street to be exact. Off to spend a tiny portion of our Christmas box. And afterwards, weather permitting, a brief jaunt up to the top of Glastonbury Tor or, perhaps, a quiet moment at the Chalice Well. This before we return to Dorset, shattered and sundered, to celebrate our newest festivity…the Feast of the Leftovers.

This entails some careful planning: four crackers between six people. Three ancient jacket spuds cut into segments for frying. Some bacon cooked in ginger (an additional ingredient which nobody noticed the first time round). Seven orange segments in brandy. An unopened Stollen. A recently discovered packet of pitta bread which, by tomorrow, may have turned blue. No loaves and no fishes but three bottles of wine and no reason to get up early the following day. Honour the charge they made.

And here's me wearing an appropriate Christmas outfit

Bah humbug

Three sleeps before Christmas and I’m in Sainsbury’s at 7pm. Actually, that needs qualifying: three sleeps if you can sleep. Something weird was going on last night. I went to sleep at 11.30pm and woke up at what I thought must be about 6am...wide awake, in fact…and discovered it was 1am. Damn and blast it. At 2.30am, the dawn chorus started. What? The birds shut up and went back to bed at 3.15am equally confused. The next door neighbour’s racoon was scrabbling frantically and noisily around in its Wendy House. The BBC World Service informed me that, in Mexico, the countdown for the end of the world, according to the Mayan calendar, had begun. I worried about my Christmas menu for another hour. The winter solstice…the longest night of the year. Get on with it. Things to do; people to see.

I only went to Sainsbury’s because I still believe it to be a bit more up-market than Tesco and I was
looking for some imitation caviar. I haven’t been there since I had an unpleasant accident in the car park a couple of years ago so I didn’t know they’d rebuilt it. I spoke to a jovial looking type on the door.

When did this happen then?
About two months ago
It looks very impressive
You can’t find a bloody thing in here any more says he.

To be fair, he was telling the truth
Yesterday, we had a family outing to Longleat and it was wonderful. It’s the first year they’ve ‘done Christmas’ at Lord Bath’s joint and I have a suspicion that it will go down in history as the best. The staff fell over themselves to be kind, pleasant and helpful; nothing could be remarked upon as being over the top and you could choose the timing of your events beforehand. It was almost understated. The best bit was the Santa Special. We thought it was just the Jungle Express with a bit of tinsel until we rounded a corner and found ourselves at the snow-covered North Pole. We disembarked and walked past the open log fire up to Santa’s shed. Each child had an especially chosen gift and the cheerful St Nick knew everyone’s names. (I forgot that, when I booked this in September, I’d submitted names and DOB). Back on the train, Santa came down the path and waved us off. Fabulous.

And in Sainsbury’s, I can’t find the so-called caviar. I’ve had three different people unsuccessfully search the aisles. Neither do they have any smoked salmon or anything else that might satisfactorily sit on my blinis. Blinis which, incidentally, are not available at Tesco according to their website and which Leonie purchased, perchance, at…Tesco. I tell the man from the butcher’s counter not to bother as I’ve lost the will to live and along comes a dear friend with her husband. No sleep and stuck in this ridiculous place with the only consolation being that I won’t have to do this next year as the world will have ended. Then I get introduced to the husband. Talk about a laugh a minute. She’s so nice. How did she end up with him? I can’t wait to get home and have some fun sticking pencils in my eyes.

In Wareham this afternoon, we go to Re-loved. You just know it’s going to be a nice shop with a name like that. Old stuff: some of it as it was and some recycled. My eye is caught by a beautiful 1930’s necklace which I silently admire before moving on. Ten minutes later, Leonie spots it

Look at this

And the kind shop-owner allows her to try it on. And, with thoughts of a wedding, Leonie buys it. And the shop-owner wraps the purchase with all the care and taste of a French sales-person. In each shop, regardless of whether we buy anything, there is conversation and shared delight of the unique goods on offer.

And in Sainsbury’s, I stand alone, minus the imitation caviar, in a state of depression. The man-child has called from Thailand and I was out. The woman on the checkout is sympathetic.

What were you looking for?











I can barely bring myself to mention the fish roe. They’ve already sent someone off on a mission to find the vanilla pods. Now, against my wishes, they send someone to locate the caviar. I know they won’t find it. Just as I’ve paid for my purchases, a woman returns brandishing a small jar of said roe.

Bugger. I wanted two of them but I haven’t the heart to say so.

Did something right then

We were down at Boscombe Vintage Market the other day. It was freezing in the Royal Arcade so we all met up in Café Nero for a welcome cup of hot chocolate. My, but it sounds salubrious…ROYAL arcade no less; Café Nero. It belies the fact that Boscombe is, I believe, officially the second poorest area in Europe. Metal shutters on virtually every building…it reeks of poverty and drugs.


My girls, who were brought up here, don’t perceive it that way though. For example, they don’t see the spillage-covered tables of Café Nero that are piled high with other people’s leftovers. They don’t know that I had to ask for a key to use the loo. They only see the place that used to house Jones’ shoe shop as they reminisce across the dirty crockery of the past.


Do you remember the rocking horse?
I wonder what ever happened to that
We always had to have the same shoes
You could have red, blue or brown
Those ones with the three little holes on the front
I used to look longingly at the black patent ones on the next shelf
(I used to have the same ones when I was a child I recall)
Be fair though. Mum always made sure she spent the money on proper shoes for us.


There wasn’t much money I remind them
No. But do you remember when we went to buy me a new dress in Laura Ashley?
What were we doing in Laura Ashley I don’t say
We were going to buy a cheap dress but I saw that lovely one with all the screwed up stitches on the front
Smocking?
Yes smocking. You said it was too expensive but I started to cry so you bought it for me.

Good grief. That doesn’t sound like me. (It gets better)

Yes. And because you bought Leonie one, you bought me one in a different colour
But we had to keep them for best. Just for parties and stuff
They were lovely those dresses

I don’t remember any of this. We must have gone without something in order to finance such expense. Those two. They have no idea how touched I am that they have kept and shared this memory.

On the way back to the car, we pass the fish and chip shop.

Look. It’s the same man in the chip shop says Leonie.

God. How awful to have been stuck in this place for over twenty years. What happened to his life? These are more unexpressed thoughts

He was so nice to us she says
Perhaps you could go and say hello and get a free bag of chips I remark half-jokingly
Do you think he’ll remember the pictures we used to draw for him asks my 31 year old daughter?

God knows. I’d forgotten all about them along with the Laura Ashley dresses

I thought we lived in a grotty place all those years ago. I thought I hadn’t done very well when it came to providing them with a decent place to live in. They escaped before I managed to. Maybe it was me they were running from.

Christmassy

Over at my favourite cinema, the Rex in Wareham, it’s jumping. Being barred from going upstairs – they’re not ready for you yet – scores of us are trapped in the tiny foyer where there’s an opportunity to buy a couple of books on Dorset and some raffle tickets to win a meal at Moreton Tea Rooms. We don’t want any of this but the ladies in aprons are relentless. We escape to the bar which, being about five feet square, is also packed to the hilt. Leonie manages to order a festive Baileys. Bob the barman pours a generous measure or three into a large glass and estimates the cost to be £2. It’s a fair price. Eventually, we’re allowed into the auditorium.

