Amy arrives

As Chris and I walked home from an evening of name dropping stories chez Gary and Des, the stars shone brightly and the copious amount of Armagnac we had each drunk kept us inurred to the cold night air. The forecast wasn't great for early morning and I knew that if it was foggy again tomorrow then Amy's flight may well not be able to land. I hoped for the best.

I awoke just before eight and just before my alarm. We had been working late in the studio the day before so hadn't had chance to clear up and sort things out for Amy. So I jumped out of bed and cleaned the studio bathroom and found towels and sheets and pillows and generally tried to make the place look as welcoming as possible as a place with a chop saw and toolboxes and paint tins and power tools hanging about the place can look.

The winter fog usually lifts by about 11.00am and the forecast promised a bright sunny day after that, but Amy's flight was due in at 10.00am and as I drove up to the airport I knew in my heart that alternative arrangements were about to come into play.

Sure enough a message tone rang out on my phone - 'we have landed in Perpignan because it was too foggy in Carcassonne', it said. I knew it and was prepared - well, not quite prepared because I had left home in thick fog and, therefore, didn't pick up my sunglasses and as soon as I hit the autoroute and left the immediate vicinity of Carcassonne I was driving in bright sunshine with a very low sun in my face.

I knew from my own previous experience that the bus that would be arranged to transfer the passengers from Perpignan to Carcassonne would not arrive for a couple of hours and would be a slow journey back - so I immediately set off for Perpignan airport when I got Amy's message. It would only take an hour there and another back and I was eager to see her as soon as I could. From Amy's point of view she got a much closer view of the snow capped Pyrenees than she would otherwise have got and had a drive up the coastal route past the Etangs and oyster beds and flamingoes that she wouldn't have seen if all had gone to plan - every cloud / silver lining and all that.

Naturally, there was very little fog in evidence when we got back to Carcassonne and by now it had turned into a lovely sunny winters day - so lovely in fact that Christian, Amy and myself went down to the square and sat outside Bar Felix and had a wonderful steak and chips lunch.

Debrah had gone into one of her housewife/girly modes that affect her now and again and had demolished the backlog of ironing that had been hanging around (and indeed multiplying) and then started sowing and making curtains (thank you Anna for the loan of your sowing machine) for the studio windows which would give Amy a little bit more privacy.

This evening Debrah cooked a fabulous paella and we sat around the kitchen table talking and laughing and doing a Christmas quiz. It was completely non-competitive and just very social and just very lovely.

I can't find the right words to explain how I feel about Amy coming out to France for the week - but I know that I am very very happy about it.

An Odd Christmas

We were so busy trying to finish all the jobs that needed doing in the studio that we missed all the carol concerts this year. I thought we weren't going to get a rib of beef, we had left it so late to enquire, but the butcher did us proud with an absolutely fantastic four rib, five kilo, hunk of cow that we asked for on Saturday and collected two days later on Christmas Eve. The last market day before Christmas was cold and drizzly, which is never fun and with Debrah just getting over her flu and having toothache and stomach ache to cope with also - well, nothing was really going to plan. There has been a strange atmosphere pervading the whole week.

Last year we missed the fireworks in the square, watching them from the windows over the street. This year we decided that we would go down to the square for the 'spectacle', which was due to start at seven in the evening, and was to be followed immediately by the fireworks. We very nearly missed them again - Christian and I went on ahead but were so underwhelmed by the stage show that we returned home to find Debrah, who had promised to follow on but hadn't as yet. Naturally, the fireworks started as we sat talking at home and so we all had to rush down the street to the square to catch the last ten minutes.

They were being launched from the top of the building on the east side of the square but the strong wind was affecting the trajectory, such that the fireworks were blowing out over the square, and particularly the corner of the square where we had just arrived. Looking virtually straight up at fireworks that were exploding no more than 100 feet above us, with both the noise and the shower of sparks, was quite an experience - one which I suspect would have fallen foul of the more recent autocratic health and safety regime sweeping across the UK.

The beef was fabulous but to be honest Christmas Day was a bit strange too. We all came together to eat for a couple of hours at four in the afternoon, but before and after Christian and Chris disappeared into their rooms and Debrah and I spent Christmas together - which was fabulous but a little odd considering the 'hiding' non-participants. It all seemed a bit surreal. In addition, Debrah's mum seems to have gone missing somewhere in Berlin - it's very odd that she didn't phone and hasn't been in touch at all since she left for Germany seven days ago.

We have decided that next year we will just have paying guests.

All Night Long

It was two in the morning and I'd made it round Paris and out onto the 'autoroute' towards Orleans. I had told Debrah that I'd stop for a couple of hours and get some sleep because she was worried about me having to do the journey, through the night, on my own. The stars were shining as brightly as I'd ever seen them but there was no moon and it was pitch black outside. My driving seat cocoon was illuminated by the faintly glowing dials on the dashboard in front of me, was snugly warm at a steady 21 degrees as set on the aircon temperature dial and was filled by the reassuringly knowledgeable and comforting voice of Andrew Marr recounting the History of Modern Britain, the CD of which I had picked up at the Channel Tunnel terminal to help me pass the solitary hours on the road.

As I pulled into the bright lights and neon glow of the service station I noticed the ice encrusted on the cars on the back of the transporter parked near the entrance. I glanced at the outside temperature gauge - it read minus six. As I turned the engine off I realised that the heating would stop too. In the car alongside were two people with blankets draped over their heads - it was impossible to tell if they were warm and asleep or dead - they looked dead, as if they had been given their last rights and a blanket gently pulled up over their heads to protect their dignity. I put the little blow up pillow against the side of my head, leant into it, closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

Ten minutes later, I was still awake, I was uncomfortable and I was cold. I reached for my scarf and phone and wallet and went inside for a short sharp slug of caffeine and decided I should press on through the night.

The plan had been to drive down to Carcassonne together, sharing the driving. We had a load of stuff to bring over which we couldn't bring on the plane - paint, floor stain, putty, books, vases, ipod docks, wall lights, bed linen and much much more. So much in fact, that by the time I had finished packing the car the front passenger seat and every other space was full - there was no room for a co-driver. As it was, Debrah had been struck down with a flu type ailment over the weekend whilst we were doing a pre Christmas round of parent visits in Kent and West Sussex and, although she was at last showing signs of recovery, she was in no state to drive or sit in a car overnight throughout the length of France. It was decided that she should stay and get another good night's sleep and fly down the next day using the ticket she had booked several months earlier.

So it was that I set out alone mid Tuesday afternoon for the 700 mile journey south.

The first three miles took me an hour and two and half hours into my journey I was still north of the Thames - which is pretty remarkable considering that it must be less than five miles in a straight line. It was London gridlock - accidents on the A12, A13, M25 and North Circular, combined with Christmas and rush hour traffic had bought everything across the city to a virtual standstill and there was nothing that I could do about it. I eventually reached the Channel Tunnel an hour after my booked train had departed and an hour before the next train that I could take - two hours lost already.

I decided to prepare myself for the ordeal ahead. To add to the cheese and ham sandwiches and tomatoes that I had brought with me I added a Ginsters pasty (proper car food), a bag of crisps, a Mars bar, a bag of Haribo Tangfastics (essential on long distance drives), a bottle of Coke and a bottle of water. I had my passport to hand for customs and my credit card for the toll booths and, of course, Andrew Marr to help the miles disappear.

The first two hours to Paris were pretty easy, the next two not so bad. After my aborted sleep, adrenalin took care of the next hour and a half - after that it became a bit of a slog - my stops for coffee and a hit of cold air became more frequent, the traffic thinned to a trickle in both directions and the few people at each service station looked weirder and weirder - maybe I looked a bit weird too, in their eyes.

Just south of Cahors the sky suddenly, instantly, changed from pitch black - dawn was on it's way. By now I was stopping every 45 minutes. I did a quick calculation of time and kilometres and realised I was going to arrive at Toulouse at about 8.30am - brilliant - slap bang in the middle of another rush hour - the last thing I needed now was hatchback hotshots changing lanes at 60 mph without indicating or caring. I slugged back the last of the Coca Cola and chewed up another tangy crocodile.

I had to stop once more after Toulouse and so finally arrived chez Carcassonne sometime around ten in the morning - some seventeen hours after setting out from London.

Ideally, I would have parked the car and gone straight to bed but that didn't happen. Ideally, I would have parked the car without scraping the front nearside wing against the narrowest part of the archway where the electricity meters are housed, but that didn't happen either. I was beyond caring really - but, actually, I'm very pissed off with myself for driving seven hundred miles through the night without falling asleep or hitting anything and then, at the last minute, making such a schoolboy error.

I had missed Debrah's calls, the first checking I was still alive and the second leaving a message for the policeman who was pulling my limp body out of the wreck of our car! - I'm pretty sure that means she cares and loves me. If that's the case, then I'm a very lucky man.

In the know

The day after Christmas officially started, the sun unexpectedly came out for the Saturday morning market, which put everyone in a jolly, festive mood - everyone except the man in charge of the ice rink, who seemed to be having some trouble with his temperature control and was temporarily in charge of a very shallow swimming pool, which obviously isn't much good to anyone.

It really did feel like Christmas at last - the usual market stalls had spread throughout the streets surrounding the square (because of the ice pool or swimming rink thingy and the Christmas market log huts taking up the food market's usual spots) which meant it was more crowded and busier than is the norm. There were also, for the first time, Christmas trees and bunches of holly and bunches of mistletoe for sale and all the shops were much busier than normal. It seems that when the town says Christmas has officially started, everyone takes it literally and suddenly starts buying presents and decorations and drinking 'vin chaud' and saying 'bonne Noel'

The news that the Irish bar was now owned by an Irishman was greeted with enormous joy by the Saturday lunchtime crew - who had absolutely no idea that Patrick was even interested in the place. It seems that the ex-pat community are the only ones not in the know. Even Gary, who seems to know everyone in town had no idea and it's not very often that I can upstage him with local information. The only Frenchman who didn't seem to know (and indeed didn't believe it for at least ten minutes) was Pierre - that's what happens when you hang around with a bunch of foreigners all the time, you end up being treated like them and not told anything. Interestingly the rumour around the town seemed to be that an American had bought the place - Patrick lives in Chicago most of the time so I guess it was understandable that the US link emerged.

