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.