Glass of mulled wine asks a friendly type with a flask.
Why not?

We peruse (and taste) the local olives, crisps, cold meats and mince pies before finding a seat to listen to the four-strong brass band playing carols. I don’t need to tell regular readers about this place. It used to be the last gas-lit cinema in England but they’ve finally conceded to health and security requisites and installed electricity. The seats are the same though: hard but comfortable.

Anthea ascends the stage and introduces the evening. There will be a short seasonal film, especially notable for having won an Oscar in 1869, followed by an interval. During the latter, there will be Christmas pudding flavoured ice-cream for sale. A collective mmmmmmmmm permeates the room accompanied by a loud rustling and jingling as folk reach for their token contribution. It’s Margaret’s birthday. Everyone looks to the aisle to see who Margaret is before the band strikes up that familiar tune and we all sing in congratulatory tones. The noisier part of the audience has missed the introduction.

Whose birthday is it?
Don’t know. Jesus?

And an ancient but enjoyable ‘short’ commences to be followed by an agreeable round of applause.

It’s the interval and the ice-cream event is carnage. Clearly, the organisers are confused by the bonhomie which they did not expect. I have collected money from a number of people in my row that I didn’t know half an hour ago. Leonie stands up and asks for nine ice-creams.

How many asks the incredulous usherette.
Nine please

The people in the row behind us are told, rather abruptly, only one per person.
Then there are not enough spoons. Some people have to wait until more are rushed out. Leonie, forever on the wedding diet, is the only person in the place without an ice-cream. (She might as well have had one as later she’ll be cooking late-night toast).

The main feature commences. It’s the 1945 version of Christmas in Connecticut. And very funny it is too. The woman sitting behind me is in fits of laughter throughout and keeps telling everyone how they used to watch films like this. Afterwards, I remark to Leonie that had this appeared on TV at home, we would’ve immediately switched it off. Here, however, in this delicious company, we thoroughly enjoyed it.

Outside in the cold, dark Dorset night, we admire Wareham’s sparse but pretty Christmas lights. And a multitude of stars.
It smells like winter says Leonie.

O'er all the weary world

It begins again, but, this year, almost imperceptibly. To say I’m not organised is an understatement. Arriving late at work the other day, I noticed that I had my dress on back to front. It doesn’t bode well. The first week in December and normally I’d have the presents purchased and wrapped; possibly, even placed under the tree. The tree doesn’t yet exist and neither do most of the gifts. My turkey is not waiting its turn on the butcher’s list because there isn’t going to be a turkey. What might replace the foul fowl is, as yet, undecided. At what point will Christmas begin? Actually, looking in my diary, I find it might have started without me noticing. Seven nights out on the trot and that doesn’t include daytime celebrations.

We went over to the Rex at Wareham last night to see Andrea Arnold’s new take on Wuthering Heights. This is not for the faint-hearted or those seeking bonnets. Life at the farmhouse was dirty and vicious. Some of the sparse audience got up and left. Perhaps they were expecting Keira Knightly. It was so atmospheric that we had to cover ourselves with our coats to stave off the wind from the Yorkshire moors. That might just have been the Rex though. Jocelyn, from the ticket office, came in to watch the second half of the film and promptly fell asleep in the front row. Loudly. We’re talking snoring here. Emotionally exhausted, we made our dark way back to the car. We’re going to see a professional story-teller doing A Christmas Carol on Monday. Chrissie says it will be more uplifting. Don’t count your turkeys…

Tonight, the carol service. It’s a dilemma for those of us that don’t really believe in the story but like the music. The torrential rain beats down on the wooden roof of the church but can’t drown out the sounds of our singing. Sue and I are sat behind friends. During the mince pies and chocolate- covered ginger biscuit preamble, I’ve already mentioned to everyone that I can’t hold a tune but, to my left, is a woman with a loud and beautiful voice. The friends in front keep turning round to look. They think it’s me; that I’ve been joking about my musical abilities. The choir offer renditions of French and Cornish Christmas songs. How apposite that they’ve chosen the places where I’ve spent the last year. And how thankful I am to be in Dorset and not falling off the map in Barbary.

Tomorrow it’s the Christmas lunch at work and Saturday sees us at Christchurch Priory for the Messiah. Meanwhile, I receive a short message from the million-miles-away travelling man-child to tell me Laos is beautiful. I knew it would be. The next time I have any money I’m going to the Mekong Delta. For now, after a transient year, I’m sticking with regained friends and cherished customs.

And which Christmas carol does the title of this blog come from?

Some other world

We leave Havenpoole early in the evening, heading off into the darkness of South Wessex. Being all too familiar with what is now the A35, we have no need of light nor signage, although the passing beams allow the sad sight of the remains of one of many deer; the detritus of those speeding vehicles whose owners are unaware of woodlands close at hand. Here, buzzards will soar with their juveniles on daytime tracking sorties, but for now the night consumes all until we reach the glow of Casterbridge.


Onwards, passing the garrison, we turn onto the gloomy route to Ivell and search for the road to Chalk Newton. Down, down into the valley of the Frome, we could be anywhere at any time as all sense of direction and orientation is lost. Or abandoned. The ancient engraved stump of what was once the village cross marks both our arrival and the meeting point of past Christmas revellers. The scent of old wood smoke clings to the damp November air and little is visible as we make our way to be greeted by our friends and their old adopted black dog. It’s a strange and slightly disorientating sensation to be locked into the timeless warmth of an ageless house in deepest Dorset where we drink heady wine from Spain, eat the food of the Far East and listen to music from all corners of the world.

In the morning, our location is no more apparent than it had been the night before. The mist hangs heavily as I wander in pleasing isolation down the dew laden garden. The ground is littered with the fallen spills of autumn and a single pale pink rose towers defiantly. Later, as we walk along the moody river bank in borrowed footwear, searching for missing crayfish, I am told that the day is probably far brighter in other environs: the valley cloaks the reality of life in the wider world. And briefly, we discuss Hardy because we are so obviously entombed in a timeless place where news from elsewhere must be brought by travellers; or, on this day, via the Sunday newspapers. And I resolve to locate the missing story which, reader, does not have a happy ending.

http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/8995/

Not looking for the sympathy vote

It’s an exquisite November morning in Dorset: cold enough to cause anxieties for the primates I’ve just passed in Monkey World but with bright sunshine that streams through autumnal orange trees. It creates a mystical haze over the Purbeck ridge which I can see across the fields from my vantage point. I silently salute the gathered magpies on the dew-laden grass and think longingly of the sea which I know will be glistening beyond, over in Lulworth, just as it did when Hardy was so inspired by these environs.

