Now that I have got my typing fingers back I really feel that I should keep on with the message so here I am again with more news from the sunny (yes it is still sunny I am very glad to say) Languedoc.
I have been wondering whether to change the look of my blog ever since Debrah said it was really difficult for her to read the white type on the black background. I'm not sure that I'm the best judge because firstly, she is a typographer and I'm not, and secondly, I have managed to get to age 48 without needing glasses but have recently found it very difficult to focus on any words closer than two feet from my eyes, resulting, according to my Irish friend Denis, in a symptom known as tromboning, as I move the words further and closer and further away until they come into focus. I hope I haven't reached the point when all bodily functions start to show signs of fatigue - that would be very depressing.
My much abused, slightly bashed and very trusty old Audi Cabriolet- or builders van as it is otherwise known - is showing the same signs of fatigue and nearly lost it's exhaust over the vicious speed hump at the exit of the Tridome builders yard, laden down with 100kg of sand and gravel and four 2.6m lengths of plasterboard (cut to size so that they fit in the back of the open top). It now has a piece of electrical wire holding the end of the exhaust to the underside of the chassis as the original fixing seems to have parted company somewhere along the wayside.
"I need to take it to the French equivalent of KwikFit", I said.
"If I come back in a years time, it will still be held on by wire", said the genius.
"Er, probably", I replied.
I can't seem to get the car to the menders any quicker than I can get myself there. Perhaps we shall both continue to soldier along and grow old disgracefully together.
Anyway, the blog stays as it is because I like it.
It was another beautiful sunrise this morning and, knowing that there was a 'brocante' just down the road and that the best stuff really does get snapped up in the first hour, we hauled ourselves out of bed and spent an hour or so looking at everybody's tat and shite that the venders expected people like us to part with good money for - and part with good money we did, of course, and not on anything that anyone could have predicted. We handled many decanters and glasses and mirrors and enquired about a couple of overpriced tables and toyed with some old school posters because they were 'graphically' very interesting. We ignored the old computers with less power than my mobile phone and the scary dolls staring out of boxes and the equally scary old farm and kitchen implements.
We came home with as random a list of items as anyone could imagine - an, obviously, out of date 1970's blue guide to the Languedoc Roussillon region, a foie gras cutter, a large silver serving tray, a small bust of Napolean (which is staring at me from the kitchen mantlepiece as I type) and a French published text in English of Macbeth with associated notes. What a brilliantly unpredicatable and fabulous set of purchases.
Later, we went to find some new river swimming spots that had been recommended, a while back, by my friend Herve. We found them both in a beautiful valley in the mountains south of Carcassonne and had an equally lovely drive back home with superbly impressive views of the Pyrenees and then the Cite. It made us both feel very sad that we have to return to London tomorrow and leave this idyllic place - but needs must.
When we got home I logged on to do our online check-ins and discovered that we are booked on different flights back to London tomorrow - how dipsy is that? We better get our act together before the paying guests arrive.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Saturday, 1 September 2007
August Madness
Well, it has been a while since I last reported on life in the 'supposedly' sunny Languedoc. I am not sure why it has taken me almost a month to let you all know what has been going on - maybe the weather has been getting me down. I know that it has probably been better here than in many places, after all we didn't have floods or an earthquake or a hurricane, but I was promised 300 days of sunshine a year and it is now two thirds of the way through 2007 and by my estimation we've had about 110 days so far this year which leaves me feeling considerably short-changed in the weather department. Three days of sun then five days of rain etc etc - what is going on?
The weather hasn't been the only excitement since I last put finger to keyboard - manufacturing of the first trial units is underway for my London work, 'the genius' is back earlier than expected from the US and is already making giant inroads into the studio renovation, which is just as well because we have confirmed bookings for studio and apartment for New Year (Oh my God! - paying guests - help!) and we have celebrated our wedding anniversary, my birthday and Debrah's birthday in the last two weeks and had a house full of guests over the August bank holiday weekend which coincided with the Spanish festival here in Carcassonne. It is definitely all go and very full on which is just how I want it to continue - so fingers crossed and rub the lucky rabbits paw against the lucky horseshoe and hope for the best - what were the lottery numbers last week?
So, taking each of those excitements in turn - I am completely thrilled that finally we are manufacturing the first trial units for my London work and feel especially happy for my very good friends Giovanna and Vincent, who have put so much of their lives and effort and money into this brilliant project. We just need to get through this trial stage and then I know we will sell quadrillions of these things to everyone round the world - I am not exaggerating, it is what I believe.
'The genius' had to return from the US earlier than both he and I expected, for various reasons, which I think may be beneficial to us both in the end. It means, for me, that he is back here and working flat out on the studio renovation and, I hope, a few final tidying up bits on the work he has done before. The current plan is that he will have finished all by the end of October, which gives me a few weeks to sort out any last minute issues, for Debrah to furnish and prettify and for us to generally get our act together about potentially paying guests turning up and expecting hospitality of some sort!
August is an absolutely ridiculous month from a 'special dates' point of view. It starts with my daughter's birthday on the 3rd and ends with my mother's birthday on the 30th and in between is our wedding anniversary, my birthday, Debrah's birthday and the birthdays of a least four close friends, all of whom usually get forgotten in the general melee. Timing is all and this year it just so happened that I was able to surprise Debrah on our anniversary and take her out for a fabulous impromptu seafood lunch which was divine. Unfortunately, my birthday was spent cleaning and shopping ahead of the arrival of a weekend full of guests, which couldn't be helped and is something I better get used to - but we still managed to find time for a lovely dinner together at a new-ish restaurant in Carcassonne that is rapidly becoming a favourite.
Debrah, the wonderful lucky lady that she is, got 35 degree sunshine, a picnic by the river at Lagrasse, a house full of guests who danced and drank, and sang in several languages. How marvellous - but I enjoyed their company and humour and bonhomie as much as Debrah so treated it as my own whilst revelling in her pleasure.
On the day before her birthday we had intended to take in the highlight of the Spanish festival - Chico and the Gypsies - formerly/related to the Gypsy Kings of early 90's fame - but somehow got waylaid at the Makhila bar ' bodega' and drank copious amounts of so-called rose wine out of plastic cups poured from a plastic milk bottle - a very very large number of which accumulated, embarrasingly, under our plastic table. Des fell off his plastic chair; I walked Debrah home but returned to the crime scene; Aib had to walk/carry Anna home; 'the genius' went walkabout; Gary bought us all calvados to go on top of the anti-freeze and then had two pills dropped in his drink and absolutely everyone had a hangover the next day !!