Before I got down to the market I put a first coat of paint on the chimney breast and the inside staircase wall in the studio. It was a fiddly job for a Saturday morning at the end of a long week but the dark colour on these two walls made a big difference to the overall look and feel of the finished studio. I am still very frustrated about running out of the clunch emulsion because, otherwise, it would now be finished apart from the woodwork. After a couple of hours out in the lovely sunshine over lunch, I returned to apply the second coat and to do some last tidying up before I return to London tomorrow.

After the dryest November on record for 60 years, the start of December has seen some rain and then some. It poured down all last night and started again late afternoon today and is still at it as I write this evening. I am not bothered - I feel so tired from the last week of work that I think I could sleep for 24 hours. As I have a plane to catch at 10.30am, that isn't going to happen but I am going straight to bed now. Goodnight

Small town politics

Christmas officially started today in Carcassonne. The lights may have been on for weeks in London, but here in France they are a bit more concerned about their electricity bills, and so the lights were officially turned on this evening and the 'Magie de Noel' commenced.

It was a typical small town civic ceremony - very low key and quite charming really. There was no 'celebrity' on hand to sing a couple of songs and then press the big red button after a long countdown. Instead the mayor, M.Larrat, stood on a platform in front of the hastily constructed, and rapidly melting, ice rink, surrounded by a group of unfortunate school children, no doubt hand-picked for the event. A couple of hundred spectators watched on, huddled under umbrellas to protect themselves from the relentless drizzle. The mayor used the opportunity for a bit of canvassing ahead of the forthcoming elections, explaining how successful the Christmas event had become and, therefore, by association, his time in office.

Actually I think he has done a very good job in promoting the bastide town (not just the Cite), starting initiatives aimed at bringing in more visitors, ploughing money back into the infrastructure, renovation of old buildings and promotion of the area in general - all things that can only help my own business efforts here. I was told that three years ago there were no Christmas activities at all and everyone used to go off to Toulouse or Narbonne - now we have the ice rink and the market and the big wheel and the luge to name just a few of the things going on. Whether he has done as a good a job on housing, health and education I can't say. As a non-resident, I can't vote in the forthcoming election, but I hope M.Larrat gets to have another term in office.

When the mayor had finished his speech there was the usual embarrasing moment when he asked a question of one the poor cold children stood around him. The microphone was lowered to the young girl who was either so scared that she couldn't speak or just spoke so quietly in her shyness that no-one could hear what she said - bless - so the mayor repeated it and answered his own question, which I think was something like shall we turn the lights on now. Yes - get on with it - we are all getting wet.

The music from '2001 A Space Oddysey' started up and, at the end of the first bar, Neptune's arse (that was view from where I was standing) was illuminated in vibrant fuschia pink and at the end of the second bar the trees in the square lit up in alternate colours of blue and white. The 'crowd' broke out into a spontaneous ripple of applause, a few camera phones flashed in the night and then everyone went to find some shelter, or in my case, some dinner.

I had agreed to meet Patrick for some supper. A couple of weeks ago he had told me in the strictest confidence (he said that I was the only person he had told) that he had put in a bid to take over the Irish bar after it was shut down by the tax authorities on account of Michel, the previous owner, not paying over the tax for his staff. He was supposed to hear whether his bid had been successful in mid-November, then at the end of the last month and then definitely finally on Wednesday this week. So it was that he was informed this morning, Friday, that the bar was his. Hurrah. It will be a novelty for Carcassonne to have an Irish bar run by an Irishman.

Now I know that the only person that I have told about this was Debrah and she ain't spoken to nobody here. Patrick said this evening that for the past two weeks, every time he walked into a bar somebody would ask him whether he had heard yet - heard what? It appears that everyone in the town knew the circumstances of Michel's demise, the contenders in the bidding process and the likely outcome - no doubt someone set up a book and someone has made some money. This town is obviously smaller than I thought - whether everyone knows someone in the 'Mairie' or the licensing department or knows Patrick's lawyer or his accountant - basically, everyone knew what was going on.

It remains to be seen how everyone will react to a 'stranger' taking over a business in the centre of town. It also makes me a little bit wary of my own situation here. It's a delicate balance - being friendly with the locals, being accepted in the town, not pissing them off or turning them against you.

My Australian friend, Lesa, has been here ten years and is married to a Frenchman. She knows all the main players in the town but says she is still an outsider - they would all shut the door in her face without hesitation.

Sometimes I miss the anonymity of London - but not often. We shall see what happens when my guests start arriving. I have often wondered if some neighbourhood objection might suddenly appear - but then I am probably just being a paranoid Englishman in a foreign land.

A proper cup of tea

I awoke feeling a bit stiff and sore from yesterday's exertions but after a good stretch of the muscles and a cup of coffee or two everything settled down to it's normal level of acheyness and twinging.

I wondered why it was quite dark until I stuck my head out of the window and realised that it was really very foggy - a quite unusual occurence round here - I couldn't even see to the square at the bottom of the hill which is only a few hundred metres ( I typed yards there first before realising how much of an old colonial that made me sound - still, that was my first instinct - can we bring back the imperial system; it was so wonderfully irreverent and confusing for everyone and I can imagine it would wind up the French no end if we proposed it for all Europe at the EU)

This morning I used up the last of the clunch emulsion which covers all our ceilings and, as predicted, I ran out before being able to finish the full ceiling in the studio. How very frustrating - I scraped every last drop from the tin. I went round the room making sure that all the edges where the clunch would meet other colours had some paint on so that I could make a decent join with them and be able to slap the clunch on when we bring another tin down from the UK with us just before Christmas.

By lunchtime the sun had burned away the fog and it turned into a decent day - well actually, an exceptionally good day for December - I was wearing a T-shirt and not feeling at all cold. I decided to make the most of the dry and sunny day and headed to the discount carpet store for the flooring that we needed for the studio living space and bedroom. I knew they had it in store because I checked it with Debrah on Monday before she went back to London. I didn't want to wait for two weeks until we can lay it because I know from experience that there will be a national shortage of that sisal flooring at that time. The only trouble with my plan was that I was on my own.

No problem at the store. One piece at 4 x 5 metres and one piece at 4 x 6 metres and a 20kg tub of adhesive - all in stock and a very willing helper to get it all loaded into the topless Audi. I couldn't see out of the back, of course, and actually I couldn't see to the right because of the other piece on the passenger seat which was a tricky at junctions and also hampered my gear-changing a little bit - not very safe or, probably, legal but I got home OK. Then I realised that what had seemed fairly manageable with two people was extremely awkward and damn heavy to move on my own - just getting the sisal out of the seat spaces was a huge effort. By the time I had got each piece onto my back and shoulders and carried them through the front doors, up the stairs and into the apartment, I was absolutely covered in sweat. Furthermore, as I wasn't going to lay them immediately, I knew that they had to be rolled rather than folded and crumpled, as they were for the journey home and the lugging inside - so I had to drag them into the empty office space where there is enough room to unfold and roll up a piece of carpet of that size - sounds easy - it most definitely wasn't.

Since we ran out of teabags at the weekend, I have taken to making a pot of tea with proper loose tea from a tin (bought as Christmas gifts last year but not given to anyone). I boil the kettle and warm the teapot with hot water and make the tea and pour it through a strainer into a (the) china cup and scoff a load of biscuits. I definitely am regressing into an old colonial. But you know, it all makes a lot of sense. It means I stop work for ten to fifteen minutes whilst I prepare it which gives me a bit of a rest. The tea is incredibly refreshing when your throat is dry and full of paint fumes and the biscuits perk me up just when my energy is beginning to flag and take me through to whatever time I finish. An afternoon tea break, about 4pm - I highly recommend it.

So it was that after sorting the sisal carpet, I stopped for tea and resolved to carry on with some oil eggshell painting of woodwork and suddenly it was 8.30pm and I had to stop because I was tired and hungry and my right hand was really sore.

I was so glad for the left over spaghetti bolognese - minimum preparation for supper - and now I am going to put my weary self to bed.

Undercoating

Debrah flew back to London yesterday and the apartment suddenly feels very empty without her. That's the problem with having a really good weekend together - you miss each other even more when it's over.

After dropping Debrah at the airport, I returned to the seemingly never-ending painting. I put a second coat on the studio kitchen alcove, which was a fiddly job - no 'glory painting' involved at all - but it looks excellent now. I spent the evening in front of my computer working on forecasts for London.

Today, I vowed that I would finish all the remaining undercoating of the plastering done by the Poles a couple of weeks ago. Easy vow to make but much harder to implement - eight and a half hours later and it was done, but what a soul destroying job it is. You spend all day working your butt off, up and down the scaffolding, moving stuff around the room out of your way, doing a bit of sanding and tidying up of corners and plug points as you go along and then vacuuming up the mess, thinning down the undercoat with water because the plaster sucks all the moisture out of it so that it starts peeling off again and then having it splashing around all over the place because it's a bit watery, having to climb back down the scaffold when you run out of paint because you are on your own, having to climb back down the scaffold when the phone goes and you have forgotten to put it your pocket when you are expecting an important call, having to climb back down the scaffold when you've got up there in position and realise you have left the paint on the floor (as I did once today) and then, when you've finished, it looks pretty much the same as it did before you started!

But it had to be done so no point going on about it - without the undercoat, the topcoat just wouldn't look as good - it's as simple as that - and it's done now so I can do colours tomorrow - hurrah.

