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.