Well, to be fair, although Hardy gave literary credence to Woolbridge, just down the road, I’m not convinced he would’ve been particularly inspired by my current location. I’m sat inside one of many red brick buildings that comprise a mini-estate known as a green (that’s green as in eco) technology park in Winfrith. And I’m here, with about 40 other assorted reprobates who, some time in the last six weeks, have been caught speeding in their motor vehicles.

It cost a pretty penny to be here: you can pay the fine, take the points and leave quietly; or you can pay extra and come to Winfrith where, effectively, they buy the points back from you. It’s a new deal. Previously, only the selected few got the opportunity, but times are hard and the police need all the funds they can get. For all of us, it’s worth the investment although there are considerable mutterings to be heard as we have to pay for our early morning caffeine shots. We anticipate four hours of lectures on the implications of speeding.

In fact, it’s only three hours and the knowledgeable and jolly instructors are keen to instil the idea that that we are here not because of speeding, but because of distraction. They are kind, polite and extremely respectful and at the end, following an impromptu round of applause, they shake your hand and wish you well. I don’t think I have ever driven as carefully as I did on the way home.

In the afternoon, I went to the job centre because it’s Tuesday and I am a ‘Tuesday Person’. A couple of weeks ago, I went on a Wednesday because I was told to and got into all sorts of trouble for not knowing I was a Tuesday Person. The economic climate being what it is, there are all sorts of clients at the job centre. Clearly, they expect trouble because there are always at least three security men on guard. Generally, these guys spend their time looking at their phones and discussing how drunk they intend to get that evening. This is because there are no people causing problems. There is always at least one person crying but this is just a nuisance, not TROUBLE.

Who are you seeing today they ask?
I don’t know. No-one ever gives their name.
You’re seeing Simon.
Well, why ask then?

Simon turns out to be a rude and surly being who is cross because I can’t come next Tuesday. I can’t go next Tuesday because I have casual work (which I have declared).

But you’re a ‘Tuesday Person’ he argues.
Surely it’s better if I go to a job which has the potential of becoming permanent I suggest.
Yes, but then you’ll have to come on Wednesday he argues aggressively.

I leave dejected and depressed. The job centre in Poole has one of the highest rates in the country of speedy re-employment. It’s my contention that this is because no-one in their right mind can stand being treated like something nasty stuck to someone’s shoe. Do they think that we’re there from choice? It’s a blip in our circumstances which will soon be remedied. Wait until it’s their turn.

A cunning plan

Daughter number one has a cunning plan. If we leave Glastonbury around twenty minutes before the end of the carnival, we will beat the thousands of others also trying to exit the town. We strategically place our collapsible chairs on the pavement at the end of an alley leading to the car-park ready for the quick getaway. We do this at 3.30pm which is roughly about four hours before the carnival will commence and six hours before the estimated time of departure. No-one else has put out their chairs yet and Lisa, who is a Glastonbury virgin, is embarrassed to set up camp and immediately leave. We have no such qualms being old hands; we know that, for one Saturday in November, this street in a small Somerset town will eventually become lined with fishing seats, deck chairs, sun beds, picnic hampers and other regalia normally associated with the beach in August.

Having decided to split into pairs, we re-group within minutes at The Blue Note Café courtyard where the obligatory hot chocolate is as ritualistic as the evening dog burger and chips will be later. Three hot chocolates with everything and one with nothing. Everything = cream, maltesers, flakes and sprinkles. Mine is the unblemished one. I am holier than thou and they look thoughtful. And we all look at the weird and wonderful world of Glastonbury as it opens its ancient doors to more tourists than it can reasonably cope with.
In fact, my favourite three storey emporium has closed before five. We are not to be thwarted and knock on the door. The shop assistant stares out anxiously.

You’re not closed are you? I ask with polite incredulity
Yes. I can’t cope with so many people.
Get a grip man. It’s carnival day. You’ll make a fortune. Actually, I don’t say this. I assume my pathetic face.
Could you let us in please? There are just the two of us and we really like your shop.

Amazingly, he unlocks the door, hurries us inside and locks the door again quickly. Of course, now we feel obliged to buy something but that shouldn’t be a problem. Up and up we climb the rickety staircases, quite alone in the vastness of this Tardis-like building, oohing and aahing at the eclectic mix of goods. Daughter number two decides to buy three cushions and asks for a discount based on the fact that she’s taking them off the shop assistant’s hands. I’m shocked at her cheek. Where does she get such nerve? The worried shop assistant immediately deducts £8 and sends us on our way, firmly locking the door behind us.

Now here’s a thing: later, we discover that daughter number one and Lisa had been in the same shop just before us. With just the two of them on the top floor, they are joined by a couple of ghosts. Well, that’s what they said, but they do indeed have some inexplicable photographic evidence. And later still, whilst I am in an endless toilet queue in the George and Pilgrims, the three pass by the closed and empty shop and look up to see a white haired lady in the upstairs window.


There is a flaw to the escape plan: it only works if you’re at the end of the town where the procession begins. We are not. We are at a point which takes the floats 45 minutes to reach; so all the early escapees from the beginning of the carnival are already streaming out. We are the only folk leaving the car-park and the only ones on the first couple of roads and it’s looking good. Then we hit the first road block, become lost in a small industrial estate, drive backwards down a one way road and reach the second road block. We open a window and ask a passing pedestrian how we might find the road to Yeovil.

Turn left at the roundabout says he. Easy enough except the left turn at the roundabout is blocked. We ask one of many important men dressed in high viz jackets how we might find a road to Yeovil. It’s a conundrum.

Well, you need the Street bypass, says he. But you won’t make it through. You could go straight on over but you’ll end up on the peat moors and you don’t want to go there. No, we definitely don’t like the sound of the peat moors.

Of course, he continues, your sat nav won’t work round here and it certainly won’t work on the peat moors. Damn those peat moors.
The only thing you can try is to pass over two roundabouts, cross the little bridge and turn left.

So that’s what we do. With absolutely no idea of our location, and having lost all sense of direction, we make our way along a lonely lane and after about three miles cross a little bridge; whereupon, we we’re faced with the headlights of a thousand other lost vehicles and no left turn. We have to go right: no other option and as we snake along a track that becomes narrower and narrower with ditches the size of moats on either side, we know one thing only – we are on the wretched peat moors.

It’s ok says daughter number one. The sat nav says we’re on a red road.
Yes, but the arrow’s pointing in the opposite direction. Are you sure you reset it or is it still on Glastonbury?
Daughter number two tells me to shut up before proceeding to tell daughter number one how to drive. Lisa puts on an old Petula Clark favourite and we pass our time by singing along. Well I do; that lot are too young and only know one word.

Downtown we yell into the darkness.
Why aren’t there any other cars on this road questions Lisa?
Lisa is told to shut up.

Downtown.

We’re lost on the bloody peat moors says Lisa
Shut up
Downtown

Reader, we were saved by modern technology and good road skills. To be fair, there were four of us driving that car so we were in with a chance. AND we escaped the clutches of the monster from the peat moors AND were safely ensconced in the Royal Oak, Dorchester by 11pm in time for a welcome glass of rouge.