A good weekend

Happily, the forecast cloud and rain for this weekend arrived during Saturday evening and had gone by Sunday morning. This worked out very well for us because by Saturday evening we were both extremely weary from a day of painting and shelf building. So much so, we tucked ourselves up in bed with a movie soon after 9pm.

Naturally we had managed a quick visit to the market in the morning, but with so much to be done we didn't hang around and certainly there was no thought of a casual Saturday lunchtime beverage. Instead we hurried home with our shopping and got on with the multitude of jobs still to be done before our Christmas guests arrive in three weeks time. It would be great if Debrah could stay for the week and help out because we certainly get on much quicker with two pairs of hands and it is just so good to be here together putting the finishing touches to things - we haven't spent enough time here, just the two of us and it was so much nicer to be sharing the joy and the pain - the joy of seeing the final elements coming together and the pain of aching limbs.

At least we now have an operational bathroom to soak the aching limbs and Debrah duly set up what seemed like a hundred candles and a litre of bath foam to create the correct ambiance - we have decided that we didn't quite get the lighting right in this, our own bathroom, but we will sort it out.

We set to work again this morning but I could tell that we were feeling the effects of what has been an arduous few weeks for us both in our different ways and a change of view would be invaluable before another busy week kicks in. So we stopped just after lunch and cleaned ourselves up and took advantage of the lovely Autumn sunshine. Normally we would have started up the trusty Audi and gone for a drive into the beautiful Aude countryside but for a change today we went for a walk around the town.

There was good reason for this. In the car park at the top of the hill there has been a good old fashioned fair in place for a couple of weeks so we set off in that direction to check it out. We were met by the usual sights and sounds of any fair the world over - inappropriate rock music blaring out above the usual collection of dodgy air rifle and floating duck stalls, dodgems, house of horrors, crepes and churros and 'le barbe du papa' (fathers beard - a sort of lollipop that you dunk into flavoured sherbet type stuff) and kid's carousels. Except that - hold on a minute - that carousel is being operated by four real live shetland ponies, each with a saddle on it's back and pulling little carriages round and round! Only in France could you still get away with that. It bought a very big smile to Debrah's face though and she even sat down for a minute or two on a dodgy plastic chair to watch the sad looking little ponies walk round in circles with equally sad looking little children on their backs or in the carriages behind them.

We rather easily resisted the temptation to waste any of our money on any of the stalls or rides and wandered down the Boulevard Barbes past the big wheel, which we decided to save for Christmas, towards the exhibition hall, the 'Salle du Dome'. We had read that there was a dog and cat show there this weekend - or to be more precise a puppy and kitten show - and there is nothing that Debrah likes more than a puppy or a kitten and the excitement was getting too much for her as we approached the doors.

Debrah has always wanted a dog. We had one unfortunate dog owning experience for three months about six years ago with a mad greyhound that liked eating chocolates and squirrels in equal measure - it's nose rooted out the chocolates at home and it's speed caught squirrels in the park - both proved to be too much for us to cope with at the time.

The time isn't right just now either with us both flying back and forwards between France and England, but it might be if the business get's going soon and I am based here more permanently. Anyway, those considerations didn't get in the way of a very happy hour stroking and petting and saying hello to puppy after puppy on stall after stall. The Weimeraners proved to be a winner, as did the french bulldogs and jack russels and the setter and the dachsund and the german shepherds and every single dog there as well as a few cute bewildered looking kittens. Debrah would have taken them all home, which would have been interesting, not to say expensive, but common sense prevailed for now. We'll see what happens in the coming year.

We walked back via the Place Carnot, where overnight all the wooden huts for the Christmas market have been set up and the ice rink is well under construction. Christmas officially starts here next Friday, the 7th (so just over two weeks before the big day) when the market is opened and the lights turned on, a far cry from the two month onslaught in London.

Debrah said "Thank you for making me go out - I had a lovely time", which is why we should be together more often.

To finish a fabulous day I cooked Debrah's favourite chocolate pudding for dessert.

I spoil that girl - a warm moment shared early on followed by breakfast in bed, ponies, puppies, kittens and a chocolate pudding - all in one day

Bath Christening

Debrah has waited so so long. She has asked if it was possible soon for about a year now. She has begged us to try and finish it as soon as possible. She has pleaded with us to do it more quickly than scheduled. She has vented her anger at us for not getting on with it. She has stamped her feet in frustration and desperation at the thought of it never happening.

The very beautiful and large white double skinned bath has sat in our 'dining room' for far too long. Not before time, it was finally fitted by Chris and I in the last couple of weeks and today, Debrah arrived from London for the first time since the installation was complete.

It was a lovely sunny day and I collected Debrah from the airport with the roof down on the Audi, as is my custom whatever the weather as long as it's not actually raining. The old Audi continues to attract lots of interest - a French guy came up to me at the airport for a chat about my car which he was clearly admiring - then his wife arrived in their new A4 Avant - once an Audi driver, always an Audi driver.

After a look round at all the changes since Debrah's last visit, we went down to the square for a hot chocolate and a brandy chaser. I love the South of France - it's the last day of November and it was minus four last night, yet here we were sat outside as the sun disappeared over the top of the buildings and we weren't alone.

I'd put a beef casserole on the hob this morning that had been cooking all day - you could smell it as soon as you came back in through the front door, a homely welcoming aroma that immediately made you feel hungry. When I took the lid off the pot the beef had gone black in the red wine sauce. It was delicious with boiled potatoes and buttered cabbage and, naturally, a bottle or so of the exceptional local red wine.

Just when I thought Debrah was going to slope off to bed, she looked up over the top of her computer and said "Shall I have a bath?"

So it was the bathroom and the bath was finally christened. Another first for our French home. Apparently the lighting isn't quite what it should be though - too bright with the lights on, not enough with a candle - it seems that we should have fitted a dimmer switch which is another one of those fabulous hindsight insights that have dogged our whole refurbishment.

In the meantime, it appears that the search has already started for a suitable candelabra to give the required bathtime ambience!

Clunch crunch

I just knew we were going to run out of that paint - the paint we have used for all the ceilings throughout all the three apartments. It's a Farrow & Ball paint named 'clunch' and it is just perfect as a ceiling colour for these rooms. Today I painted the office and hallway ceiling in the main apartment and the hallway and mezzanine bedroom ceiling in the studio - all look great as always - but I am now down to the last third of a tin and will definitely need at least one more to finish.

It's not a disaster but will mean some re-jigging of work. Ideally, I'd like to do all the ceilings first but as I won't get the new tin of paint down here until just before Christmas, when I drive down from London (paint being 50% cheaper in the UK than it is in France, for some reason), I'll have to finish all the wall and woodwork painting first - oh well.

Apart from the painting, I put a second coat of varnish on the new vanities and did a bit of tidying up in advance of Debrah's arrival tomorrow.

After yesterday's momentous news of our first booking enquiry (they still haven't confirmed) came the news that my London job received it's first sales order today - it may only be 100 units but it is confirmation that there is a market for the product. We never doubted it but as we are currently seeking a third round of funding it is very timely assurance for our investors - so get your cheque books out boys - I need paying.

Crikey

After four interesting and varied and tiring and valuable days in London, I returned to Carcassonne today. I had arrived in London with a heavy cold and left with the after effects still in evidence.

As a result, Saturday was a bit of a write-off as I spent all day in bed or on the sofa watching telly or reading the papers and generally 'getting better' - not a total write-off as I predicted a Bolton win over Man U which duly followed.

On Sunday I dragged myself out in the middle of the day for a pub lunch with my Mother-in-law and my just turned eighteen year old stepson. Christian bought a legitimate round of drinks and then had to 'borrow' ten quid for the rest of the day - not quite self-sufficient but then who is so I don't hold that against him.

On Monday I was at work all day but managed to fit a haircut in and on Tuesday I was at work all day and didn't finish until 9.30pm which was a bit of a long one but not unexpected.

And so it was that I returned to a sunny France but a cold apartment and to the news of riots instead of strikes (I somehow missed the baton change from unions to youths over the weekend) I still don't understand the obsession with torching cars and libraries - bunch of pyromaniacs - it must be the French equivalent of Guy Fawkes - "giv us a euro an I won't burn ya mota"

The big big news, however, was that we had our very first genuine enquiry about booking the Apartment. Oh bloody hell - that means that people mighty actually come and we might actually have to put the theory into practice. If only we were ready! Still, it's only an enquiry as yet - best not to get carried away, but I better look again at that long list of things we still haven't done and get on with them - no pressure then.

Yeesss, Nnoooooo, Yes.

Sorted.

Rhume

For the second time in three weeks, I have a cold, or 'rhume' as it is known in France. Just my luck.

I didn't stop for the first one and I'm not going to stop for this one either but it has definitely slowed me down, or is that just that I was feeling a bit knackered anyway - I don't know.

Today I undercoated the studio hallway and the the walls and shelves on either side of the studio kitchen, which were a bit fiddly and took longer than I expected. At 4.00pm I decided that I had had enough - so went for a shower and cleaned myself up. Half an hour later I was feeling guilty at having stopped so early in the day. I thought to myself I could go and varnish the new vanity worktops in the two new bathrooms - that won't be too strenuous and will be one more job done. It is one more job done and they now look as fabulous as the others - but half way through I knew that it was a bad idea.

Consequently, I had an early supper (very early in fact) and put myself to bed with Lara Croft - Tomb Raider on dvd. What a load of nonsense - not real you know - nobody in the movies is ever sat in bed with a pile of tissues around them and a head that feels like it's full of cottonwool. Atishoo.

Reality Check

I slept longer than I had planned and woke up a bit late this morning. I guess with Chris having gone, sub-consciously I knew I didn't have to be up and ready for anyone else.

Chris clearly made the right decision to drive to Paris. Overnight, some militant strikers sabotaged a large part of the TGV network. Personally, I don't think it was a very shrewd move - the country has been struggling to get to work for six days and negotiations between Government and Unions were due to start this morning - if they wanted to turn public opinion against them they couldn't have done a better job - talk about shooting yourself in the foot. Anyway, I had a text from Chris to say he was boarding his plane, which was good news.