A fantastically good time was had by all involved, I believe, which is how I intend life here in Carcassonne, in the Languedoc, in the South of France, to continue.
The weather hasn't been the only excitement since I last put finger to keyboard - manufacturing of the first trial units is underway for my London work, 'the genius' is back earlier than expected from the US and is already making giant inroads into the studio renovation, which is just as well because we have confirmed bookings for studio and apartment for New Year (Oh my God! - paying guests - help!) and we have celebrated our wedding anniversary, my birthday and Debrah's birthday in the last two weeks and had a house full of guests over the August bank holiday weekend which coincided with the Spanish festival here in Carcassonne. It is definitely all go and very full on which is just how I want it to continue - so fingers crossed and rub the lucky rabbits paw against the lucky horseshoe and hope for the best - what were the lottery numbers last week?
So, taking each of those excitements in turn - I am completely thrilled that finally we are manufacturing the first trial units for my London work and feel especially happy for my very good friends Giovanna and Vincent, who have put so much of their lives and effort and money into this brilliant project. We just need to get through this trial stage and then I know we will sell quadrillions of these things to everyone round the world - I am not exaggerating, it is what I believe.
'The genius' had to return from the US earlier than both he and I expected, for various reasons, which I think may be beneficial to us both in the end. It means, for me, that he is back here and working flat out on the studio renovation and, I hope, a few final tidying up bits on the work he has done before. The current plan is that he will have finished all by the end of October, which gives me a few weeks to sort out any last minute issues, for Debrah to furnish and prettify and for us to generally get our act together about potentially paying guests turning up and expecting hospitality of some sort!
August is an absolutely ridiculous month from a 'special dates' point of view. It starts with my daughter's birthday on the 3rd and ends with my mother's birthday on the 30th and in between is our wedding anniversary, my birthday, Debrah's birthday and the birthdays of a least four close friends, all of whom usually get forgotten in the general melee. Timing is all and this year it just so happened that I was able to surprise Debrah on our anniversary and take her out for a fabulous impromptu seafood lunch which was divine. Unfortunately, my birthday was spent cleaning and shopping ahead of the arrival of a weekend full of guests, which couldn't be helped and is something I better get used to - but we still managed to find time for a lovely dinner together at a new-ish restaurant in Carcassonne that is rapidly becoming a favourite.
Debrah, the wonderful lucky lady that she is, got 35 degree sunshine, a picnic by the river at Lagrasse, a house full of guests who danced and drank, and sang in several languages. How marvellous - but I enjoyed their company and humour and bonhomie as much as Debrah so treated it as my own whilst revelling in her pleasure.
On the day before her birthday we had intended to take in the highlight of the Spanish festival - Chico and the Gypsies - formerly/related to the Gypsy Kings of early 90's fame - but somehow got waylaid at the Makhila bar ' bodega' and drank copious amounts of so-called rose wine out of plastic cups poured from a plastic milk bottle - a very very large number of which accumulated, embarrasingly, under our plastic table. Des fell off his plastic chair; I walked Debrah home but returned to the crime scene; Aib had to walk/carry Anna home; 'the genius' went walkabout; Gary bought us all calvados to go on top of the anti-freeze and then had two pills dropped in his drink and absolutely everyone had a hangover the next day !!
A fantastically good time was had by all involved, I believe, which is how I intend life here in Carcassonne, in the Languedoc, in the South of France, to continue.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Small town - Small World
The last few days have thrown up an example of the small town nature and thinking of this, well, small town, whilst amply demonstrating at the same time what a very small world we now live in. I have spoken to people connected to Siberia, Senegal, Australia, the USA, Canada, Italy, Spain, Ireland, Scotland, England and, of course, France - there is also an oblique reference to Mexico but it's very tenuous.
Earlier in the week I bumped into my friend Pierre, who runs a business called Highlander, which sells a so-called British style to the French, through his shop and online. He is selling off his bigger furniture items and has put the shop up for sale because almost all his business is now done online. The road where his shop is situated, although only one block from the Place Carnot, is virtually deserted, with every other business already closed and he doesn't fancy his chances of obtaining a quick sale. Despite the investment into the town's infrastructure and the renovation of the buildings in the Bastide, many small businesses are finding that they can't compete with the out-of-town stores that continue to spring up - I read the other day about another 40 sites being released for just such stuff - so in that respect it is no different to the UK. The traditional French town centre is changing with more bars and restaurants and estate agents and less of the quaint specialist shops. I will be disappointed if shops such as La Boutonnerie or La Chapellerie or even, although I would never shop there, Pantashop, the shop for all your trouser needs, had to close.
But I have digressed. I mention Pierre because he is not a Carcassonnais and he was in a rare old fit of pique when I met him. There is a group that meets regularly on a Saturday lunchtime for a glass of wine, a spot of lunch and much 'bonhomie'. I am not here every Saturday but when I can I get down there to join them. Debrah calls them a bunch a middle-aged losers - not that I have said that to Pierre, who is one of the group - and indeed without their acquaintance I would not have met Patrick, who Debrah likes a lot and who returned to Chicago earlier this week.
I was not here last Saturday but apparently it was a jolly old time. A seven piece brass 'banda' was entertaining the clientele, the sun was out and the wine was flowing. Pierre thought the music should continue, so popped back to his shop, just down the road, for his guitar. An impromptu session sprung up and an Irish family of musicians, on holiday in the town and sat at the next table, joined in the jam session. (In my mind they were either all wearing white polo neck sweaters even though it was 35 degrees, or they were sisters who looked uncannily the same - but Pierre assures me they were neither). The bar owner, Richard (say it with a French accent), was very happy and gave them all free drinks as they entertained a lunchtime crowd that stayed longer than normal and much much fun was had by everyone.
Well actually, not everyone, because a letter appeared in the local paper - La Depeche - on Tuesday, complaining about the bunch of old tuneless drunks causing a commotion and disturbing the peace. Angry of Carcassonne, no doubt. Pierre was livid - "What do the people of this town want?", he ranted - "a prosperous town or shall we go back to the middle ages?" His anger was partly fuelled by his business predicament and a belief that there is an influential minority who don't want change or the influx of visitors and their money. "I have never been accepted here", he said. I feel a bit for him - he is caught in the middle between being an outsider and not being out of town - he is right to take his business online. He wrote a reply to La Depeche and we await further developments. I would love it to grow into a full scale slanging match because I think the debate would be good for the place. I told Pierre he should tell the paper to publish where they would be playing or disturbing the peace next - a list of dates and venues should start the debate off nicely.