Downtown.

Going home

Sunday trains are always a gamble. Sometimes they don’t run. The train from Bromley North to Waterloo East is an example. Despite having been sold a ticket for said transport, there are no trains on the line due to engineering works; which entails going from Bromley South to Victoria, to Green Park, to Oxford Circus to…yawn. This convoluted route means that, in my guise as aged parent – a title previously accorded to my own mother and father – I have to be accompanied by daughter number two in order that she can explain to various railway employees along the way why I shouldn’t have to purchase another six tickets. At my time of life, and up from the country, I’m not allowed to speak for myself.


What awaits me on a Sunday, at what Bridget refers to as ‘Big Waterloo’, is also an unknown quantity: will there be more challenges involving cancellations, deviations or buses? Or will it merely be a case of traversing most of the home and south counties, always ensuring I am in one of the front five carriages, as those at the rear are lost along the way? My travelling companions seem equally confused to be on their way to Dorchester North when all they wanted to do was to put their feet up on their settees in front of the TV in Guildford. A surprisingly large number of folk leave the train at Havant, apparently having ever given up hope of seeing civilisation again. Some sense of normality is finally regained once we attain landfall at Southampton, whereupon a young boy embarks with two budgerigars in a small cage.

You don’t see those very often these days I remark pleasantly.
Young boy, who has no comparable memory of old ladies covering Billy with a tea-towel for the night, a tea-towel with a pointy edge which cloaks an ancient cuttlefish, smiles wanly but politely.
What are their names? Young boy assumes more interest.
The blue one is Marcus and the yellow one is Holly.
I run out of continuing conversation and watch the budgies silently open and close their beaks like twins speaking a secret language.

I am seated near the toilets which have a circular sliding door that seals itself closed with frightening efficiency the minute a passenger enters. I’d like to use this facility but I’m terrified of becoming trapped inside. This is not an unjustified phobia for now comes the sound of frantic knocking from within. Somewhere towards Brockenhurst a man leaning against the window, drinking from what I surmise to be not an isolated tin of lager, becomes vaguely alerted.

I can’t get out comes a muffled voice.

The budgies have perked up and we watch with interest as Lager Man falls forward and presses every button he can locate without losing his balance.
I’m trapped comes the sound of the near hysterical entombed being.
Lager Man is now on a mission to remember the sequence of keys necessary to contact the aliens in Close Encounters. And finally, he releases the imprisoned victim.
Thank God says the prisoner. I thought I was in there until Weymouth.

Daughter number two has a new home, hence the visit. She and her fiancé - an old-fashioned word, but one to which I am drawn because it goes some way to explaining the up and coming events which are in danger of denying my family any other interest in world events - are keen to extol the virtues of living in a delightful bijou terraced house in the leafier part of Bromley. I am camping on a futon in the sitting room. I don’t know what distinguishes a futon from a settee but I have a cold and it’s warm and I look forward to the rustle of leaves which I have been told is the only potentially disturbing noise I can expect. The people next door arrive home, share an unpleasant argument with the rest of the street and resolve it by holding an impromptu party.

Around 3am, the neighbours decide that winter has kicked in and start chopping up firewood. We country folk know that this is what’s happening but tomorrow I will be told that the fiancé has suggested that the noise emanates from aged mother downstairs. What does he think I was doing? Whittling an ear trumpet from a branch of ancient willow? Daughter number two comes down and prepares for battle, suitably dressed in pyjamas skinned from a number of Friesian cattle. I am impressed, as are the neighbours. The noise subsides but just as I am drifting off to a germ infested slumber, the burglar alarm on the other side of the house commences an intolerable wailing which will continue until the dawn chorus has given up and migrated to Wapping.

Unlike the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay, with whom I have recently assumed some empathy, I have a handy supply of Kleenex and mange to insert six in each ear. By five in the morning, this has reduced the siren to an incessant drumming and in desperation, and with some fortitude, I manage to convince myself that I am in the south of France, surrounded by the incessant chatter of cicadas. It works for the four remaining minutes before the boiler fires up in anticipation of those demanding hot showers.

Back on the train we approach Bournemouth and a beautiful young woman on her way to the dangerous toilets – should I warn her? – stops to speak with our young ornithologist.
I’ve never seen anyone on a train with budgerigars
This elicits no response.
What are their names?
Well, the blue one is Marcus………

I must not moan x 100

On Big Brother, it’s probably about Day 3,496…I don’t watch it. Nothing can top Paddy Doherty in my books. On my father’s blog, it’s Day 18 of the Indian Summer which infers that he lives in Calcutta and not the reality of somewhere south of Leicester. In the life of one with a plastered leg, it’s Day 3 and the highlight of being trapped is fast becoming Bargain Hunt. This comes after the early morning call to continue the saga, via telephone, of avoiding paying council tax for the duration of being ‘disabled’

Today, I learned that County Hall has demanded proof of a number of uninteresting circumstances, none of which can be elaborated upon until I reveal my ethnic origin, marital status and current income. No, I don’t currently have an income, hence the application. Having met these requisites, I told the pleasant lady on the phone that I hadn’t received the said demand for ‘proof’. She agreed. They haven’t sent a letter. Well, is it to be done by telepathy? Perhaps you could just send us some money on the off chance was the reply. On the off chance of what? That I’ve got some money? And that you might empty my wheelie bin more than once in a Preston Guild?

Good God: three days in and I sound more like my father than he does!

While I’m hopping my irritable way to the loo, I remember Ivy. I visited Ivy, in her tiny flat for five years. It began as a piece of research but when you start with elderly, lonely people there’s no easy escape. She taught me a lot about the social history of Poole and was entirely devoid of self-pity with regard to the deal life had handed her. When they phoned to say she’d died, aged 93, she’d spent interminable years in a wheelchair, trapped in a room without a view. The light filtering over the net curtains told her what sort of day it might be.

Ivy’s grandmother came to Poole as part of that strange, forgotten exchange with Newfoundland. Stories of Ivy’s childhood passed with the children of Augustus John were mentioned as an afterthought. Ivy’s enforced transition from chapel to the Salvation Army was an assumed normality. Her mother’s death, attributed to the local proliferation of pine trees, was regarded with sorrow but without blame.

With my feet up on the settee, I watch two large butterflies playing in the October sun. Sparrows cling to the bird feeder and my robin hops on the patio. The stupid pigeons try to make love on the shed roof and all the pretty, sparkly things send their coloured rays across the garden. My daughter and I sign up to be contestants on Bargain Hunt. Not that bad really is it.

In the dead of night

I awoke some time in the early hours to hear the woman on the radio saying it was twenty five past the hour. That’s the trouble with the World Service: they never say which hour because everyone’s on a different time clock. Even when they do say what the hour might be, it’s always GMT so, even if you’re in the same country as Greenwich it’s still the wrong time. Radio 4 finishes at 1am and the World Service starts then; except that, according to the World Service, it’s still only midnight GMT. No wonder the nights are so long for us insomniacs.


