Pre-London shit

My impending trip to London has caused a couple of problems, one of them my own doing and one of them a result of people depending on me being here.

Lesa looks after a holiday let property for an American couple and last week asked me to handle a 'meet and greet' this Friday and check-out a week later because she has gone off to Australia for three weeks to see her folks. I agreed, because I expected to be here, and then Debrah and I got talking over the weekend, and my clients next week pushed back their arrival by two days, and it made complete sense for me to go to London this week. I have to admit that somebody else's client check-in completely slipped my mind in the intensity of discussions with Debrah about what needed to be done in London and how we are to resolve our living apart dilemma - understandable in the circumstances, I think, but embarrassing nonetheless.

So it is that I have to show Lesa's holiday stand-in, Christian, what is what tomorrow morning and send explaining emails to both owner and client with profuse apologies.

Then, this morning, Brigitte rang my bell to drop off the garage keys for Denis and tell me that the electrician was coming on Friday morning to sort out the outside light problem, fully expecting me to be here to deal with it as she is at work that day.

"Merde", she said, when I told her I had to go to London, thus confirming Debrah's view that for a sophisticated Parisienne she has quite a filthy mouth (see previous blog re 'con') For all her 'allo Peeteer' charm and fluttering eyelids when she wants something, I know where my priorities lie and they are in London this Friday.

We do however need the lights fixed and so I suggested that maybe Christine, who runs the beauty salon below, could give the electrician access to the fusebox, which actually is all that is needed. "Ah, bonne ideé", was the enlightened and non-blasphemous reply to my suggestion. Voila.

This evening I was just getting over the disappointment of finding out that there would be no showing of Champions League football on TF1 when Pierre shouted from the street that a game of boules was imminent and that I really should join them immediately at the grandly named Boulodrome at the top of the hill, conveniently located across the road from the Makhila bar.

So I left my dinner cooking slowly in the oven and went up the road to lose heavily at boules to Bob, who was in inspired form with his balls - and that probably hasn't happened very often. Naturally, we partook of some wine, courtesy of Bob, and Jos and Cathy bought some baguette and saucisse and camembert for an impropmtu picnic.

It's the taking part, apparently. My own boules and much practice will soon be in evidence, I'm sure, if my forced jollity on losing badly is to be sustained. I am English and, therefore, will be a gracious loser, but it doesn't mean I like the experience. Oh dear, I feel a new obsession coming on !

Imagine my frustration when I got back home to find that in the eight Champions League games this evening, 36 goals were scored including 5 by Arsenal, 3 by Man Utd and 5 by Lyon, who I would undoubtedly have been watching if there had been a game on French TV.

'Merde', is all I can say to that.