On Thursday evening I was invited for an aperitif chez Herve, who I also met through the above mentioned lunchtime group. He is an interesting man, born in Carcassonne, but lived in Senegal for fifteen years or so as a child, then back to various parts of France and finally home here. He says he is a gardener but I have never seen soil on his hands. I know he used to work in the pharmaceuticals industry here in France and he seems to know everything that is going on in the town. He is also incredibly kind - as are most people that I have met here - in the last two days he has dropped a CD through my post box because he thought I would like it and, the next day, hand-written directions including diagrams of a new place that I could go river swimming, because I mentioned once in conversation that I really enjoyed it as opposed to the sea or swimming pools because it was cleaner and fresher and had no salt or chlorine - just fish.
So it was that myself, Pierre and Canadian Dave (he's called that because his name is David and he's from Canada) rolled up to Herve's appartment for aperitifs. There we were introduced to, amongst others, Olivier and his lady friend. I say lady friend because she was the epitome of what that phrase means - i.e. someone who you wouldn't expect to be with someone but they are obviously a couple - and because I can't for the life of me remember what her name was, but then I'm really bad at names, especially Siberian ones! This lady came from Siberia and spoke a fraction of English and no French but understood some French and most English. She came from the region of Yakut in Eastern Siberia and, to me, had the appearance of a Mongolian, which I guess makes sense and helps to pinpoint her origin. She was a dancer in a traditional dance troupe that had toured the world, including Carcassonne, which she really liked, and where she had met Olivier. She had bought some Yakut wine with her for us to try, which I'm glad to say was really not bad at all - I'm pleased she didn't bring the distilled horse milk which is the traditional drink of her tribe and is best drunk hot and frothy!, although it might give a different slant to a 'cafe creme'.
Olivier was a Carcassonnais who spoke English, with a French accent, very slowly to her and French with a French accent very quickly to me - why he couldn't work out, despite my polite requests, that he needed to speak slower to me as well, I don't know. Olivier looked like Sacha Coen trying to do a really obvious interpretation of a Mexican bandit - his jet black hair had the appearance of a bad wig and a drooping moustache completed the look - he just needed the hat and chewed cigar.
On Friday Ken came back to see me and start work on the unfinished bits of the main appartment. Ken is a former Californian policeman with a half French/US wife - they decided France was better than the USA and have settled here - good choice. She runs a business in town selling tea and coffee, but has recently put the shop up for sale to concentrate on the more lucrative online business (sounds familiar) and he works as an odd-job man which is perfect for us just now. We will see how he goes. When we did some renovations on our house in London a few years back we had an excellent builder who could do anything and his name was also Ken - on my mobile his number was listed under Ken Fixit. Maybe new Ken will become 'Ken Fixit2'.
I have spent most of this week on the phone or email sorting out London work - well I say London, but actually no-one was in London - the MD was in Bilbao, the manufacturer and our technical director are based in Sussex, the inventor practices in Suffolk, the material supplier is in Australia and I was here in Carcassonnne. Even our legal advisor was quitting London for holidays in rural France and gave me his mobile and Skype details so that I could reach him all week! - people just don't do unobtainable holidays anymore.
On Friday evening I went out for dinner with Dennis to a restaurant called L'Endroit, in the centre of town. It was a beautiful evening and we sat at a table on the edge of the street, breathing in the car fumes, watching the sky turn from blue to black and the stars appear, drinking Minervois La Liviniere - the best Minervois there is. and eating roast pigeon. Our charming waitress was born in Carcassonne to Italian and Spanish parents and had worked in London for four years at Nobu restaurant in the Metropolitan Hotel on Park Lane. I asked what had brought her back here when she could have gone anywhere with her experience and she replied "I missed Carcassonne, I like it here". I can't disagree with that at all.
Earlier in the week I bumped into my friend Pierre, who runs a business called Highlander, which sells a so-called British style to the French, through his shop and online. He is selling off his bigger furniture items and has put the shop up for sale because almost all his business is now done online. The road where his shop is situated, although only one block from the Place Carnot, is virtually deserted, with every other business already closed and he doesn't fancy his chances of obtaining a quick sale. Despite the investment into the town's infrastructure and the renovation of the buildings in the Bastide, many small businesses are finding that they can't compete with the out-of-town stores that continue to spring up - I read the other day about another 40 sites being released for just such stuff - so in that respect it is no different to the UK. The traditional French town centre is changing with more bars and restaurants and estate agents and less of the quaint specialist shops. I will be disappointed if shops such as La Boutonnerie or La Chapellerie or even, although I would never shop there, Pantashop, the shop for all your trouser needs, had to close.
But I have digressed. I mention Pierre because he is not a Carcassonnais and he was in a rare old fit of pique when I met him. There is a group that meets regularly on a Saturday lunchtime for a glass of wine, a spot of lunch and much 'bonhomie'. I am not here every Saturday but when I can I get down there to join them. Debrah calls them a bunch a middle-aged losers - not that I have said that to Pierre, who is one of the group - and indeed without their acquaintance I would not have met Patrick, who Debrah likes a lot and who returned to Chicago earlier this week.
I was not here last Saturday but apparently it was a jolly old time. A seven piece brass 'banda' was entertaining the clientele, the sun was out and the wine was flowing. Pierre thought the music should continue, so popped back to his shop, just down the road, for his guitar. An impromptu session sprung up and an Irish family of musicians, on holiday in the town and sat at the next table, joined in the jam session. (In my mind they were either all wearing white polo neck sweaters even though it was 35 degrees, or they were sisters who looked uncannily the same - but Pierre assures me they were neither). The bar owner, Richard (say it with a French accent), was very happy and gave them all free drinks as they entertained a lunchtime crowd that stayed longer than normal and much much fun was had by everyone.
Well actually, not everyone, because a letter appeared in the local paper - La Depeche - on Tuesday, complaining about the bunch of old tuneless drunks causing a commotion and disturbing the peace. Angry of Carcassonne, no doubt. Pierre was livid - "What do the people of this town want?", he ranted - "a prosperous town or shall we go back to the middle ages?" His anger was partly fuelled by his business predicament and a belief that there is an influential minority who don't want change or the influx of visitors and their money. "I have never been accepted here", he said. I feel a bit for him - he is caught in the middle between being an outsider and not being out of town - he is right to take his business online. He wrote a reply to La Depeche and we await further developments. I would love it to grow into a full scale slanging match because I think the debate would be good for the place. I told Pierre he should tell the paper to publish where they would be playing or disturbing the peace next - a list of dates and venues should start the debate off nicely.