There was enough light coming through the window to inform me that it wasn’t twenty past three. On the other hand, the shipping forecast wasn’t on the radio so I knew it couldn’t be twenty past five. Ergo…must be twenty past four. Unless you’re on GMT in which case it would’ve been twenty past three all along. How would a person ever get their bearings without Radio 4 and the World Service? They even have the decency to play the national anthem at a time when most folk are prostrate and can’t, therefore, stand up. That would be any time for someone with three tons of plaster on their leg.

It isn’t the plaster that’s contributing to my insomnia; I’ve had years of practice and made quite an art form of the business. The night before the plaster and I became conjoined for instance, I woke to the sounds of scratching and scurrying outside which, for some reason, I decided must be graffiti artists. I crept silently out of the front door hoping to surprise them but it was next door’s skunk doing stuff in its Wendy House in their front garden. I hadn’t heard it for some time and it transpires that he’d escaped for two months, only to be discovered in a neighbour’s garage. That must have been a pleasant treat for the neighbour.

The skunk had done well for itself and had become extremely overweight, somewhat akin to a smelly badger I imagine. I presume it’s on a diet now and spends its nights frantically and noisily searching for spare food or tunnelling its way back to the garage. What’s it doing here anyway screeched my friend. Why isn’t it in the Appalachians skunking around? It’s like the rat we had said daughter number one. But that’s another story which has a happy ending thanks to Gary, her neighbour’s cat.

Back to the bedside radio. You can learn a lot in the dead of night although I prefer to have it turned down sufficiently that I can only hear a drone; otherwise, it gets interesting and I have to stay awake to listen to it. Sundays aren’t so good though. I quite like Bells on Sunday – guess which church we’re at this week – but the rest of it is too discursive and moralistic. Ed Sturton would put anyone in a coma. I love the Shipping Forecast; when we get round to Selsey Bill to Lyme Regis I know I can doze off safe in the knowledge that worse things happen at sea than bags under the eyes.

Hardly a leg to stand on

I thought I’d go to A & E around 4.30 on Saturday afternoon; beat the evening rush of drunks and domestics. Of course, it was carnage: blood, sweat and tears everywhere. Talk about night of the living dead. Mostly men in sports kit and mainly head/eye injuries from what I could make out. Apart from the age range, it appeared as though they might have all been participating in the same event. Actually, the two lads from a posh private school in Oxford, dressed in wasp colours, had been at the same match and had gone for the same ball …one had the lump in his forehead, the other the indentation in his. They were conversing with a boy from the home team whose mother told me she watched every game, not because she likes rugby but so she could be on hand to take her son to hospital. She said he’d been there so often that she was surprised not to have been arrested for child abuse. I suggested she might well have been had it not been for the fact he’d got Canford embroidered on his socks.

Old Bill was in there too causing mayhem in his motorised car. ( Not THE old Bill ) He didn’t look much different from his usual environment in the smoking area outside the bingo although I did note a small plaster on his head. No, all in all, I think I was the healthiest looking specimen in the place. Non-affiliated shorts, tee-shirt and flip-flops and hardly resembling the walking wounded; certainly the best-read patient…Far From the Madding Crowd (though not in practice) versus the Sun and Closer. What do you mean – snob?

When I finally went through to the treatment room, they said it was difficult to reconcile my x-rays with the reality; surprised I was able to carry all that weight. Pardon? If it hadn’t been for the fact that everyone else had come as entrants in a Cyclops look-alike competition, we might well have assumed they’d got the x-rays muddled up. Sadly, they were mine and that was my broken foot. I sent a message to the man-child who was waiting outside with the hangover from hell. The wording of the text was akin to one he might have sent me the night before i.e. I’m getting plastered!

So now he’s playing nurse and already getting stroppy. He asked me to make a list of what was needed for the week. Easy: Radio Times, 200 fags and top-up my phone please. He was erring more on the food side it seems. Oh well, in that case, some red wine?

Vernissage

It begins well in the Hotel du Conseils at Uzes. At 7.0pm, the sun is still beating down and the sky is a startling shade of blue; that colour you see on postcards and never believe in. Inside, the ancient building is crumbling around us but, with artistic enterprise that even I can appreciate, white silk lines the walls on which Eliza’s paintings hang. A vase of faded pink roses that look as if they’ve been rescued from an overgrown English country garden sits on a round table. A small man, as old as the building, plays a mournful tune on the piano which is covered in candles. The beautiful crystal chandeliers remind us of what might have passed here.

The great and the good, those weighed down with money, mingle, observe and choose their purchases. Outside, the table is laid with tarts and cheeses and Angelle is waiting in the corner with the pale pink wine of the South. Everyone has dressed for the occasion: pashminas, high boots, low necklines, expensive jewellery. And that’s just the men. A delightful white dog, whose nationality is in no doubt, smiles at us all.

Dani wants a drink and something to eat but doesn’t want to be the first. I have no such qualms. I’m not French so don’t need to wait to be asked; and anyway, I know someone has to start the ball rolling. So we take a couple of plastic glasses of the pink stuff and plates of food, secure seats at a table and begin the begin. And, naturally, the food table is immediately hidden by crowds of people swarming like ants.

The first cupful seems to disappear rather quickly…well, it’s a warm evening and we were thirsty so we claim another. A roar of thunder. But it’s not thunder: it’s Jean-Pierre arriving on his massive quad bike. Talk about making an entry. All the men turn in envy to see the huge machine; and all the women turn in lust to see JP stride through the courtyard, his pale blue shirt vaguely undone to show his bronzed body. This guy’s sixty years old with white hair and none of us care. He scrubs up well. I’ve never seen anyone look so French. All the rich women wish they were at our table now as he kisses us and gets another round of drinks.

Then Christine arrives with her son and her sister so now the great, good and penniless of Sauveterre are gathered. Christine’s son, who was so inconsequential that I’ve forgotten his name, is an art expert from Paris. Christine distributes flyers for the vernissage for his exhibition which I think is, somehow, a little incorrect. Jean-Pierre fetches another round of drinks. My plastic glass splits under the weight and I am covered in wine. I exchange my broken glass for a new one which means it has to be re-filled. Christine’s son says nothing. Pascale, who has just appeared, thus warranting another round of drinks, says he’s quiet because he’s cool. Christine says he’s quiet because he’s become Parisienne. I think he’s just boring until he gets up to fetch another round of drinks.

At some point during the evening, Jean-Pierre and Christine’s sister discover that they’ve been writing to each other on an internet dating site. I am amazed. Why is this handsome man looking for women on the www? I lose track of the conversation and notice that everyone who was not sat at our table has gone home. It’s 10 0 clock and I’m secretly grateful that the evening is drawing to a close. Pascale locks up the old hotel. Time to go back to Sauveterre? No. It seems we are all going for dinner now. Silly me. More wine and a load of pasta. Can’t remember much more. They’re having another vernissage in Avignon on Thursday.