After yesterday's slightly heady bit of euphoria, the reality of everything still to be done - by me, on my own, between now and Christmas - hit home today. I think I said no more sanding, but when I looked a bit closer at the office ceiling before under-coating could commence, I realised that it needed a bit of work on it before it looked even reasonable. So, there I was stood on a scaffold, sanding plaster above my head once again, realising that it was just me in this vast apartment and while this bit of plaster was being sanded, nothing else was being done - which was a bit deflating to be honest.

But it got done, and the under-coating of the office ceiling and walls and all the new door frames and skirtings that were fitted yesterday also got done. Actually I think I could do with a day off but I'll push on through one more day of work here before I go back to London on Friday - then I can have a weekend to relax with Debrah which will be wonderful.

On a different tack altogether, when I took some more rubbish out to bins earlier on, I noticed that the starlings are back - not in such great numbers but definitely there doing their dusk time swooping and swirling. So much for false falcon noises and rockets - seems like they just moved somewhere else for a week and then came back. Oh well, another unsuccessful French campaign.

I love France and the French and their ideosyncratic ways but it does amaze me how they have survived as a nation - not since Napoleon marched all over Europe have they really had anything to shout about (and he was a Corsican). You might think I'm stretching the point a bit but I'll happily argue it. For years the TGV and French railway system has been held up as a model of efficiency and wonder, but the truth is you can only use it when the drivers decide you can and successive French governments have ignored the fact that they can't afford to pay for it so continue to put the country further into debt.

It will be interesting to see if President Sarkozy can introduce the same reality check on France that I experienced today in my apartment.

A Momentous Day

It's not over yet, but a watershed point was reached today on the renovation of my three apartments. As Chris and I manouevred the toilet into place in our main apartment bathroom, he turned to me and said "You know that this is the last thing to be fitted".

We had been working so intensively over the last eight days that I hadn't realised the enormity of what was happening there and then, but he was right. Five bathrooms, three kitchens, one ceiling raised, several walls knocked down and rebuilt - no more tiling to do, no more plumbing to do, no more cabling to put in, no more plastering or sanding, no more toilets, showers, baths, sinks, kitchen cabinets or hobs to install, no more vanity units to build. The whole thing took me so much by surprise that I had a lump in my throat thinking about all that had been achieved - the seemingly un-ending hard slog over the last couple of years - the bone jarring and muscle aching labour - the joyous moments of achievement and the frustrated cursing about bad builders and French DIY shops and falling off ladders and being apart from Debrah for weeks on end and the sheer cost of it all. It still hasn't fully sunk in.

Naturally, there had to be a final trip to Tridome for the correct size valve to connect the water to the toilet, which delayed the moment by half an hour. I have a box full of plumbing parts that I will probably never use again but not the right size valve needed for today's final connection.

It's not ALL over yet though - there is still a large acreage of wall space to be painted, a new carpet to be laid, a wooden floor to be sanded and stained and varnished, some plug points and light fittings to tidy up and some shelves to put up here and there - but that's all cosmetic really compared to what has already been done.

Chris and I had planned, quite rightly, to go out and toast this moment with several bottles of the very drinkable local red wine, but this being France, the French had very different ideas about that. They wouldn't stop us drinking red wine, of course, but they have stopped anyone moving around the country very easily for the last week.

Chris is booked on a plane from Paris to New York in the morning and had booked an overnight train to get him there from here. Well, as the French rail drivers strike entered it's sixth day and they were joined by the civil servants and the air traffic controllers and anyone else who didn't fancy getting up this morning, Chris had no option but to hire a car and cancel his train ticket - which meant that instead of getting slightly happy and sleeping all the way to Paris, he had to put his tired and aching and very sober body into the hire car and drive through the night. I don't envy him that.

So suddenly, I am here on my own again. I have already planned my jobs for tomorrow - no point letting up as it all needs to be completed asap. We are now listed on two travel websites and there is press interest apparently. It looks like a new phase in the life of 42 rue victor hugo is about to begin and with it a new phase in my life. Bring it on.

Nearly There

What a week it has been.

When I returned to France and found out that Chris had booked a trip to the States - not for the two weeks we had discussed, but for four weeks up to the 19th December - it took me a day or so to work out the full implications of the work still to be done and the work that would be needed to be done when he came back. When the subject was raised, I thought for a while that we were about to fall out about it, but we didn't, and Chris understood my concerns about the timing so fully that the last week has been the most intense period of work we have undertaken here.

We have just finished eight days in a row working an average of twelve hours a day - Chris cramming into that period two bathroom fits, one kitchen fit, some shelving, a lot of tiling, two door frames and a host of general electrics and other work and me painting rooms as he went along to enable final finishing as well as general rubbish clearance, materials buying, work for a critical stage of product development in London and, very importantly, making coffee at a very constant rate all through the day.

At this very moment, late on a Monday evening, I can honestly say we are both very proud of what we have achieved in the last week and are both totally knackered. Chris is probably a bit worse for wear than I am because he has done more of the work - but as he rightly pointed out, I am paying him to do it and he will be sat on his arse for a while in the States whilst I still have a massive amount of painting to do between now and Christmas. Oh joy.

It is so difficult to put into words the genuine excitement I am feeling - the end really is in sight. Every day sees another completed bit of work, another sink in place, another wall painted, another room nearly done. I have now packed up the tile cutters and moved them into the cellar for storage - there is no more tiling or tile cutting to be done (the neighbours will be pleased - actually one of my neighbours moved out this weekend and I did speculate if she had had enough of the noise from downstairs and how ironic it was that she moved on the day the tiling was complete) .

All the old offcut tiles have been thrown out as well as a host of other stuff that we have been hanging onto 'just in case' it might be needed. Even now, I am still deliberating between putting odd bits of plasterboard or chipboard in the cellar or the bin. Put them in the bin for God's sake.

I still have a couple of tonnes of rubble down in the disused room on the ground floor, which nobody has complained about so far but is probably only a matter of time. I decided today, whilst in rubbish removal mode, to take a few bits out and so deposited a toilet and a couple of bags of concrete in the local bins this afternoon. I figure that a couple of bags a day should get rid of it in about six months, give or take.

Earlier on this evening, the doorbell rang and I was faced with two guys wearing flourescent yellow coats with the SITA logo emblazoned across the front and back. SITA is the local sub-contracted rubbish removal / dustmen company who do a fabulous job of emptying the bins three times a day seven days a week. I prepared myself for a question about broken tiles, plaster or rogue toilets - but actually just got a request for the Christmas fund. When they discovered I was English they turned tail and fled which was a shame, because if there is any group of workers in France who deserve a Christmas tip from me it is they, for they have hauled an awful lot of my building crap away over the year and nothing seems to faze them - I must try harder!

Naturally, life would not be complete without some last minute crises to keep everyone on their toes. Late on Saturday I had to dash to the specialist tile shop for another bag of tile adhesive which I managed with about five minutes to spare and late this afternoon I had to dash to the DIY store for some more grout for said tiles, which I also managed through the rush hour (rush 20 minutes) traffic.

And, Chris is due to leave tomorrow evening on a train to Paris to pick up his flight to the US. Which is all well and good, except that the 'lazy French fuckers' (my wife's description) who operate the French railway have been on strike for 5 days and show no signs of getting back to work anytime soon - and all because they think it is reasonable to retain the right to retire on full pay at age 50. Ahh - this is France - if they had got wind of our working hours over the last week there would probably be a protest outside the appartment demanding that we slow down a bit and stop for lunch.

Oh well, what will happen tomorrow - Chris has a last few jobs to finish - he may or may not get his train to Paris and therefore his flight to the US - he may have to hire a car and drive - who knows. It will probably all work out in the end - it usually does.

Nearly there.

Hectic

To say that the last ten days have been hectic would be an understatement. Work has reached a critical, time intensive and very pressured stage in both London and France.

In London, we are on the cusp of selling the new product but have frustratingly come to a halt because of lack of funds - so we are looking for a further round of investment to get us over the last hurdle and into the market. It means a temporary hiatus in being paid - as always, just before Christmas, just when you are stretched to the limit already, just when you can least afford it.

In France, we are on to the final push. I vowed that all would be finished before Christmas but that vow is going to be put to the test.

As I type, Chris is still laying tiles in the new studio kitchen at 11.30pm. We have a very definite and very intense schedule of work to complete between now and Tuesday evening when Chris leaves for the US, to shoot animals and ride snowmobiles and frame a couple of houses. As he is not back until five days before Christmas, all the major work needs to be done now - hence the late nights.

As ever, nothing is plain sailing.

We bought most of the mdf needed for the new kitchen shelves two weeks ago, but since then they have been out of stock (this months national shortage a la France). I found somewhere else that supplies it but they are wholesale and you have to buy the whole sheet rather than just the bits you need - and I don't need a whole sheet. So we have two shelves made and the batons for the third in place.

Meanwhile the extra tiles that I ordered arrived from Italy in two weeks which was something of a miracle and about four weeks earlier than we expected. We shouldn't have got carried away though by this fabulous news because, although they are in the same packaging and carry the same identifying reference numbers, they aren't quite exactly the same colour or thickness and there are only four to a box not six, which means we are still going to be a bit tight and have nothing left over and let's hope nobody else notices eh?

Half way through today we ran out of grout for the mosaic tiles on the kitchen wall - just a poxy square foot left to do. Yesterday I had spent a bit of time mixing grouts to get the right colour from the fairly basic selection available here, which of course meant we had to make up a new batch from some new grout and hope that we got the mix correct or else we'd be able to see the join - not good.

It would be so damn easy if it all went to plan - but where is the fun in that?

No doubt there will be more minor traumas tomorrow.

