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.
Friday 28 December 2007
Wednesday 26 December 2007
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.
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.
Thursday 20 December 2007
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.
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.
Saturday 8 December 2007
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
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
Friday 7 December 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday 5 December 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday 4 December 2007
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.
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.
Sunday 2 December 2007
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
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
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