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.