Other news - the starlings have gone. Whether they were scared off or whether they just emigrated anyway, nobody knows - but gone they have and the Christmas lights have gone up in the street outside and all the other streets in town, which is quite exciting really.

Startling starlings

The first we knew about it was a strange noise passing by outside, sometimes loud, sometimes faint. It was definitely coming from a vehicle of some sort and felt like one of those odd movies where a car keeps appearing or crossing at a different junction just out of sight or just behind you - which in the grid of streets that make up the bastide town is very plausible. It sounded like a very bad impersonation of Donald Duck being throttled.

The next morning, Chris was awoken before seven by the sound of explosions at random intervals. He thought to himself, and I quote, 'What the fuck are those mad French bastards up to now?' Quite.

I told you about the extremely spectacular but slightly scary flights of thousands of starlings at dusk - well, there is apparently a more unpleasant side to the evening show of aeronautical prowess. Shit. Lots and lots of bird shit. Also noise. Walk anywhere near the squares where they congregate in the trees and the noise of chattering and cheeping birds is deafening - must be a nightmare to live right next to it.

There is no mistaking that there is a touch of the Alfred Hitchcock about the whole thing and 'Le Mairie' has decided to do something about it. A 'fauconnier' has been hired.

Once upon a time, a falconer would have turned up with a falcon to scare the shit out of a mass of starlings - not that the town needs any more shit to come out of them. These days he turns up with a new Renault Clio, a loudspeaker and a recording of a falcon played on a CD. He drives around the town at dawn and dusk, from one nesting place to another, playing his strange falcon / strangled duck tune and every now and again he sets off a big blast type banger, which is supposed to scare the starlings, but actually gets everybody in town wide awake from whatever dream or nightmare they were in at 6.30am or makes them spill their pre-dinner pastis at 6.00pm. Neither does much for the nerves - god help the war veterans.

There is a time and place for modern technology and I suppose we should embrace the new world, but I bet everyone I know would rather see a team of falcons let loose above the skies of Carcassonne in an orgy of culling after which they would turn up on the menus of the towns restaurants, which is probably what used to happen several centuries ago and was, no doubt, regarded as a great delicacy. Our sensibilities are far too refined these days to consider killing the birds, never mind eating them, and there is probably some directive that says you can't turn up with a real live falcon because it would be cruel to let it loose and behave in a totally natural way.

Instead some fat French bureaucrat drives around in his, government provided, car all day, playing his stupid tune and letting off fireworks every now and again. It's probably the closest France has got to celebrating Guy Fawkes night - one event in British history that they remain totally in ignorance of - as opposed to all the events that they either deny (defeats) or twist into glorious resistance (pleas for help).

And what will this new humane method of startling the starlings achieve - it will make them go somewhere else where they can't afford to pay for the fireworks and yet another member of the civil service - and then they too will have a shit problem and an evening display of mass flying power. Well, maybe.

So far, two days into the operation, the starling numbers look undiminished and the aerial displays continue. I bet the 'fauconnier' has negotiated a daily rate with no guarantees of success. No need to set a 6.30 morning alarm for a while then.

Not going to plan

It's always the same. Debrah arrives here in France and I get a bit distracted, inevitably and understandably, from the daily process of writing my blog. Somehow, I just don't seem to find the time. Those last hours before bed, that I fill with my thoughts when I am on my own, disappear entirely. I'm very glad they do because something would be amiss with my relationship if they didn't.

But four days without posting a blog is quite long enough, so it's time to catch up with the events of the last few days.

Sore throat turned to snot and turned into the dryest most painful cough which turned into, well, just phlegm that seems to go on forever. All of which couldn't be more annoying when you are just trying to get on with stuff, but get on with stuff we did - Chris got on with the tiling in the studio and I got on with undercoating the new bathroom and the utility room now that the plastering and sanding has been done. I had quite forgotten how big the rooms and walls are in this place - one whole day and ten litres of undercoat later and I had just done the two rooms. Need to buy more undercoat I think.

Debrah arrived on Friday and in the back of my head was a niggling feeling that the faithful Audi might have been left just a day too long without use in the, now, cooler weather of November. So it proved - early on Friday morning I tried to venture out to Tridome only to find a flat battery - then having whipped the battery out and brought it inside, the fuse blew on the battery charger because I hadn't noticed the setting was on 24v not 12v - ahhh. I hot footed it to Monoprix for a new fuse and ended up buying a whole spare light kit for the Audi, which in France, you are supposed to carry by law - so now I was legal and I had a fuse for the charger and just enough time to get the battery charged before heading off to the airport to collect Debrah.

I was so excited about Debrah arriving - because I hadn't seen her for two weeks and because we had achieved so much on the renovation - and I just knew she would be as excited as me. I hadn't factored in the dust situation though and the sight of our beautiful apartment not just under dust covers but literally under dust was a bit too much to take - I guess I had got used to it and despite trying to prepare Debrah for the worst, it was still too much to take for her.

The never-ending mess just happened to coincide with the latest funding crisis in London and so there was also much agonising over money, and as I haven't been paid for the work that I have done in October, general depression set in all round for a good twenty four hours. I always try to be positive about everything but I have to say that even I feel very depressed about our finances, and the amount of time we spend apart from each other and what may happen in the future and, although it should be obvious how to resolve those issues, it somehow sems very complicated and difficult.

Today, we managed to forget some of those cares for a while. It didn't look all that promising as we set off for a drive - the forecast said sun but the reality was definitely cloud. Even so, the Autumn colours were spectacular and Debrah shouted "Hello ponies" on several occasions to a variety of horses we encountered along the way and we put the roof down and put our coats on as the sun came out and the wind howled as we drove through the unbelievable Gorge of Galamus and then we found a little village happening in Caudiés de Fenouillédes where we stopped and ate oysters and moulles and frites and tried and bought some local wine and stroked the noses of ponies and donkeys and sheeps and a very bad tempered looking goat before wending our way back home feeling very excited and thrilled and refreshed.

I then proceeded to ruin the entire evening by drinking too much red wine. So I am writing this blog and Debrah has gone to bed and that makes me more unhappy than anything I can imagine.

Cold cures

It was all a bit less frenetic today, without the Poles and the plaster and the dust clouds. Oh don't worry, we still have dust - lots and lots and lots of it. Every bit of cleaning in one part of the apartment is negated by walking from another part, leaving a trail of dusty footprints - will it never end?

Today was one of those strange France days when I spent pretty much all day working with my London head on - sat at my computer putting financial forecasts together. It also coincided with a constant runny nose and sneezing. Aren't colds the pits? - nothing you can do about it - just constant hot toddies, a ready supply of tissues and just try to ignore it. Frankly, there is far too much to do both here in France and in London to let a cold bring a halt to proceedings.

Meanwhile, Chris has been getting on with the tiling in the studio, which is looking good, notwithstanding the fact we might be short of a tile or two.

And Chris' advice for my cold? - "alcohol, mate - always works for me" - suppose I better open another bottle of wine then.

Tile ordering

I went out early up to Tridome with my fingers firmly crossed that they would still have some of our tiles in stock. The fact that we bought them six months ago and they were a special offer at the time did not fill me with confidence. On arrival I quickly scanned the displays of tiles - nothing - my heart sank. I plumped up courage and cornered the tilemeister (or whatever they are called in France - le maestro de carrelage?) and showed him the torn off ends of a box that I had brought with me showing the name and code numbers of what I needed.

Actually, he was no maestro because he couldn't work the computer system and had to constantly either phone a colleague or get up and find someone to help him, all the time mumbling incoherent French at me - 'if you want me to at least have a stab at understanding you, please talk clearly', I thought to myself, and even then it will only be a 50/50 chance of success. The computer system was so obvious, even in French, that I was dying to grab the mouse off him and find the stock item myself, but given that Air France cabin crew have been on strike for five days because somebody sneezed on a plane or something, I thought better of it as the last thing I need at this critical point of the renovation is a nationwide walkout of staff from the DIY stores because an impatient Englishman grabbed a man's mouse!

My heart leapt when he eventually decided they had three boxes left in stock. I needed four to be on the safe side but three would have to do - I went off to get a trolley while he went to look in the storeroom. My heart sank again as he emerged holding a tile that was clearly the wrong colour. I think he said to me that the code numbers didn't match - which is why, you durr, the colour wasn't right. So it was back to the computer.

Whilst he continued his struggle with technology, I grabbed the Cooperativo Ceramico Imola catalogue from the shelf behind him and found the tiles I needed straight away with matching code number and a pretty picture and everything. His eyes lit up and he punched the code into a new screen he had found listing all current stock items. Hurrah. Sadly not. Computer said No.

His smarter, more tech savvy mate, popped his head round the corner, clicked the mouse a couple of times, pulled up the manufacturer details and stock list and a price for the item and in clearly understandable French said we could order them no problem if I wanted. Hallelujah - isn't life so much easier when you find the person who knows what's going on? Sadly, he then ran off again leaving Einstein to fill out the order, which took another twenty minutes with me helpfully pointing to the bits he had missed or got wrong. The upshot of it all is that I have to pay double the original price because they are no longer on special offer and we might have to wait six weeks for them to arrive, by which time Chris may well have left and I will be laying them myself. All of which left me feeling quite depressed this morning.

I returned to the apartment for the final afternoon of the Polish plasterers work for me, which involved more plastering, more sanding, more cleaning, a lot more dust and the handing over of a large wad of notes. Still, it took them seven days to do what would have taken me four weeks to not do as well as they have, so it is undoubtedly money well spent.

I thought my sore throat was due to the dust or the paint fumes, but this evening it has given way to sneezing and snot and I know I have a cold coming on - just what I don't need. Oh well - better get off to bed with a hot drink and get it sorted.

Trying times

After a weekend poncing about in the sunshine and lyricising poetically about the Autumn colours, it was back to the reality of a renovation that continues, as it always has, to lurch from one disaster to one solution to another disaster - and hopefully to another solution.