On Thursday evening I was invited for an aperitif chez Herve, who I also met through the above mentioned lunchtime group. He is an interesting man, born in Carcassonne, but lived in Senegal for fifteen years or so as a child, then back to various parts of France and finally home here. He says he is a gardener but I have never seen soil on his hands. I know he used to work in the pharmaceuticals industry here in France and he seems to know everything that is going on in the town. He is also incredibly kind - as are most people that I have met here - in the last two days he has dropped a CD through my post box because he thought I would like it and, the next day, hand-written directions including diagrams of a new place that I could go river swimming, because I mentioned once in conversation that I really enjoyed it as opposed to the sea or swimming pools because it was cleaner and fresher and had no salt or chlorine - just fish.
So it was that myself, Pierre and Canadian Dave (he's called that because his name is David and he's from Canada) rolled up to Herve's appartment for aperitifs. There we were introduced to, amongst others, Olivier and his lady friend. I say lady friend because she was the epitome of what that phrase means - i.e. someone who you wouldn't expect to be with someone but they are obviously a couple - and because I can't for the life of me remember what her name was, but then I'm really bad at names, especially Siberian ones! This lady came from Siberia and spoke a fraction of English and no French but understood some French and most English. She came from the region of Yakut in Eastern Siberia and, to me, had the appearance of a Mongolian, which I guess makes sense and helps to pinpoint her origin. She was a dancer in a traditional dance troupe that had toured the world, including Carcassonne, which she really liked, and where she had met Olivier. She had bought some Yakut wine with her for us to try, which I'm glad to say was really not bad at all - I'm pleased she didn't bring the distilled horse milk which is the traditional drink of her tribe and is best drunk hot and frothy!, although it might give a different slant to a 'cafe creme'.
Olivier was a Carcassonnais who spoke English, with a French accent, very slowly to her and French with a French accent very quickly to me - why he couldn't work out, despite my polite requests, that he needed to speak slower to me as well, I don't know. Olivier looked like Sacha Coen trying to do a really obvious interpretation of a Mexican bandit - his jet black hair had the appearance of a bad wig and a drooping moustache completed the look - he just needed the hat and chewed cigar.
On Friday Ken came back to see me and start work on the unfinished bits of the main appartment. Ken is a former Californian policeman with a half French/US wife - they decided France was better than the USA and have settled here - good choice. She runs a business in town selling tea and coffee, but has recently put the shop up for sale to concentrate on the more lucrative online business (sounds familiar) and he works as an odd-job man which is perfect for us just now. We will see how he goes. When we did some renovations on our house in London a few years back we had an excellent builder who could do anything and his name was also Ken - on my mobile his number was listed under Ken Fixit. Maybe new Ken will become 'Ken Fixit2'.
I have spent most of this week on the phone or email sorting out London work - well I say London, but actually no-one was in London - the MD was in Bilbao, the manufacturer and our technical director are based in Sussex, the inventor practices in Suffolk, the material supplier is in Australia and I was here in Carcassonnne. Even our legal advisor was quitting London for holidays in rural France and gave me his mobile and Skype details so that I could reach him all week! - people just don't do unobtainable holidays anymore.
On Friday evening I went out for dinner with Dennis to a restaurant called L'Endroit, in the centre of town. It was a beautiful evening and we sat at a table on the edge of the street, breathing in the car fumes, watching the sky turn from blue to black and the stars appear, drinking Minervois La Liviniere - the best Minervois there is. and eating roast pigeon. Our charming waitress was born in Carcassonne to Italian and Spanish parents and had worked in London for four years at Nobu restaurant in the Metropolitan Hotel on Park Lane. I asked what had brought her back here when she could have gone anywhere with her experience and she replied "I missed Carcassonne, I like it here". I can't disagree with that at all.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
The Delivery
They said it would be Wednesday morning, so I was up bright and early to prepare for the arrival of our new big shiny double doored 'Refrigerateur Americain'. We had purchased it last week for an unbelievably good price because it was 'Affaire de la Semaine' (offer of the week) at Geant, one of our big out of town supermarkets that sells pretty much everything.
So I shifted the existing fridge over to a different wall and cleaned the area in preparation. By now it was past 8am, and therefore too late to pop out for a paper or jump in the shower because that would have risked missing the delivery, which would have meant having to reorganise the whole thing on the telephone, probably with the man with the indecipherable and uncomprehensible accent. It doesn't help that my doorbell is not the loudest in the world and I have been known to miss it altogether, especially if I am listening to music.
I sat at the kitchen table in silence working on my computer, made a couple of phone calls re work, drank copious cups of coffee and jumped up to look out of the window every time I thought I heard a van pull up outside (which was quite often). The morning seemed to drag by very slowly but still no delivery and eventually the morning was over and the bells were chiming for midday - no chance of anything now until after 2pm.
Had I missed them or had they not been? I had some lunch and pondered what to do. Actually, having some lunch was just a delaying tactic before facing the inevitable telephone call to find out what was going on. I worked out what I needed to say and finally dialled the number just after two. As always, it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated - from main switchboard to electrical goods to delivery department everyone understood me and I understood them and finally a very cheery and most importantly, an understandingly slow speaking woman told me their was no problem and they were just on their way now with the fridge. Ahh - so that will be an early afternoon type of morning delivery then.
Ten minutes later the telephone rang and the accent was back. He could have been speaking Swahili or Finnish as far as I was concerned because I didn't understand one word of his thickly accented French, which is what I presume he was using. As I had just spoken to their office and knew they were coming I just said "Oui, D'accord" and he said, I think, "A bientot". We exchanged 'Au revoirs' and ten minutes after he had pulled up outside and was causing a traffic jam down the street.
He was a rather portly man with a thick greying moustache, which did nothing for the clarity of his speech. He was already sweating profusely and so far, all they had done is get it out of the van and onto the pavement using the tailgate hoist. His sidekick was a very thin pale youth with round spectacles who didn't look like he could pick up a toaster on his own, never mind move a huge double door american style fridge freezer. I had concerns. The lead guy was by now chattering and complaining and waving his arms in the air about their being nowhere to park and the traffic backed up having no patience (all were by now leaning on their horns) and the distance to the front door and the fact that I lived on the first floor. At least, that's what it looked like.
