There is no great insight to today's blog - there is nothing deeply profound.
I flew back from Carcassonne to London at lunchtime today to do a couple of days work for my London job.
I went straight into Central London to meet Debrah at her office. We went out for half an hour, in the glorious sunshine, and sat by the Thames on the South Bank eating an ice-cream. Then I drove the car home to North London and she got in a cab to Heathrow to catch a flight to Turkey to do a presentation to a bank.
She comes back on Thursday and I go back to France on Friday morning.
That is absolutely the most rubbish bit of scheduling ever.
As two people who love each other very much and want to spend every waking hour together - it's an absolute nightmare. I'm not sure how this came about but it must never happen again.
Safe journey - I miss you, my darling.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Sunday, 9 September 2007
La Psychologie Francaise
The more that I go back and forth between London and Carcassonne, the more I notice the differences in attitude between the two locations. Some are just down to the difference between big and small town (with a bit of Frenchness thrown in) and some are the difference between the French and the English. Both were demonstrated vividly to me on Friday evening after the ordeal of my delayed arrival in France.
The parking rules in London are draconian - unattended for five minutes in the wrong place and you have a ticket costing £40, ten minutes and you are clamped. My good friend Patrick was telling me last night that it's just the same in Chicago, where he lives most of the time, and where he has just been forced to pay for a permit to park outside his home. All of which make the parking rules here in Carcassonne an absolute joy. Where you do have to pay, it starts at 9.00am and ends at 6.00pm and the two hours of lunch between 12.00 and 2.00 are free, of course. If you buy a 'pay and display' ticket at 11.00am for two hours it will show 3.00pm as your limit, automatically taking into account the two hours of free lunch - how damn civilised is that? I have also been told that if you have paid to park and have a ticket displayed but have run over your time a bit, there is no way you will be given a ticket - I haven't tested this out but, given what follows it's not beyond the realm of truth.
So, after my late arrival on Friday, Chris and I popped down to the square for an early evening 'pression' and a catch-up on work and life. The road around the Place Carnot is quite narrow and parking spaces are few. Also, all drivers know that it is far easier to park by reversing into a space than trying to go in front first.
I didn't see the car coming as I had my back to the traffic flow but I saw it come past me and pull in nose first to the small space outside the pharmacy next to Bar Felix. No chance I thought, as I watched out of the corner of my eye whilst earnestly talking with Chris. Indeed, the driver made no attempt to get into the space and just left the car at 45 degrees to the kerb with it's tail sticking out into the road - a bit of film star parking of the highest grade. Just then I noticed two members of our local law enforcement agency standing opposite, watching every move, resplendent in their navy trousers, polo shirts with 'Police Municipale' emblazoned across the back, baseball caps and with handcuffs and guns on their belts. One of them started across the street just as the driver was getting out of the car. "Ooops", I said to myself and thought "You are in for a bit of a talking to'.
Think again - this is France. The 'PM' walked around the front of the car as the driver shut the door - he removed his cap and kissed the driver on both cheeks, exchanging a warm "Bon Soir" and "Ca Va". She then went into the pharmacy and he resumed his patrol with his colleague and the car remained precariously parked and causing an obstruction. If that doesn't sum up France, I don't know what does?
Later that evening I watched the opening game of the Rugby World Cup, being staged here in France for the first time. I have never known this nation to be so 'up for it' and behind their national team (I wasn't here for the football world cup in 1998 so can't compare). I walked into the bar just before kick-off and the tension was electric. When the French national anthem was played there were people standing up and singing along, which is always a spine-tingling experience when the anthem is as good as 'La Marseillaise', but I have never known it happen before. Mini rugby balls abounded and the 'tricolore' face paint was much in evidence. Even the poor, sole Argentinian fan had to endure the French colours being daubed on his face just after kick-off, but then again, he had the last laugh.
In case you don't know, it didn't quite go to plan and the French lost. Over the course of the two hours the cries of "Allez" became less vocal and by the end of the game the bar was subdued. At the final whistle the bar emptied. The so-called 'sages' were telling us that they knew this was going to happen and a nation uttered "dommage" (shame) or "cauchemar" (nightmare) depending on their point of view. There could not have been a bigger sense of anti-climax. Elsewhere in the world I know the fans would have had another couple or more beers and sang long into the night - in England, or Ireland, Wales, Scotland, South Africa, Australia or New Zealand - but here in France everyone skulked off into the night as if it had never happened or didn't exist - there was no optimism that the next game would be ok, just total I told you so (not) depression.