The point of hiring the Polish plasterers (they are called Andre and Robert, by the way - the two most un-Polish names I could imagine) was that they would be good and quick and Chris and I wouldn't have to do the work. Well, that's all well and true - but we are still here while they sand endless square metres of plaster, which means it is impossible for us to do any other work without developing a serious lung problem in the process. All you can do is close the doors and leave them to it.

Not that closing the doors actually helps that much because that dust will get everywhere and anywhere despite any precautions to the contrary. As a result, the whole apartment had never been so dusty and dirty - thank God we put covers over all the important bits of furniture in anticipation. There is no point in really trying to do much interim cleaning as there will be more dust tomorrow - all I hope to do is keep the worst under control and do a massive clean up, for the very last time I hope, when they have finished. Debrah arrives on Friday - she isn't going to be happy with the dust but I reckon she might be happy with the progress.

And so to the disasters. We all stood looking at the plaster coming away from the ceiling for a good five minutes. "Ce n'est pas bon", said Andre.

No shit.

"Can you fix it?", said I, in French, in words that might have translated as 'can you fix it'.

So he hacked the loose stuff off and it appears that the previous layer he had applied hadn't dried properly and perhaps it hadn't made a decent bond with the old paintwork because they hadn't primed it or scored it and maybe the weight of it was too much in one go - and no, he didn't tell me all that in Polish or French - Chris and I had already worked it out for ourselves. So we suggested he scored it and Chris mixed up some of the new tile adhesive we had bought, to paint on as a bonding agent for the new plaster. So much for so called professionals - but at least we haven't had to do it ourselves and at least the whole ceiling doesn't have to come down.

I got on with finishing the painting in the other apartment because it needed doing and because nobody was sanding in there - in fact it's the cleanest place on the whole first floor - I might move in.

When they left this evening, they indicated that tomorrow will be their last day! Well, not from where I have been looking at the work still to do, but we'll cross that bridge in the morning when they arrive.

Meanwhile, the sun disappeared and the rain started again and Chris started measuring and calculating and decided that we hadn't bought enough tiles for the studio bathroom, hall and kitchen - about five square metres short he reckons - can't all be explained by the change in studio bathroom layout - somebody must have measured it wrongly.

Fucking hell and bollocks!

The somebody was obviously me and, of course, I don't know if the same tiles are still available until I make the trip to Tridome and ask the question.

Deep breath, stay calm - it will all work out. Now if I could just get paid for my work in London everything might be ok - just might be, that is.

Autumn

It was a beautiful Autumn weekend. The sun shone brightly and warmly during the day and the clear blue sky became a fabulous backdrop, bringing out the best of the Autumn colours of the fields and vines and trees.

I took the car out for a run, letting it stretch it's legs beyond the ten minute trips to the DIY stores that are it's usual outings during the week. I drove up to Montolieu and from there over the top of the hill down to Fraise Cabardes, back down the valley to Aragon and then across the north of Carcassonne to pick up the Canal du Midi and finally around the back of the Cité. Roof down and shirt sleeves, naturally.

From the hill above Montolieu you could see the entire valley stretched out below and across to the towering peaks of the Pyrenees, showing faintly in the distance. The church on the peak at Montreal was clearly silhouetted above the patchwork of orange and yellow and red and brown fields before it, and the massive frame of Mont Canigou, a few traces of the first snow on it's topmost slopes, loomed menacingly out of the haze, looking much closer than it actually is.

Just outside Aragon I came across a massive buzzard sat on a tree branch next to the road. No more than five metres from me it hunched it's shoulders down before releasing it's massive wingspan, showing flecks of white on the underside, and gliding off lazily towards a new resting place where it wouldn't be disturbed by a noisy clattering old Audi. Despite it's closeness and it's languid movement, it was still away before I had a chance to stop the car and get my camera in hand.

At the Canal there were at least signs of activity - people out for a Sunday afternoon stroll along the towpath. Who can blame them. At this time of year the plane trees on either side of the Canal are bright yellow and lights dance across it's surface where the sun penetrates any gaps between the trees. There is a distinct lack of canal traffic though which I find bizarre - it must be a beautiful time of year to meander along the canal - maybe it is just a bit cold at night on a boat on the water.

There is one view of the Cité that is always in all the guide books and on the posters. It is a view looking down onto the walls and turrets across fields of vines and it is not an easy place to find because the vines are private land. But found it I have. There is a little lay-by on the ring round to the south of Carcassonne - park there and wander up the hill a bit at the dge of the vine field and the classic Carcassonne Cite view unfolds below. Yes, technically it is trespassing.

By late afternoon, back at home and the sun is already beginning to fade. The starlings gather in their thousands and swoop and dive in massive swirls above the rooftops - a prelude to their winter migration and both mesmerising and slightly scary at the same time. It is time to close the windows, change from shirt to T-shirt and jumper and get the casserole on the oven.

Just when I was planning the week's work and thinking about a quiet evening in front of a film, Chris pointed out a problem that appeared to be developing in the office where new ceiling meets old. The new plaster put up by the Poles last week was cracking away from the ceiling as it dried which either means that it hasn't formed a bond with the old paint or, more scarily, the new ceiling boards are dropping slightly on their frame, which might mean taking down and fixing - what a complete and utter pain in the neck that will be. We decide we will inspect it in the morning - not before a lot more cursing about Alison and Graham, the useless builders who have caused more trouble than good as a result of their work and who put this bit of ceiling in place. In their case we certainly didn't get what we paid for.

Certainly wiped the smug Autumn smile off my face and helped focus me on the week ahead.

What a difference the sun makes

Two days ago I sat at the kitchen table working on my computer all day. I was wearing a sweater and a big fleece over the top of it and I had the heating on for the first time this year and I was still cold. Yesterday it was grey and it rained all day and even though I was working (painting walls if you must know) it was still cold and miserable.

But today was as if none of that had happened. I awoke to a cloudless bright blue Languedoc sky and by the time the sun had reached the Saturday post-market drinking hour at 'midi' it was hot enough to be sat outside in just a shirt and to be feeling the heat on your face. What a contrast.

And doesn't the sun perk everyone up. The market was wearing it's best happy face and so were the people of the town. The summer soft fruits and salad leaves have finally gone and the stalls now groan under the weight of apples and pears and plums and of pumpkins and cabbages and leeks. Winter food is here. It's time for soups and stews. We have already had one beef casserole and one coq au vin this week, as insulation against the cold. There is a bowl of split peas soaking in water behind me on the kitchen worktop right now - ready to be made into a thick hot pea and ham soup tomorrow.

But at lunchtime today we had a brief glimpse of the summer just gone and it felt as if everyone was making the most of this last fling of warm sunshine. Laughter and happiness abounded. The cafes and bars were crammed. The bonhomie and the wine overflowed. I ate a fabulous plate of six oysters - their shells loosened, and served with just a slice of lemon and a hunk of baguette - for only 5 euros - incredible value, very fresh and absolutely delicious.

A bit chilly

What to say about the last two days? It has been a bit wierd really. I have pretty much just been sat at the kitchen table in front of my computer working on different financial scenarios and forecasts for my London job whilst all around me the building work has been progressing without much input from me.

And it has been cold just sitting at the table. It's definitely Autumn. Earlier in the week the sun shone and for three or four hours in the middle of the day it bathed the kitchen table in glorious golden light - kept me nice and warm but couldn't see the screen because of the glare. Today, however, it was grey and drizzly, just like England, and even though I had two jumpers on and a constant supply of hot coffee, it was still too cold - so the electric heaters were turned on to try and take the edge off - a good month earlier than I had planned on using them.

Meanwhile, the Poles are cracking on with the plastering and sanding. Twelve days they quoted with much sucking of the teeth - hah! I think they will be done by the middle of next week at the rate they are going. Doing a cracking job though so I'm not complaining. They brought a new boy with them yesterday and today - fresh off the boat, so to speak - doesn't speak a word of English or French and is given all the shitty jobs like sanding the ceiling above his head (I've done that so I know just what a shitty job it is). Poor kid - all part of his education I guess.

Hopefully they will be out of Chris' way tomorrow so that he can get on with the tiling. The perfectionist that he is, he has spent all week agonising over the correct tile adhesive to use for putting new porcelain tiles over old glazed ceramic tiles. Of course, the Poles just pointed at the stuff we already had, but in the end we went to a specialist tile shop and in my best French I asked what we should use and bought two bags of their recommendation. I know Chris still isn't convinced - but hey, let's hope it works cos I don't feel like buying anything else.

It'll work - I'm certain of it.

Kitchen Lights

For two years we have had a single bare light bulb sat forlornly high up in the centre of the ceiling in the kitchen. We have always known what we wanted to put in place and have had the light shades sat here in a bag for most of those last two years.

Alison and Graham, the first builders that we employed down here, were supposed to have fitted them, but they turned out to be useless, slow and incompetent - Alison and Graham, not the lights. We are even now having to correct or work around some of the work that they did in the early days of the renovation, and that really pisses me off, especially when I think about the money that we paid to them.

At long last, the single light bulb, which turned out to be just 40 watts (no wonder I had trouble reading properly at the kitchen table in the evening - or am I just losing my sight?) has been replaced with two elegant shades hanging low over the kitchen island and the kitchen table respectively. What a difference they make, not just to the light and visibility but also to the look and feel of the entire kitchen. Hurrah.

The Poles are continuing to work at a rapid pace - so much so that Chris has been able to start tiling in the studio bathroom, which is also very exciting news. I hope you are all as excited as I am, whoever you are.

By the way, it was Chris' birthday today - so happy birthday to you - and thanks for the kitchen lights. I'm supposed to give you a present but it turned out the other way round. You said to me that it was just another day, but it isn't - it's not everyday that a long running kitchen light saga is sorted.

We have Poles in France too

Where have you been hiding all through my renovation? Why couldn't I find you six months ago when I slaved for three weeks with Ed, the smelly Dutchman, to plaster the apartment? Why are Polish craftsmen so impressive?

