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.