Mad as a tin of monkeys

A theme of doors runs through events this week. Firstly, JL lost his front door key. Nothing new there; he loses everything. Sunday, he arrived back from a quick spin up the Ventoux in the neighbour’s 1932 something or other in a state of excitement. The 1932 something or other has no windscreen which had not done much for his usually debonair appearance. Neither had having to climb over the wall due to the fact that he’d also lost the ‘beep’ to open the electronic gates. (I was round the back of the house so failed to hear the ring of the gate bell.) On hearing the rapping on the front door, I finally made it up the stairs to allow entry to the wild man of Provence who promptly accused me of hiding his keys; this obviously after he’d regaled me with an extended account of his journey to the summit of the Ventoux. (Madame was, naturally, missing in action).

Tuesday, JL forgot that he’d lost his keys; even if he’d remembered he wouldn’t have done anything about it because he’d expect me to be home. (What did these people do before I lived here?). Well, I wasn’t there, having accompanied Madame to the studio to watch Patrice the electrician hang the paintings for the exhibition. I don’t know why this guy’s referred to as Patrice the electrician as he never does much that involves electrics. So, we both arrive home late to be confronted by the sight of JL, wearing nothing but a small pair of underpants, pedalling furiously on his exercise bike by the lily pond. We both stare in amazement. I have lost my key he shouts in English. Madame doesn’t understand a word of her husband’s newly acquired language and looks to me for an explanation. He’s lost his mind I want to say but think better of it. He looks furious and much as I try not to laugh, I’m unable to stop. She looks at me in wonder; then she starts laughing.

Wednesday, JL took my key. So now Madame and I have only one key between us and both headed in different directions. At this point I decide to mention the door to my room. Something is wrong with the handle and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to get in and out. I’ll send Patrice the electrician she says. We arrange that she’ll leave first and come home last…..so no change there then….and I’ll have the key and be back in time for Patrice. It’s a long day and I completely forget about Patrice until I emerge from the shower around 7pm to hear more frantic ringing at the gate. I let him in and explain the problem. He doesn’t understand so I take him into the bedroom and shut the door. You know what’s coming reader don’t you? Now both of us are trapped in the bedroom and my stuffed pears are waiting to be retrieved from the oven. It’s impossible to open the door. Fortunately, my en-suite has a door to another bedroom. Anyone remember those Brian Rix farces where folk were constantly in and out of adjoining doors? Out and round I go, emerge back on the landing, and with great force push open my door from the outside and thus release Patrice. Patrice stands with hands on hips, shrugging and saying tres bizarre. Of course he does. Any minute now, the meh bah’s will start so I ask if he minds if I leave him to rescue the pears in the oven. He misunderstands and thinks I’ve invited him to eat something.

Madame arrives home closely followed by Jean-Pierre who only travels by quad bike. JP’s internet has crashed so he’s come to use ours. I can hear him reading his emails. How can you HEAR a Frenchman reading his emails? Easy. You just listen out for Merde and Putain and more Merde’s followed by tres bizarre. I can’t see him but I know he’s shrugging. Then JL arrives home after a quiet day at the office and I show him the pears. JL loves puddings. We all have dinner and by the time we get to dessert, the men are in heated discussion about the money to be made from introducing the raclette into England. I serve the stuffed pears with pear ice-cream. They don’t even look at what’s in front of them but JP takes one mouthful and literally stops mid-sentence. What’s this he demands? English pudding says the all knowing JL. Mon Dieu! C’est superbe says JP and I have scored maximum points as he eats another two before zooming off into the night on his quad.

The right time

I’ve just been to post two letters down in the village. This, in itself, is a risky business: ever since the French equivalent of the Royal Mail was privatised the system has gone to pot. Here, with a tiny population, we have three companies vying for competition which, as far as I can make out, means that everything becomes lost. I waited twelve days to receive the only piece of post I’ve had from England in five weeks. Then there’s the perennial problem of trying to work out when anything might be open. It’s taken me five days to buy two stamps. I started on Saturday afternoon which was hopeless as the post office only opens on Saturday morning. Sunday was out of the question because it was Sunday and Monday is a non-starter being an extension of Sunday. An early start on Tuesday is pointless because they don’t open until 10 and I’d forgotten about my letters until lunchtime by which time they’d shut for the day. I thought I might try to pick a time on Wednesday afternoon to coincide with buying the bread. This was a partial success because, at last, the post office was open and I was finally able to buy the stamps. However, trying to post the letters was troublesome as the letter box had been sealed up. I was directed to the village car park where I’ve now put the letters in a yellow container which I hope was for the post and not for recycling. Hooray…now for the bread. Alas, the baker’s is shut because, of course, it’s Wednesday.


I arrived back and entered the house at which point the internal alarms went off. They sound like the four minute warning screeching around the whole region. This is the first time this has happened and in my panic, I tried to switch them off with the thing that activates the external alarms. This is the problem with living inside Fort Knox. So now I’m sitting quietly, happy in the ability to be able to communicate with the outside world without leaving the house

Jour des cretins

At last! They’ve gone out and I’m left alone with a bottle of wine which I purchased for three euro from the place where we get gas bottles. The wine is made from grapes grown in the village and readers may think that, for such a low price, it will be rough. However, we are surrounded by some of the finest vineyards in the world and the house overlooks the nearby Chateau-Neuf-des-Papes. Trust me, the wine is excellent, not least because I opened it two hours ago, since when it has stood in the kitchen and NOT in the fridge where the French keep their rouge. An artichoke is cooking as I write to be eaten with the sauce I’ve made and afterwards, I have some pate and a large goat’s cheese and a new baguette. And I deserve this feast: it’s been another strange day.


I was told that the three of us were going to the main square in Avignon so I discarded casual clothes in favour of my green dress. Then the electrician arrived. I’ve no idea why he was here but he looked as surprised as I felt when we were all bundled into the big car and taken into town. Not to Place d’Horloge for a nice cup of coffee and a spot of people watching, but to a large, ancient and beautiful ochre-coloured building close by where Pascale will hold an exhibition in July. And where the electrician must install some avante-garde spotlights beforehand. The studio looks out onto a stunning courtyard which houses an ancient tree, paving stones, stone seats and a magnificent archway. On the opposite side, are thirteen wonderfully appointed apartments with balconies and windows of old coloured glass. What is this place? It’s one of JL’s joints. He owns it? Yes, of course. So, only now do I realise the extent of things. It’s beautiful I tell him. Of course he replies.

Pascale measures walls and the electrician, Patrice, tests the sockets and plugs. A woman takes notes. Then we leave because Patrice must be back in Sauveterre by midi. Except it’s already midi and the traffic is appalling and we must make another stop. JL abandons the car and the three of us leave Patrice, who has about as much of an idea as I have about what’s happening, to guard the BMW in case les flics arrive. We all head for a kitchen shop where I wander around and cause a spot of bother by knocking a 50 euro garlic crusher on the floor. I blame it on some other people and rejoin Pascale and JL who have just bought a new shelf for the bbq for six hundred and thirty euro.