For myself, well, I wanted to snigger about the very real possibility of the French being knocked out of their home World Cup in the first round but actually, as an Englishman, I have witnessed the fervent national pride and expectation of a nation being extinguished by Argentina far too often - different code but same result - so come on Ireland, stuff the Argies and let the French play on if possible, otherwise the next month might see the promising Sarkozy government fall and a new French revolution!!
The parking rules in London are draconian - unattended for five minutes in the wrong place and you have a ticket costing £40, ten minutes and you are clamped. My good friend Patrick was telling me last night that it's just the same in Chicago, where he lives most of the time, and where he has just been forced to pay for a permit to park outside his home. All of which make the parking rules here in Carcassonne an absolute joy. Where you do have to pay, it starts at 9.00am and ends at 6.00pm and the two hours of lunch between 12.00 and 2.00 are free, of course. If you buy a 'pay and display' ticket at 11.00am for two hours it will show 3.00pm as your limit, automatically taking into account the two hours of free lunch - how damn civilised is that? I have also been told that if you have paid to park and have a ticket displayed but have run over your time a bit, there is no way you will be given a ticket - I haven't tested this out but, given what follows it's not beyond the realm of truth.
So, after my late arrival on Friday, Chris and I popped down to the square for an early evening 'pression' and a catch-up on work and life. The road around the Place Carnot is quite narrow and parking spaces are few. Also, all drivers know that it is far easier to park by reversing into a space than trying to go in front first.
I didn't see the car coming as I had my back to the traffic flow but I saw it come past me and pull in nose first to the small space outside the pharmacy next to Bar Felix. No chance I thought, as I watched out of the corner of my eye whilst earnestly talking with Chris. Indeed, the driver made no attempt to get into the space and just left the car at 45 degrees to the kerb with it's tail sticking out into the road - a bit of film star parking of the highest grade. Just then I noticed two members of our local law enforcement agency standing opposite, watching every move, resplendent in their navy trousers, polo shirts with 'Police Municipale' emblazoned across the back, baseball caps and with handcuffs and guns on their belts. One of them started across the street just as the driver was getting out of the car. "Ooops", I said to myself and thought "You are in for a bit of a talking to'.
Think again - this is France. The 'PM' walked around the front of the car as the driver shut the door - he removed his cap and kissed the driver on both cheeks, exchanging a warm "Bon Soir" and "Ca Va". She then went into the pharmacy and he resumed his patrol with his colleague and the car remained precariously parked and causing an obstruction. If that doesn't sum up France, I don't know what does?
Later that evening I watched the opening game of the Rugby World Cup, being staged here in France for the first time. I have never known this nation to be so 'up for it' and behind their national team (I wasn't here for the football world cup in 1998 so can't compare). I walked into the bar just before kick-off and the tension was electric. When the French national anthem was played there were people standing up and singing along, which is always a spine-tingling experience when the anthem is as good as 'La Marseillaise', but I have never known it happen before. Mini rugby balls abounded and the 'tricolore' face paint was much in evidence. Even the poor, sole Argentinian fan had to endure the French colours being daubed on his face just after kick-off, but then again, he had the last laugh.
In case you don't know, it didn't quite go to plan and the French lost. Over the course of the two hours the cries of "Allez" became less vocal and by the end of the game the bar was subdued. At the final whistle the bar emptied. The so-called 'sages' were telling us that they knew this was going to happen and a nation uttered "dommage" (shame) or "cauchemar" (nightmare) depending on their point of view. There could not have been a bigger sense of anti-climax. Elsewhere in the world I know the fans would have had another couple or more beers and sang long into the night - in England, or Ireland, Wales, Scotland, South Africa, Australia or New Zealand - but here in France everyone skulked off into the night as if it had never happened or didn't exist - there was no optimism that the next game would be ok, just total I told you so (not) depression.
For myself, well, I wanted to snigger about the very real possibility of the French being knocked out of their home World Cup in the first round but actually, as an Englishman, I have witnessed the fervent national pride and expectation of a nation being extinguished by Argentina far too often - different code but same result - so come on Ireland, stuff the Argies and let the French play on if possible, otherwise the next month might see the promising Sarkozy government fall and a new French revolution!!