The Polish plasterers arrived today and, forgive me sounding excited, but these boys are damn good and damn quick. Even Chris is impressed and that takes a lot of doing. They are also extremely polite and can't speak any English, which makes for interesting interchanges about materials and tools followed by long silences when we all try to work out what we are going to say next and wonder whether we will understand each other to any great effect.

Watching them just get on with the job was an absolute joy and will be money well spent because without them I seriously doubt that we would be finished on time, but with them I can confidently predict completion of all work by the end of November - and that makes me jump up and down with extreme happiness.

Chris was so happy about it that he started tiling at 7.00pm this evening! He said he was bored with the internet and he may as well just get on with it. Well don't let me stop you. After a weekend of disappointments on the work and sporting front I'm so glad that something is going in the right direction.

Looking Forward

My fourth flight in nine days and I'm back in Carcassonne. OK, so my global footprint isn't exactly neutral - in fact it's probably huge. But I figure I'll start saving the planet when the USA decide to get in on the act - as I see it, until they join in, we are all buggered anyway and even when they do it will probably be too late.

It hasn't been a great week on the work front. Late on Friday I found out that the bank were not going to support the immediate cash needs of the business which is a real pain in the arse because it means we will have to find an alternative grant or loan or go for a third round of funding and dilute the shareholding of the business even further. More immediate is the fact that I won't be paid this month end and that is something I absolutely cannot afford - so I am pretty pissed off about the whole thing. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so honest and ethical - as Finance Director I have to advise the Company that until funding is secured we can't pay ourselves when actually that is the last thing I need on a personal level. It feels like I am shooting myself in the foot with a double-barrelled shotgun.

I thought that I might catch the end of the 'Fete du Vin' but they packed up and went home last night so I missed it entirely this year. Like I said, it hasn't been a great week.

Anyway, enough with the negative vibes.

The Languedoc looked superb when I flew in and landed today. The vines are all in their Autumn colours and the Pyrenees looked majestic with the first smatterings of snow on the very topmost peaks. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky and lit up the river and canal with a firework display of shimmering sparklers on the surface as we flew overhead.

Thankfully, Chris, my South African builder, didn't rub in the painful Rugby World Cup final defeat last night too much and, tomorrow, the Polish plasterers should arrive which will launch the final phase of the long running renovation work. I really can't wait for all to be completed - it feels as if it has been going on forever.

So, no point worrying about how to pay for it or sitting around waiting for the ice caps to melt - might as well just get on with it.

Missing out

Typical. I have a Board Meeting in London on the very day that the 'vin primeur' is released and the 'Fete du Vin' takes place in Carcassonne. The 'Fete' is a great event - twenty to thirty local wine producers set up camp around the square for four days and everyone is invited to try and buy the wine, local bandas wander around all day jollying everyone up with music and there is live music on the stage each evening. Last year they coloured the water in the fountain a lovely shade of red and planted vines all around it in a temporary bed.

This year they plan to put up a giant screen in the square on Saturday night to show the final of the Rugby World Cup - but I wouldn't be surprised if someone put a phone call in last Sunday to cancel it now that France are out - they're not very good losers down in rugby country, especially when England are the winners.

Thankfully, I return on Sunday and will catch the end of the 'Fete' and the final concert on Sunday evening. Then on Monday the Polish plasterers start which should be interesting because of their lack of English.

The rumour on the streets is that the Irish bar was shut down by the tax authorities for non payment, which doesn't surprise anyone at all. Everyone is hoping that somebody else will take over the lease.

In the meantime I am London where it definitely feels like Autumn has arrived - lovely sunny weather but cold, especially after Turkey.

Catching Up

The two week sojourn in the Eastern Med is over. We left on Saturday and endured probably the worst flight I have ever experienced. All those people who are constantly slagging off Ryanair have obviously never flown on Excel Airways (a misnomer if ever there was). We asked for extra legroom and were given the two worst seats on the plane - both aisle seats on the very last row, i.e. immediately in front of the toilets. The flight was delayed by a non-existent water leak that took them two hours to diagnose and one hour to tell us what was happening. The cabin crew were the rudest I have ever encountered - sniggering behind their hands after lying to our faces about the situation. Debrah was so incensed I thought she was going to explode - or punch someone - in the end she contented herself with defacing the inflight feedback survey with some very blunt and un-ladylike words about what she felt at that moment.

A five hour delay going out and a two hour delay coming back - I can honestly say I will never take an Excel airways flight again.

I had resigned myself to mising the England v Estonia football match on Saturday afternoon but had texted ahead for Christian to record it, which he kindly did - not sure when my stepson became so reliable and helpful but I'm all for it. Our expected travel schedule was perfect for getting home just in time to watch the England v France Rugby World Cup semi final. I had pictured us walking through the door, putting our bags down, turning on the telly and watching the singing of the national anthems. Didn't quite work out like that though - a two hour delay meant we got home just in time to walk through the door, put our bags down, turn on the telly and watch the post match interviews. Bugger.

Still, we won and typically, not a Frenchman in sight when you need one to rub their faces in it - Gerard from the Makhila bar would have been perfect because I have still not forgiven him for turning off the English anthem when I last watched a game in his bar - downright rude and disrespectful it was.

36 hours after getting off that flight I was back on my reliable Ryanair 'bus' to Carcassonne to find out what has been going on in my absence and to try and come to an agreement with the plasterers that Simon had promised. Simon couldn't make it over so two Poles and one Englishman tried manfully to conduct a negotiation in french which didn't come to a conclusion but will do so hopefully in the next day or so.

It also appears that whilst I have been away the Irish bar has closed down, which is a bit of a shock. I still haven't got to the bottom of why - maybe it was just not profitable (it was empty most of the summer) or maybe the owner, Michel, has gone off to stay at a government establishment (equally likely given his propensity for a touch of GBH). One thing is for sure - nobody shuts a bar with a big screen in the middle of a rugby world cup - well, not before the host nation have been knocked out anyway! I shall have to make some enquiries.

Final Day

Friday 12th October

Our last full day and the air felt a little cooler this morning, although the sun still shone brightly and warmly most of the day.

We went to Turunç to find a watch for Christian and get some more cash for final bills and hotel tips. We have decided that Turunç is a bit of a dump really so we wasted no more time than we needed to and got a taxi back as soon as we had got what we wanted.

Back at the poolside and Debrah was stung by a wasp, quite high up on her inner thigh. I think the wasp was on the lounger between her legs and when she pulled her legs together it must have panicked, as one would, and it stung her. Why does it always happen to Debrah? I’d seen the bar staff treating somebody else so asked for their help, so the poor guy had to administer the suction gun (ingenious device that draws the sting and the poison back out) to Debrah’s thigh and then the ointment and the gel before finally giving her an antihistimine tablet in case of an adverse reaction. It must have worked because within an hour the pain seemed to have gone.

We had lunch at the bar and retired to the hammocks for some peace and quiet away from everyone else and then Debrah suggested the hot tubs. I don’t really like hot tubs – I don’t really see the point of them and I don’t feel very comfortable in them. I half expected ‘Howards Way’ and her husband ‘Sleazy Tony’ to hop out of the bushes with a cheery “What Ho! – hot tubs eh? – do you guys like swinging?”.

We ate at the Beach Club one last time but we were both a bit tired and a bit sad to be leaving really, so it was pretty low key in the end. Allahasmarladic Turkiye - goodbye Turkey.

FINAL GUEST BLOGSPOT

candidate no 9: International Nouveau Riche
Him - like Bob Hoskins playing Aristotle Onassis. Her - well-maintained, designer clad constantly puffing on a Davidoff lady fag. Treated like semi-royalty by hotel staff and owners. We think she may be some minor european aristocracy - she certainly cuts a dash in proper Issey Miyake and a splash of D&G.
VERDICT: WHEAT They just make don't make 'em like that any more and I bet she says 'daaarling' really well

candidate no 10: Charles and Diana
Stuck in a loveless marriage, he is a good 20 years older. She was clearly a trophy wife (English rose, good haircut, eating disorder). We think he might have been in import/export and probably slaps her about a bit. She is probably desperate to escape and is shagging the hired help.
VERDICT: WHEAT - just too interesting to chuck away.

Horses

Thursday 11th October

It was a pretty unremarkable day in all respects really. The sun shone, we both finished another book each, Debrah sat in the shade all day and didn’t swim, I sat in the sun all day and did swim and the pool still felt colder than it really ought to have done.

In our room in the evening was an envelope with our departure instructions, which very bluntly brings home that it is all nearly over and that London and Carcassonne and ‘normal’ life is beckoning.

We joined the crowd for the free wine tasting, which I had done last week but Debrah had not. We got chatting to ‘Horses’, or Stuart (architect) and Abby (GP) to give them their real names and ended up sitting and having dinner with them in the hotel restaurant.

That’s it, another day gone.

GUEST BLOGSPOT
candidate no 8: Horses
Sterling, well bred middle class couple that talk about their polo horses all the time. We like to think they eat a bowl of oats for breakfast and an apple if they've been good.
VERDICT: WHEAT - we had a super conversation about Vola taps and Boffi sinks which is my kind of conversation.

candidate no 9: Mo Mowlem plus one
Bears a striking resemblance to Ms Mowlem and has the biggest filofax I have ever seen. Spent a morning doing diaries with partner (who now has gout!) - they got up to March 08, way to go.
VERDICT: WHEAT - Admirable organisational skills and not to be messed with.

Whoosh Whoosh Boaty Boat

Wednesday 10th October

Today was the day of the second of our pre-booked excursions. After the trip out on the gulet last week, we had booked a day out on the motor cruiser, or ‘whoosh whoosh boaty boat’, as it had been christened by Debrah and as it will now be forever know.