We take the electrician back to Sauveterre and head straight back to who knows where. I must improve my French. Of course. We have to meet a friend at a car-boot sale where we sit in the sun (at last), listen to a man playing a guitar, drink some white wine and eat plates of raw shellfish. Not more raw fish! The prawns are cooked so I make a start on them but they’re soon gone. The next dish comprises sea-snails and I give them a miss in favour of the raw mussels. I wonder why I spend so much time worrying about which mussels are good and which aren’t when I cook them at home: pointless when no-one bothers to cook them here. Then we had raw clams. Well, I like a nice Spaghetti Vongole as much as the next person but I didn’t fancy these lads much. Had to eat them though; I’d already bypassed the sea-snails.

Round about six thirty this evening, I thought I might sit down with my book. JL had other ideas. I had to hoover the pool which, I imagine, is like steering a gondola; very good for the upper arm muscles. After this, I had to go with him to the pool room and learn how to clean the filter. So this is why I’m here? Will this be useful on my CV?

And now I’m nearly ready to eat my artichoke. And the cretins? Well, in between all this activity, Pascale and I made yet another trip to the Argentinean woman to buy more salad. On the way, we had a near miss in the car when we came upon a tractor. C’est la jour des cretins exclaimed my host. Yes, you might be right.

Lots of tiny tentacles

Yesterday was quite a tricky day one way and another. Tomatoes were on offer again for lunch. Frankly, I’m sick of tomatoes so I suggested a small omelette as an alternative. It won’t work she said, the frying pan sticks and we need to buy another. There’s a lot of things that don’t work round here that might one day be replaced by another: coffee machine, vacuum, telephone, etc. I cooked the omelette. Shall we have it with a tomato salad she asked? I found a lettuce. Then there were the usual problems with the mayonnaise: after the third attempt, I had to take my host outside to calm down. It’s the mixer she said, we need a new one. It’s the eggs she said, something wrong with them. Just go to the shop and buy some mayonnaise I said. He’ll say I’m a bad wife because I can’t make mayonnaise she replied. Well, tell him I made it then I said. He’ll say it’s very good. To be fair, I was also worried about the mayonnaise; not because of the consistency but because I’d seen what it was supposed to accompany - a starter of raw fish followed by squid. And when I say squid, I don’t mean those batter-covered rings; I mean a huge pan full of limp white

things with a lot of tiny tentacles.

In the evening, I was asked whether I could help with some cushion covers. Seemed a simple request. Apparently, monsieur had bought some expensive material to recover some large cushions which sat on a couple of wrought iron chairs outside. The new covers had arrived from the cushion cover maker and we were to put them on in time for his arrival. Voila. What she called cushions were really the actual bases of the seats; enormous things with which we fought a valiant battle and lost. At this point, he returned from work half an hour early and in a very excited frame of mind. We were deemed useless as he immediately took over the task. I much prefer it when he leaves early and comes home late she whispered. I went to get us all a drink and returned just in time to hear the sound of the first cushion cover ripping. I left to get him the olives. He managed to overcome a smaller cushion before deciding to go off and clean the swimming pool. This was a complete deviation from the normal routine whereby we eat at 9pm exactly.

She despondently took the ripped cover away and I went to retrieve two more glasses of wine. The two of us spent an enjoyable half an hour chatting before he reappeared in an even more agitated state. I went to get more drinks. A noisy one-sided argument ensued and I went to get more drinks. It was better than the previous row at the table during which I was forced to eat copious amounts of cheese; at least now I would be sufficiently drunk to deal with the fish that was looming. Then, in the midst of a tirade, apparently about his son, he stopped to remark how pretty the new cushion was. So pretty, in fact, that we must eat dinner under the covered patio so we could look at it. The covered patio hasn’t been used this year so I scrubbed the table whilst he arranged the chairs. Then I got more drinks.

The fish was quite nice but I would have preferred it without tomatoes.

Et plus

I was woken by rumbling noises this morning. At first I assumed it was yet more thunder and pulled the sheet over my head. Then, I decided it was Germinal, aka Oliver Mellors, with one of his small tractors or implements for vacuuming leaves, bits of trees, beetles, cicadas and the odd passing moggy. But the noise grew louder and was accompanied by much shouting. And it was indoors. Some men had arrived to make a new window in the roof over the Black Hole of Calcutta (the office) but there was a problem: it seems there’s a slab of concrete in between the roof and the tiles. Personally, I’d find this a trifle worrying; surely it can’t be safe to be wandering around under that weight? What do I know? About as much as the builders who, joined by the gardener, all stood around saying meh bah and trop bizarre and other such technical jargon. After an extended period in which everyone competed to see who could do the best French shrug, they all gave up and went home. Pascale told me that now there is something else in the roof. I looked in the dictionary. Of course, a hole. Mais oui.

Some further progress was made yesterday with the washing. On enquiring why we couldn’t have a line to hang it outside, I was told that monsieur doesn’t like washing lines. Well, he’s not here was the natural response. Why don’t we take the clothes horse outside? (You try translating clothes horse). She looked dubious and in truth, it’s a huge thing which was already covered in three machine loads of washing. I was on a mission though and we struggled the length of the house with the thing during the course of which she learned some new and potentially helpful English vocabulary: back a bit, right a bit, your side, forward and so on. It was a huge success. I had the whole patio draped in trousers, towels and jumpers with the clothes horse taking pride of place. As each garment dried in the sunshine and was replaced by another, she became more and more enthusiastic. At 7.30 in the evening, I suggested we took it back indoors in case you know who decided to come home early and voila. Job done.

Then I cooked dinner. I wanted to do my chicken with thirty cloves of garlic served with a lemon risotto. The chicken was purchased with its head and feet intact which was troublesome. On request, the butcher cut off the head and feet but left the neck. I think I used every knife in the house on that chicken whilst trying to pretend I was a dab hand at neck removal. And then there were all those nasty bits inside which I had a suspicion I’d be expected to use for a tasty starter. They went in the bin with that scrawny neck. The dinner was a success although, as readers will know by now, to have anything on the table is a result here.

Continuation

It’s done nothing but rain this week which means we can’t put the washing out to dry. Actually, we never put the washing out to dry. I don’t know why this is; maybe it’s too unsightly but I shall endeavour to make some changes. I’ve already started with the sheets. As far as I can work out, there are three utility rooms here with various lines and implements for drying. When the sheets were dry last week, we folded them neatly and left them to be ironed. Pardon? I’ve now explained the futility in ironing sheets…..as my friend Marian says, that way lays madness. We don’t iron sheets in this house any more. Next came the rubber gloves. These beautiful French women never wear rubber gloves. Every time I come to France, I have to explain the benefits of this apparel. I have left a legacy of Marigolds the length of the country. We have Marigolds here now. And Nutella. And Heinz tomato sauce. This evening, we had an omelette so I put the tomato sauce on the table. Are you American asks monsieur? Why are you eating ketchup? Because it goes well with omelettes I replied. So now we all eat tomato sauce with our omelettes.