Actually I just think he was one of those men who is constantly grumbling and chatting and complaining and that's what keeps him going through the day - but he does need to calm down. He looked to me like a classic candidate for a heart attack. His sidekick never said a word - either didn't have the energy of more likely just sits in the van every day listening to the other guy unable to get a word in. But the fridge did have wheels and so only needing lifting up the stairs, which with me helping was no problem really and then it was very easily rolled into place. I'm not sure what the fuss was all about. After I had signed the delivery note and given out drinks of water everyone was all smiles and handshakes and 'un tres joli appartment' and off they went.
The big new beast changes the kitchen dynamic. The old fridge always looked a bit small in this vast space but the new one looks like it is fulfilling it's destiny. It is stood against the end wall of the kitchen, in shape and size rather like one of those early mainframe computers from a 1960's movie. In contrast the old fridge looks like it's cowering in the corner, somewhat in awe of the new arrival. At least it still has my food and drink to look after for now, but that will change in the morning when the new one is up, or rather, down to temperature and the handover will take place before the old fridge gets put to one side for a while. When the studio conversion has been done we will put it to good use for our visitors.
I am now the proud owner of five fridges of varying sizes here in France and one in London - you could say we are a bit overfridged.
So I shifted the existing fridge over to a different wall and cleaned the area in preparation. By now it was past 8am, and therefore too late to pop out for a paper or jump in the shower because that would have risked missing the delivery, which would have meant having to reorganise the whole thing on the telephone, probably with the man with the indecipherable and uncomprehensible accent. It doesn't help that my doorbell is not the loudest in the world and I have been known to miss it altogether, especially if I am listening to music.
I sat at the kitchen table in silence working on my computer, made a couple of phone calls re work, drank copious cups of coffee and jumped up to look out of the window every time I thought I heard a van pull up outside (which was quite often). The morning seemed to drag by very slowly but still no delivery and eventually the morning was over and the bells were chiming for midday - no chance of anything now until after 2pm.
Had I missed them or had they not been? I had some lunch and pondered what to do. Actually, having some lunch was just a delaying tactic before facing the inevitable telephone call to find out what was going on. I worked out what I needed to say and finally dialled the number just after two. As always, it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated - from main switchboard to electrical goods to delivery department everyone understood me and I understood them and finally a very cheery and most importantly, an understandingly slow speaking woman told me their was no problem and they were just on their way now with the fridge. Ahh - so that will be an early afternoon type of morning delivery then.
Ten minutes later the telephone rang and the accent was back. He could have been speaking Swahili or Finnish as far as I was concerned because I didn't understand one word of his thickly accented French, which is what I presume he was using. As I had just spoken to their office and knew they were coming I just said "Oui, D'accord" and he said, I think, "A bientot". We exchanged 'Au revoirs' and ten minutes after he had pulled up outside and was causing a traffic jam down the street.
He was a rather portly man with a thick greying moustache, which did nothing for the clarity of his speech. He was already sweating profusely and so far, all they had done is get it out of the van and onto the pavement using the tailgate hoist. His sidekick was a very thin pale youth with round spectacles who didn't look like he could pick up a toaster on his own, never mind move a huge double door american style fridge freezer. I had concerns. The lead guy was by now chattering and complaining and waving his arms in the air about their being nowhere to park and the traffic backed up having no patience (all were by now leaning on their horns) and the distance to the front door and the fact that I lived on the first floor. At least, that's what it looked like.
Actually I just think he was one of those men who is constantly grumbling and chatting and complaining and that's what keeps him going through the day - but he does need to calm down. He looked to me like a classic candidate for a heart attack. His sidekick never said a word - either didn't have the energy of more likely just sits in the van every day listening to the other guy unable to get a word in. But the fridge did have wheels and so only needing lifting up the stairs, which with me helping was no problem really and then it was very easily rolled into place. I'm not sure what the fuss was all about. After I had signed the delivery note and given out drinks of water everyone was all smiles and handshakes and 'un tres joli appartment' and off they went.
The big new beast changes the kitchen dynamic. The old fridge always looked a bit small in this vast space but the new one looks like it is fulfilling it's destiny. It is stood against the end wall of the kitchen, in shape and size rather like one of those early mainframe computers from a 1960's movie. In contrast the old fridge looks like it's cowering in the corner, somewhat in awe of the new arrival. At least it still has my food and drink to look after for now, but that will change in the morning when the new one is up, or rather, down to temperature and the handover will take place before the old fridge gets put to one side for a while. When the studio conversion has been done we will put it to good use for our visitors.
I am now the proud owner of five fridges of varying sizes here in France and one in London - you could say we are a bit overfridged.
Monday, 30 July 2007
Back in France
Having had to stay in France to ensure some work deadlines were met, it feels as if we sneaked a few extra days in the sun while England sank under a torrent of rain. As a consequence we missed Rosa and David's wedding in the Lake District and I am still feeling very guilty about that but there is nothing I can do about it now. I hope they understand and look forward to welcoming them here for an on-the-house special break in the Languedoc.
The extra days didn't change the need to get our Renault back to the UK, so late on Friday evening we set off to drive the length of France overnight. It was a good plan in most respects - the roads heading north were mostly empty whilst the southbound lanes were full (the French holidays started at the weekend), there were no traffic jams around Paris and we arrived back in the UK early on a Saturday morning with no weekday rush hour traffic to contend with - as a result we were home by 9,30am. The downside as before is arriving feeling slightly out of body, awake but not aware, in motion but acting on autopilot, seeing everything at a distance. For Debrah this meant getting into bed and staying there for the rest of the day - quite right. Unfortunately for me it meant a couple of hours sleep before going into the office for a handover with Giovanna, the company MD, who was departing on her summer break early the next morning.
At least I had a quiet Sunday reading the papers, watching meaningless sport on the TV, cooking food and drinking wine - it's good to get a proper UK weekend into my life now and again - although this being summer there was no football on the telly and this being Britain there was no live cricket on the telly unless you have paid vast amounts of money to Rupert Murdoch for the privilege which I am still not prepared to do - so touring cars and rugby league it was - better than nothing, better than horse racing or athletics or big brother which were the other alternatives.
The point being that if I can't watch footie and cricket in the UK, I may as well be in France where I can't ever watch cricket and the standard of football is, well, modest, by comparison (not that it stops me watching it of course).
So on Monday morning I made the journey back here to France through Stansted Airport where, at the time of year when they have the most customers passing through the airport because of holidays they have the least number of security/scanning lines in operation thereby causing massive queues and maximum anxiety amongst travellers. Good effort BAA - which management school did you guys go to - obviously not one of the better ones which would have told you that more customers need more staff, not the opposite as you seem to suppose.