It is one of those white fibreglass and leather rich man’s toys that is more usually associated with St Tropez or Poole Harbour, which was appropriate as we were going to share our trip with Martin and Jess, retired and living in Poole. Jess was in fact the aforementioned ‘queen bee’ of the hotel and Martin, (“used to be in property management”) was sporting an inaugural Queen Mary cruise polo shirt with the collar turned up – it was going to be a long day.

We idled away from the jetty, before the captain put the twin 715bhp engines to good use and we sped off around the headland, spray flying up on all sides and the massive wake gracefully arching out behind us. To confirm its status as a floating gin palace, a bottle of champagne was cracked open as soon as we left the jetty. We motored along at 21 knots, heading south-west along the Bozburun peninsula. The boat has a top speed of 35 knots and at one point the captain pushed us up to 29 knots before swinging the boat into a fast left and right arc, which had Debrah squeeling on the sun deck at the rear as she was suddenly thrown to one side and back again.

We looked in at Sparrow Bay, which had a very narrow and deep entrance before opening out into a broad bay behind, then continued our journey to Lorimar Bay, where we would stop for lunch. On the headland at the entrance to the Bay were the remains of a 3000 year old settlement and there were three little shack restaurants dotted around in different corners with yachts already moored up in front. We ignored all these and headed for a very small cove on the far side of the Bay where a man waited in a rowing boat. As we got closer the rowing boat came out to meet us and Kemal, for that was his name, took the mooring rope and rowed back to shore to secure it to a rock, Atilla having already secured the boat to a buoy.

We could see, on the shore, a table fully laid for lunch under the shelter of a tree and mats and chairs on the small stony beach. To complete the scene a wild donkey came stumbling along the rocky shore, much to Debrah’s delight – she being a big fan of donkeys and this being the first that we had seen all holiday. Three of us swam ashore but Debrah was into the rowing boat with the bags and coolbox to get to on land as quickly as possible so that she could stroke the donkey’s nose – the donkey was by now beginning to take an interest in the dining area but Kemal put paid to that with a hefty thwack on it’s rump.

So we swam and watched the fish and looked at the sea urchins in the crystal clear water and we had a drink and lay in the sun whilst the crew prepared lunch and Kemal set about barbecuing the fresh fish. It was an idyllic scene and setting. We had mezes and fish and fresh fruit washed down with wine as we looked out onto the sparkling water of the Bay.

We all swam back to the boat; the rowing boat had been a bit too wobbly for Debrah, before towing Kemal back across the Bay to his little house where he lives in splendid isolation with his goats. (We are led to believe the isolation has more than something to do with the opposite sex – hiding might be a better description).

We retraced our steps down the coast and had one final stop an hour later for a little swim and some tea and cake before continuing back to the jetty, timing our arrival with the gulet and the yacht. It had in fact been a pretty good day for sailing and we had passed many yachts with full sails billowed by the breeze and getting along at a good pace. I have no doubt that every single one of them cursed us in the motor launch as we went past and they had to cope with our wake.

We felt quite windswept at the end of it all but it was a fabulous day out and exactly the sort of day we would probably only ever do when on holiday. Debrah had a good nap and was still full from lunch so I had dinner on my own and sadly started to turn my thoughts back to the work that needs doing when I get back to London – all good things must come to an end, I suppose.

But not just yet - still two days to go.

Busy doing nothing

Tuesday 9th October

Hmmm…. not much happened, not a lot of interest or of note or out of the ordinary – in other words a pretty good holiday day.

Only two things slightly different occurred.

Firstly, a massive cruise liner crept across the bay at first light heading for Marmaris – it looked as if it was moving so slowly and under the cover of the early pre-dawn mist, it was almost as if it didn’t want anyone to notice it but it was so huge it was impossible not to watch it’s progress.

Secondly, whilst we were down on the beach in the morning, a helicopter approached from out at sea and landed in the grounds of the banker’s mansion, obviously dropping someone off, before taking flight again back across the bay. A few days ago I had overheard the hotel owner discussing whether the hotel should get a helicopter to make trips to places like Ephesus (3 hours by car) or for airport transfers (2 hours) but he was concerned about the noise and disturbance to guests. Well, I can confirm that it would be very intrusive and very noisy – especially if it came and went four or five times a day – but then I know there are plenty of people who would think the opposite and wouldn’t give a damn if they were disturbing anyone else because all they think about is themselves, such is the world.

OK, I’ll get off my soapbox now. What else. Just the usual.

Fabulous sunrise.

Beach.

Swimming and reading and sleeping.

Live music night (see last week’s entry for Tuesday)

Bed

Genuine fakes

Monday 8th October

In total contrast with the previous night, we both had a good sleep, only partly ruined by Debrah getting up to go the loo, asking me what time it was, me saying seven o’clock, us reading and then me realising, on second glance at my watch that it was actually only five o’clock.

I really must get some reading glasses soon.

We decided to head into Turunç this morning, it being the nearest town with shops and us having a typical mid-holiday shopping list to deal with – you know the sort of thing, more sun cream, some moisturiser, stop off at the cashpoint, more fags, gifts for the kids and as many ‘genuine fakes’ as we thought we could get away with.

There were the usual mix of shops selling bags, carpets, sunglasses, watches, jewellery and turkish delight. There were the usual odd mix of amusing signs and sights – the not entirely convincing barbers with ‘Let’s take care of your beauty hair’ or the gift shop proudly listing ‘onyx, ceramik, crystal, leather mask(!)’ – we weren’t quite sure what that meant and didn’t venture in to find out.

Turunç is clearly not totally off the beaten path in all fields of endeavour. The Turunç International Open Darts Championship 2007 was taking place, one sporting event that hadn’t previously crossed my radar.

Several of the bars are decorated with English and Scottish football shirts. As they were such an eclectic mix (Cardiff City, Gillingham, Portsmouth, Barnsley, Glasgow Celtic), it gives you some idea of the clientele – as did the West Ham shirt with ‘SHIT” written across it in felt tip pen. How smug and clever he must have thought he was when he penned that witticism for posterity and how much it says about the average British tourist abroad.

At the second jewellery store Debrah found herself some lovely silver necklaces, which we bought after I’d managed to get 25% of the label prices. She had found a lovely necklace at the first but the owner kept thrusting his thigh into her when ‘helping’ her try on various things, so we politely fled from there.

Likewise we bought nothing in the first sunglass and watch shop, although I did cheekily get the owner to tighten up my sunglasses, but we bought a watch for me, and a new pair of sunglasses for Debrah, at the second. The owner of this shop explained the difference between a cheap fake and a genuine fake, which was interesting – a cheap fake just looks like the real thing but doesn’t have full working parts and is made from inferior material, whereas a genuine fake works just like an original in every detail and is ‘first rate workmanship’. Hmmm – it’s still a fake though and that isn’t genuine oyster shell in the Rolex oyster is it?

We found most of the things we wanted but couldn’t decide between a fez, a watch or sunglasses for Christian so we will probably go back later in the week.

The afternoon was spent back at the hotel and there were only a couple of things of note worth commenting on. The usefulness of internet access allowed me to sort out the parking ticket that Debrah had picked up the day before we left London. Later, as we climbed the steps back up to our room, the elegant German lady staying at the hotel stopped to let us past claiming she needed a rest and was out of breath - whilst continuing to puff on her cigarette.

We ate at the Sea Club once more. The food was as delicious as ever, the air was very still and a little warmer than two nights ago and the music was very chilled. It was such a romantic evening that we had two bottles of wine and went back to bed very happy together.

Lounging about

Sunday 7th October

Lots of things contrived to make a disturbed night for us both – late new arrivals the night before were still clattering around in the early hours in their excitement, too much itching from the bites left by the bugs that always seem to take much more of a liking to Debrah than to me, too much noise from me and my snoring (perhaps it frightens the bugs).

At the risk of sounding monotonous, it was a glorious sunrise. This morning, though, I wasn’t the only one watching – several of the new arrivals were up to see their first – the girl in the next room along a little surprised to see me there as she wandered out onto the terrace to take a photo dressed only in a t-shirt.

One week on from our first morning here and it was a bit strange to be the ones who know where everything is and how it works and where to sit and what’s available for breakfast – it felt a bit like being at college – an old hand welcoming the freshers on their first day.

Down at the beach it was a bit breezier than it has been. Ideal for yachting in fact and this being Sunday there were far more yachts than usual out on the water and far more than usual under full sail rather than motoring along and there is no scene more splendid to look at than a beautiful blue sea filled with white sails all moving in different directions because it is a constantly changing one that can keep you enthralled for hours.

I finished my second book of the holiday – if finishing an unfinished book can count as finishing – I can never finish it because ‘Suite Francaise’ by Irene Nemirovsky was never finished by the author who was shipped off to a concentration camp by the Nazis and, sadly, died there. Everyone I know has read this book and praised it to high heaven whereas I just felt extremely frustrated when I got to the end not knowing, and never ever being able to know, what happens to all the characters and their lives.

At least we don’t miss the bus after lunch today and spend the afternoon as before in a mixture of sleeping, reading, swimming and a bit of work on the computer – today I had to re-send all the photos to i-escape for our Carcassonne apartments web page and send some information to the bookkeeper of my London job.

We had an impromptu pre-dinner on the terrace outside our room consisting of some rather piquant stuffed olives and some very sweet and tasty gherkins washed down by the final glass of red from the bottle we opened last night.

We were both hungry and looking forward to dinner, especially the lamb shanks on today’s menu, but because we don’t follow the herd at 8.00pm on the dot and tend to meander in for dinner a bit later, even though we are hungry, we suffer the consequences – meaning that everyone else had ordered the lamb shanks and there were none left – bugger. I have to say though, that the chargrilled spatchcocked chicken and mash that I had instead was delicious.

From hunger to dinner to tiredness seemed to happen very quickly and so, with an unfinished bottle of wine (!) we headed to bed.

It’s funny how the second week of a holiday always seems to go much faster than the first – today just seemed to disappear in a blur.