We went to collect the little car which Andre has kindly lent me. On the way, Pascale tried to explain what Andre does for a living but with little success. I thought he might be a chiropractor from her description but she just laughed. Andre wasn’t at all what I’d expected. He was about sixty, very rotund, very happy, wore a black shirt and a white silk scarf and had a rat inside his shirt. Well, be fair, you wouldn’t expect that would you. He lives in a 400 year old house with beautifully painted green furniture, some left-over Christmas decorations and the sounds of operatic arias resounding throughout. The obligatory, much younger, much thinner woman is to hand to serve strong black coffee and Madelines. Zuts alors…anyone would think this was France. Andre is a medium. He has a few clients that come to the house but mainly he works over the phone. He told me I would never work in France. Thanks a lot Andre. That was just before he took my blood pressure. Not too bad considering I was about to drive his car away. Actually, he’d already told me what I’d be doing next year so I assumed that implied I’d make it back to Avignon ok that afternoon.

We all got into the car so that I could practice driving it up and down the road in the pouring rain. It seemed ok. They all got out again and I waved goodbye before taking a quick look around to make sure he’d taken the rat with him.

Cuisine

Here’s the thing with eating in someone else’s house, particularly if it’s in France. You’ve no idea when food might come along, nor of what it might comprise. It’s a good idea to eat as much of whatever gets put in front of you as you can shovel in because it might be a long time before anything else passes this way. The only thing we can be certain of is that it won’t originate in Spain. However, this means we have to buy the vegetables from the local farm and not from the supermarket. In turn, this implies that we can only have what the Argentinean woman has on offer. Predominately, this means courgettes; and she’s got quite a few of them.

Last night we had a courgette terrine. It came by again this midi and it looks as if it will make a final appearance this evening. Sadly, there are still four courgettes left in the fridge. I suggested that if we bought some peppers and an aubergine I could combine them with the courgettes and make a ratatouille. However, the Argentinean’s aubergines are not yet ready and it seems as if another terrine might be in the offing. It was the same with the tomatoes. I found bundles of them at the bottom of the frigo so helpfully made a tomato salad. That was nice they said, we’ll have that again tomorrow. Further, my hostess has the figure of one who has had nothing of any substance to eat since being weaned which is largely due to the fact that she doesn’t eat. (We only got the terrine for lunch because monsieur is home having taken to his bed). So, midi arrives and finds me searching for food. Food at midi equals tomatoes. Sometimes, I have a tin of tuna with my tomato. Sometimes, my hostess gives me a cucumber – not Spanish – to add some variation but they’re very small cucumbers. I think they might be courgettes.

Another thing is not to get excited by what seems to be complicated cooking procedures occurring in the kitchen. I like to watch other people cooking, especially in France but it’s best not to anticipate the appearance of vast amounts of delicious food as a result. Take the making of the mayonnaise for example. It took at least an hour, employed nearly every utensil and device in the kitchen, was twice disposed of and had to be re-started and was the cause of immutable stress. We just buy it in a jar in England I said, but no-one was listening. When it was finished it was still deemed to be a disaster. I thought it might be improved with the help of a lemon. I didn’t say so but she read my mind. We haven’t got any lemons. Of course you haven’t. They grow them in Spain.

Fair exchange, no robbery

I’m in the Seven Stars with Ruth. It’s Ladies’ Pamper Night. Verity has tried to disguise the pool table with a large green tablecloth on which her Aloe Vera products are displayed. I’ve never seen Verity before; nor have I seen most of this multitude of women who have turned up to Lisa’s latest venture. Also present is a manicurist and a mobile hairdresser. The main bar contains very few men and those that are present are cowering. Phil the Tooth remains resolute.

Ruth is a cheese-maker. When she’s not making cheese, she’s paid to collect wild garlic leaves to cover the Cornish Yarg she makes. Her back is playing up due to all the bending down involved in picking the leaves. Tis the season for garlic. In the summer, she’ll get extra money for collecting nettles. A colleague ripped their jeans and Ruth has repaired them, giving them an in vogue distressed look. For this chore, she has received half a dozen eggs and a jar of home-made jam. Fair exchange, no robbery says Ruth, an immigrant from the North Country and a master of incomprehensible idioms. I ask her about her new man who claims to be a professional pool player. They only come along once in a Preston Guild she says.

Lisa has put on a Ladies Night special: a glass of wine for two quid. It’s French, not that nasty Spanish stuff she was off-loading earlier in the year. Some strangers come in and enquire about the special offer. Ask Alison they’re told; she’s a wine expert. It’s going down very well and the Aloe Vera lady, who was very nervous at the start of the proceedings, is overwhelmed by sales despite the fact that not many of the ladies are paying attention to her advice to drink more water.

Lisa brings me a copy of the local paper, The West Briton…as if there are others claiming to be Britons of alternative geographical origin. There’s a photo of her dad in it today, taken in the 60’s when he worked for a company that, even then, supported the remnants of the mining enterprises. Lisa, who lives her pub life at a superficial level, has a lot of historical knowledge of Camborne and Redruth. Sadly, this is lost for the evening in the midst of a loud crash. We expect the rugby boys to be boisterous but the ladies have fallen into the manicurist’s table and the floor is covered in nail varnish.

I took Josh down to Penryn earlier. He’s off to the Hyde Park protests before heading home for Easter. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again. Ruth gives me a hug just in case I don’t make it back in for the quiz on Sunday. It’s the start of the farewells. Once in a Preston Guild…….

Testing

The car and I are due a service and an MOT. Both of us bear the scars of a year in France and too many journeys back and forth to West Barbary. And the two of us boast an intermittent tinny rattle to the rear. The car’s going in tomorrow. Today was my turn. I complimented the doctor on his bright green shirt and told him I’d abandoned the Statins.

Any particular reason why he asked?
Well, I’ve read they disturb your sleep patterns I answered. I didn’t tell him my sleep has no patterns or that I’ve been au fait with the BBC World Service throughout the night for some years.

Anything else he asked?
Well, I’ve heard that they can enhance depression and I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. I didn’t tell him that I live in Cornwall.

And?
Well, I’ve also read that cholesterol is not a sound indicator of potential stroke in women.
Damn the media came the reply.

Hmmmm. Since when was information the resource of a privileged few I think.

He reads my mind and gets the scales out in retaliation. Fortuitously, they register weight in EU standards so I have no idea how fat I am apart from the fact that none of my clothes fit me.

Your cholesterol is too high he says.
Your blood pressure is too high he says.
I’m giving up smoking on April 4th I say in an effort to negotiate a sense of well-being
How many do you smoke he asks?
Does it matter? You try doing the A30 I don’t reply.

I went to the hospital two weeks ago to have my ears sorted out.

How many cigarettes do you smoke asked the consultant?
Sorry, I can’t hear you. My ears are full of smoke.

Fasting blood tests are the order of the day. Hope it’s a bit more positive with the car.