After three weeks of visitors and, most importantly, after three weeks of being here with Debrah, the appartment feels very big and empty without her. Don't get me wrong, I love it here. Today the weather was just as the last day of July should be in the Languedoc - it was cloudless and windless and very very hot. The market was full of the usual array of sweet smelling melons and peaches and fresh herbs and green beans and tomatoes. But Debrah wasn't by my side as I walked around the stalls. I acknowledged a 'bonjour' from the man who is always there selling fresh eggs and goats cheese even though today I bought nothing from him. I got the same happy welcoming smile and greeting as I always do from the young lady with the best melons in the market. Even so, it wasn't quite right - come back to France soon, honey - it's so much better here with you than without you.
Last night was the last night of the July festival with, supposedly, a concert by a group called Superbus, who have sold a surprising number of records (what an old fashioned term that is) and whom I was quite looking forward to seeing. Alas, on account of a lack of voice/sore throat the concert was called off at the last minute. The cynics (aka my friend Daniel who I bumped into whilst staring at the empty stage) suggested that having very recently had a number one hit in France and this being an unpaid festival the group had pulled out on account of not being able to get into their boots anymore. Who knows? - presumably they weren't available for comment as they couldn't speak - but apparently a new date is being arranged.
All of which meant I ended up spending the evening in the Place Carnot with Daniel and his lovely wife Cecile and their two charming childern and later on, Daniel's parents who had been up to the final concert of the official festival held in the Cite and performed by Joe Cocker - not for me which is why I wasn't there. Daniel and Cecile are a lovely couple, but are also one of those parnerships where roles have been reversed in this modern world - she is French and has a very successful career that involves quite a lot of travelling - he is English and has given up his job in favour of her and now looks after the kids at home. I suspect Debrah might be a bit cross about that but when she meets them, soon I hope, she will realise what lovely people they are.
In my last post I touched on the difficulties of understanding the locals - something which still taxes my very Parisian neighbour. Today I had a phonecall from somebody at the delivery company for our new double door American style super-dooper massive fridge (we bought it last week when it was offer of the week "affaire du semaine' and a good €400 less than list price - what a bargain). Well, I could hardly understand a word this guy said to me on account of his extremely strong accent. I asked him to speak slowly. I asked him to repeat himself please. I apologised and told him I was English and didn't speak the language well. This seemed to strike a chord because he said "Ce n'est pas grave" in a very matter of fact deeply accented way. Blimey - a Frenchman who thinks it's not a serious problem that I don't speak the language very well is indeed a man to deal with - and eventually I got the words 'demain matin' or in local dialect ' dermanurr matanurr' or in English tomorrow morning. Good -new fridge arrives tomorrow - fantastiqurr!
That's about it for today - except that there is a bit of a music competition going on in the street at the moment, brought about by the lovely weather, resulting in an open window as opposed to a closed shutter policy. My North African neighbours up the street have given up a bit early with the rap music - they turned it off of their own accord which suggests they are actually some well brought up boys who don't want to disturb their neighbours or certainly don't want anyone to tell their dad about it! The ladies directly across the street have been playing full on belt it out theatre music - phantom of the opera, striesand etc - did anyone say lesbian?, and the young lad with the karaoke machine seems to have a different entourage each night murdering a succession of unknown French hits and the occassional barely recognisable UK or US number one - it was never a classic but 'Don't go breaking my heart' will never be the same again.
The extra days didn't change the need to get our Renault back to the UK, so late on Friday evening we set off to drive the length of France overnight. It was a good plan in most respects - the roads heading north were mostly empty whilst the southbound lanes were full (the French holidays started at the weekend), there were no traffic jams around Paris and we arrived back in the UK early on a Saturday morning with no weekday rush hour traffic to contend with - as a result we were home by 9,30am. The downside as before is arriving feeling slightly out of body, awake but not aware, in motion but acting on autopilot, seeing everything at a distance. For Debrah this meant getting into bed and staying there for the rest of the day - quite right. Unfortunately for me it meant a couple of hours sleep before going into the office for a handover with Giovanna, the company MD, who was departing on her summer break early the next morning.
At least I had a quiet Sunday reading the papers, watching meaningless sport on the TV, cooking food and drinking wine - it's good to get a proper UK weekend into my life now and again - although this being summer there was no football on the telly and this being Britain there was no live cricket on the telly unless you have paid vast amounts of money to Rupert Murdoch for the privilege which I am still not prepared to do - so touring cars and rugby league it was - better than nothing, better than horse racing or athletics or big brother which were the other alternatives.
The point being that if I can't watch footie and cricket in the UK, I may as well be in France where I can't ever watch cricket and the standard of football is, well, modest, by comparison (not that it stops me watching it of course).
So on Monday morning I made the journey back here to France through Stansted Airport where, at the time of year when they have the most customers passing through the airport because of holidays they have the least number of security/scanning lines in operation thereby causing massive queues and maximum anxiety amongst travellers. Good effort BAA - which management school did you guys go to - obviously not one of the better ones which would have told you that more customers need more staff, not the opposite as you seem to suppose.
After three weeks of visitors and, most importantly, after three weeks of being here with Debrah, the appartment feels very big and empty without her. Don't get me wrong, I love it here. Today the weather was just as the last day of July should be in the Languedoc - it was cloudless and windless and very very hot. The market was full of the usual array of sweet smelling melons and peaches and fresh herbs and green beans and tomatoes. But Debrah wasn't by my side as I walked around the stalls. I acknowledged a 'bonjour' from the man who is always there selling fresh eggs and goats cheese even though today I bought nothing from him. I got the same happy welcoming smile and greeting as I always do from the young lady with the best melons in the market. Even so, it wasn't quite right - come back to France soon, honey - it's so much better here with you than without you.
Last night was the last night of the July festival with, supposedly, a concert by a group called Superbus, who have sold a surprising number of records (what an old fashioned term that is) and whom I was quite looking forward to seeing. Alas, on account of a lack of voice/sore throat the concert was called off at the last minute. The cynics (aka my friend Daniel who I bumped into whilst staring at the empty stage) suggested that having very recently had a number one hit in France and this being an unpaid festival the group had pulled out on account of not being able to get into their boots anymore. Who knows? - presumably they weren't available for comment as they couldn't speak - but apparently a new date is being arranged.
All of which meant I ended up spending the evening in the Place Carnot with Daniel and his lovely wife Cecile and their two charming childern and later on, Daniel's parents who had been up to the final concert of the official festival held in the Cite and performed by Joe Cocker - not for me which is why I wasn't there. Daniel and Cecile are a lovely couple, but are also one of those parnerships where roles have been reversed in this modern world - she is French and has a very successful career that involves quite a lot of travelling - he is English and has given up his job in favour of her and now looks after the kids at home. I suspect Debrah might be a bit cross about that but when she meets them, soon I hope, she will realise what lovely people they are.
In my last post I touched on the difficulties of understanding the locals - something which still taxes my very Parisian neighbour. Today I had a phonecall from somebody at the delivery company for our new double door American style super-dooper massive fridge (we bought it last week when it was offer of the week "affaire du semaine' and a good €400 less than list price - what a bargain). Well, I could hardly understand a word this guy said to me on account of his extremely strong accent. I asked him to speak slowly. I asked him to repeat himself please. I apologised and told him I was English and didn't speak the language well. This seemed to strike a chord because he said "Ce n'est pas grave" in a very matter of fact deeply accented way. Blimey - a Frenchman who thinks it's not a serious problem that I don't speak the language very well is indeed a man to deal with - and eventually I got the words 'demain matin' or in local dialect ' dermanurr matanurr' or in English tomorrow morning. Good -new fridge arrives tomorrow - fantastiqurr!
That's about it for today - except that there is a bit of a music competition going on in the street at the moment, brought about by the lovely weather, resulting in an open window as opposed to a closed shutter policy. My North African neighbours up the street have given up a bit early with the rap music - they turned it off of their own accord which suggests they are actually some well brought up boys who don't want to disturb their neighbours or certainly don't want anyone to tell their dad about it! The ladies directly across the street have been playing full on belt it out theatre music - phantom of the opera, striesand etc - did anyone say lesbian?, and the young lad with the karaoke machine seems to have a different entourage each night murdering a succession of unknown French hits and the occassional barely recognisable UK or US number one - it was never a classic but 'Don't go breaking my heart' will never be the same again.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Brigitte
Sometime over last weekend I bumped into our French neighbour, Brigitte, who lives above us on the second floor. She has always been very friendly and helpful since I first came down here two years ago and she also speaks a good deal of English. We (Debrah and me) have had the occassional get-together with her but hadn't done so for quite a while - so I asked her if she would like to take an aperitif with us sometime this week. The date was set for this evening and she would come with her 'friend' Michel.
Brigitte is a divorcee who doesn't have a kind word to say about her ex-husband, who runs a pharmacy just across the river Aude at the base of the Cite. She has two children, a boy and a girl, much the same age as my own. Her friend, Michel, appears to be the new man on the scene although that is mostly supposition - he owns a couple of holiday appartments and fancies himself as something of a wine expert. The only previous time we met he was trying to blind me with the French myth about wine which he assumed I knew nothing about until I gave him a full description of the French word 'terrior' in French which not only shut him up but probably pissed him off as well.
I am obviously not the only one to piss him off because Brigitte turned up this evening without Michel - they had had a difference of opinion and he had stomped off in a strop and no doubt taken his ball with him. Brigitte didn't seem to care and in her best philosophical franglais announced that "tomorrow eeez anudder day" I get the impression that she has had more than enough of the French male attitude, and probably any male attitude.
Mind you, when I informed Debrah that I had invited them for drinks she was less than enthusiastic if not downright grumpy about the whole thing. She has been a bit grumpy this week because she has had a lot of work to do and not all of it that interesting and the date of our imminent departure is looming, despite having snatched a few extra days. So there was a lot of "you invited them, you sort some food out" followed, this evening, by "why have you done it like that?" and "the sausages aren't piled up the right shape" type comments.
As ever, in the end, all was lovely and all had a very enjoyable evening. Brigitte was on good gossippy form and her and Debrah sipped peach bellinis and smoked fags and laughed a lot while decourously adorning the sofa.
Brigitte explained, that as a Parisienne originally, she found it very difficult to understand the local accent and dialect, and sometimes found it difficult to make herself understood. Good grief! - what chance do us poor Brits have when the French can't understand each other - well, at least I can say "Desolee, je suis Anglais" and get away with it as a foreigner. Brigitte doesn't have that excuse and is probably recognised as a Parisienne divorcee of a good local pillar of the community - no chance really. In fact, nobody from anywhere north of mid-France has stood any sort of chance of being accepted down here after Simon de Montford and the Crusade army had marched all the place in the 12th century slaughtering the Cathars and anyone else who got in their way and nicking their land all in the name of God and Catholicism. There is an 800 year old grudge which shows no sign of abating - I'm convinced that I am more accepted here than anyone from the Ile de France.
So we talked about property prices and the state of the building and the lack of action from the managing agents and what we were going to do about it, and we gossipped about neighbours old and new, and we talked about the new British Prime Minister and the new French President, and our children, and the weather of course, and Carcassonne and the market and the history of the building and so on and so on.
Talking of ex-neighbours as we were - it appears that the so called very respected surgeon that sold the property to us might not have been quite as respectable after all. This appartment wasn't his main residence - oh no - it was kept for 'special' entertaining. There was so much eyebrow raising and side of the nose tapping going on from Brigitte as she explained this that you couldn't help but conclude that our esteemed former owner kept the place as a 'shag pad' - what a short balding moustachioed dark horse he turns out to be! I have seen him once or twice walking up the road casting an eye up to the windows - I always thought he was wondering what we had done to the place but he was probably just reminiscing about some prior conquest.
One great advantage of talking with Brigitte is that she helps me to speak French because she is happy to correct me and help me say what I want to say in the right way, and because she also speaks good English I find it easier to understand where I have gone wrong. At the same time we help her with her English which is very good but not perfect or fluent. 'C'est une nouvelle entente cordialle'
The other thing that Debrah and Brigitte have in common is that they are both tequila monsters. Brigitte recounted her Bastille Day experience this year which included beaucoup de tequila and not remembering anything about the fireworks at all - I think Michel had a bit of a strop that night too. He should lighten up - that's my advice - the ladies on the tequila is a special special thing to be loved and appreciated. I look forward to getting them both in the tequila mood at the same time - that will probably be an exceptional evening . Salut.
Brigitte is a divorcee who doesn't have a kind word to say about her ex-husband, who runs a pharmacy just across the river Aude at the base of the Cite. She has two children, a boy and a girl, much the same age as my own. Her friend, Michel, appears to be the new man on the scene although that is mostly supposition - he owns a couple of holiday appartments and fancies himself as something of a wine expert. The only previous time we met he was trying to blind me with the French myth about wine which he assumed I knew nothing about until I gave him a full description of the French word 'terrior' in French which not only shut him up but probably pissed him off as well.
I am obviously not the only one to piss him off because Brigitte turned up this evening without Michel - they had had a difference of opinion and he had stomped off in a strop and no doubt taken his ball with him. Brigitte didn't seem to care and in her best philosophical franglais announced that "tomorrow eeez anudder day" I get the impression that she has had more than enough of the French male attitude, and probably any male attitude.
Mind you, when I informed Debrah that I had invited them for drinks she was less than enthusiastic if not downright grumpy about the whole thing. She has been a bit grumpy this week because she has had a lot of work to do and not all of it that interesting and the date of our imminent departure is looming, despite having snatched a few extra days. So there was a lot of "you invited them, you sort some food out" followed, this evening, by "why have you done it like that?" and "the sausages aren't piled up the right shape" type comments.
As ever, in the end, all was lovely and all had a very enjoyable evening. Brigitte was on good gossippy form and her and Debrah sipped peach bellinis and smoked fags and laughed a lot while decourously adorning the sofa.
Brigitte explained, that as a Parisienne originally, she found it very difficult to understand the local accent and dialect, and sometimes found it difficult to make herself understood. Good grief! - what chance do us poor Brits have when the French can't understand each other - well, at least I can say "Desolee, je suis Anglais" and get away with it as a foreigner. Brigitte doesn't have that excuse and is probably recognised as a Parisienne divorcee of a good local pillar of the community - no chance really. In fact, nobody from anywhere north of mid-France has stood any sort of chance of being accepted down here after Simon de Montford and the Crusade army had marched all the place in the 12th century slaughtering the Cathars and anyone else who got in their way and nicking their land all in the name of God and Catholicism. There is an 800 year old grudge which shows no sign of abating - I'm convinced that I am more accepted here than anyone from the Ile de France.
So we talked about property prices and the state of the building and the lack of action from the managing agents and what we were going to do about it, and we gossipped about neighbours old and new, and we talked about the new British Prime Minister and the new French President, and our children, and the weather of course, and Carcassonne and the market and the history of the building and so on and so on.
Talking of ex-neighbours as we were - it appears that the so called very respected surgeon that sold the property to us might not have been quite as respectable after all. This appartment wasn't his main residence - oh no - it was kept for 'special' entertaining. There was so much eyebrow raising and side of the nose tapping going on from Brigitte as she explained this that you couldn't help but conclude that our esteemed former owner kept the place as a 'shag pad' - what a short balding moustachioed dark horse he turns out to be! I have seen him once or twice walking up the road casting an eye up to the windows - I always thought he was wondering what we had done to the place but he was probably just reminiscing about some prior conquest.
One great advantage of talking with Brigitte is that she helps me to speak French because she is happy to correct me and help me say what I want to say in the right way, and because she also speaks good English I find it easier to understand where I have gone wrong. At the same time we help her with her English which is very good but not perfect or fluent. 'C'est une nouvelle entente cordialle'
The other thing that Debrah and Brigitte have in common is that they are both tequila monsters. Brigitte recounted her Bastille Day experience this year which included beaucoup de tequila and not remembering anything about the fireworks at all - I think Michel had a bit of a strop that night too. He should lighten up - that's my advice - the ladies on the tequila is a special special thing to be loved and appreciated. I look forward to getting them both in the tequila mood at the same time - that will probably be an exceptional evening . Salut.
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
Weather and work
The ongoing summer of mad weather continues. Watching the internet reports of flooding in the UK is pretty scary as are the equally disturbing reports of 40 degree temperatures in south eastern europe, which makes me think that we have got off pretty lightly down here in the Languedoc. That's not to say that the weather here has been normal or expected but it has at least not been extreme in any way.
It has still been a bit of a shock for the locals who have been donning cardigans and coats and moaning about how cold it is for the time of year. It is all relative, of course. It hasn't been the weather that usually accompanies a Languedoc July and I suspect a lot of people taking their two weeks holiday here will have been disappointed. The wind has blown and the clouds have come and gone and come and gone and the showers have swept through on the back of the strong wind which seems to swing from east to west on a daily basis - when normally this would be a month of unbroken blue skies and 30 plus degree temperatures. Well, today we got just that - a clear blue sky from dawn to dusk, no wind and a fabulous Carcassonne summer's day.
Our extra stolen days in France are great, partly because they feel a bit naughty (even though they are certainly not) and also because we both seem to be able to get through so much more work and still have time for lunch and each other, which we wouldn't be able to do working miles apart in London. So for the last three days we have both been staring at our computer screens and manning our phones and yet enjoying coffee together in the morning, lunch together either at home, or as today just down in the square. We work the same if not longer hours but have more time together. We get everything done we need to achieve as long as the technology is working. How smug do we sound? The only thing we can't do is face to face interaction which can be a problem from time to time - I guess we will have to return to the big city at some point.
In the meantime, the decision to stay a few extra days was a good one. We both had work deadlines that wouldn't have been met if we had taken out 24 hours to drive back to the UK and we have had some good time together after spending many weeks apart earlier in the year. Isn't that nice? - well yes it is actually.
It has still been a bit of a shock for the locals who have been donning cardigans and coats and moaning about how cold it is for the time of year. It is all relative, of course. It hasn't been the weather that usually accompanies a Languedoc July and I suspect a lot of people taking their two weeks holiday here will have been disappointed. The wind has blown and the clouds have come and gone and come and gone and the showers have swept through on the back of the strong wind which seems to swing from east to west on a daily basis - when normally this would be a month of unbroken blue skies and 30 plus degree temperatures. Well, today we got just that - a clear blue sky from dawn to dusk, no wind and a fabulous Carcassonne summer's day.
Our extra stolen days in France are great, partly because they feel a bit naughty (even though they are certainly not) and also because we both seem to be able to get through so much more work and still have time for lunch and each other, which we wouldn't be able to do working miles apart in London. So for the last three days we have both been staring at our computer screens and manning our phones and yet enjoying coffee together in the morning, lunch together either at home, or as today just down in the square. We work the same if not longer hours but have more time together. We get everything done we need to achieve as long as the technology is working. How smug do we sound? The only thing we can't do is face to face interaction which can be a problem from time to time - I guess we will have to return to the big city at some point.
In the meantime, the decision to stay a few extra days was a good one. We both had work deadlines that wouldn't have been met if we had taken out 24 hours to drive back to the UK and we have had some good time together after spending many weeks apart earlier in the year. Isn't that nice? - well yes it is actually.
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