Out of Adversity
For the best part of two years I have been flying back and forwards between London and Carcassonne, using the much maligned by many, low cost service operated by Ryanair. In that time, and I don't know how many flights it is, I have suffered one inconvenient diversion to Perpignan, when Carcassonne was fogged in, and a few half hour late departures. Other than that the service has been excellent.
I am not going to enter the debate about the rights and wrongs of air travel because there is so much opinionated guff and twisted statistics touted by people on both sides of the argument that it is impossible to understand the true position. I've made my lifestyle choice - end of story. Likewise I do not think that the service is poor or that one is 'ripped off' at every opportunity. It is a 'no frills' airline, so you get no extras unless you pay for them. Even then it is still cheaper than the alternatives.
However, the law of averages is such that I was bound to get stuck in airline/airport misery at some point and this week it happened. Cancelled flight, wasted trip to the airport, back home, back again the next day, lost 36 hours etc etc.
The day started with indicators that all was not going to be well. My cab was 5 minutes late picking me up, no big deal, except that I have done this journey so often that I now leave virtually no slack time in my schedule, for which I only have myself to blame. A couple of extra red lights more than normal and I missed, just, my usual train. Again, no big deal, another one in 15 minutes which would still leave me just enough time to get through security and get to the gate - no coffee, no shopping, no stopping en route. Actually, I could have dawdled all I liked.
At the gate there was a full compliment of passengers but no sign of a plane, the first indicator that all was not well. An announcement followed almost immediately - our plane was on final approach and would be here very soon. It had been delayed because of fog across Northern Europe, a fact that was to be of significance later in the day as it obviously had a knock-on effect on their whole fleet, but at this point just meant that we were running about 15 minutes late, which was nothing and could easily have been made up during the flight.
So we boarded and settled into our seats and nothing happened. The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom - sorry about the slight (ha) delay / noticed a technical fault when flying to Stansted / engineers now working on it / should take about an hour.
It's a bizarre aspect of human nature, well, maybe it's English human nature, that it takes something unusual or a bit of adversity for people to start talking to each other. Up until that announcement, everyone was settling into their seats, creating their own bit of personal space using elbows and bags and water bottles as demarcation points and were all very head down, avoiding eye contact. Immediately after the announcement, there was a collective sigh and groan and then a resignation as to the situation and everyone looking at each other uttering "What a pain" or "Just what I need" or "Not much we can do". This rapidly became "Do you want to borrow my paper, I've finished with it" - we are all in this together so let's support each other type comments - and then finally "Hi, my name is Peter" and "Why are you heading to the Languedoc?" type introductions followed by the whole plane talking to each other. If all that hadn't happened I probably wouldn't have got talking to Simon, which would have been a shame because we have a lot in common - more of that later.
An hour later at about the time we should have been landing in Carcassonne, the pilot came back with more news. The engineers hadn't been able to fix the fault and we all had to get off the plane and go back into the terminal and wait whilst an alternative plane was found. More sighing and groaning and resignation as to the situation.
At this point, Ryanair customer service started to deteriorate along with the patience and temper of the passengers. The sequence of events went as follows - there will be a further announcement at 1.30pm (nearly two hours away) - the second Carcassonne flight of the day was announced and departed (very irritating to all) - at 1.30pm we were told that our flight would leave at 22.10pm!, cue pandemonium, shouting, finger pointing and much outrage from about 75% of the passengers who totally lost it - I thought there was going be a riot which would have been interesting to watch and felt very sorry for the one departure gate assistant who was left to pass on this information and face the music, which was a disgrace on Ryanair's part - they should have had five or six people there and certainly someone more senior to talk to passengers.
Whilst the majority shouted and raved at the lone red-faced and stressed-out assistant, who was desperately calling for back-up, the rest of us discussed the options. The flight wasn't cancelled, just delayed, so we couldn't switch to another flight unless we paid - besides which, the second Carcassonne flight had gone and the Perpignan one was about to leave which left Dinard, La Rochelle and Marseilles as not very useful options - so we just had to sit and wait until 10.00pm.
Finally, a manager arrived - pursed lips, ginger hair and a face like stone. Ten minutes later she announced that the flight was cancelled and her demeanour said very clearly that she couldn't give a damn. That was the cue for me to leave - there was never any point arguing and certainly no point arguing with her, so I left everyone to it and headed for the exit. There was a long queue at the reservations desk so I went straight to the train back to London, phoned Debrah for the Ryanair bookings number and managed to re-book over the phone for the following day.
So I finally got here at 4.00pm on Friday instead of lunchtime on Thursday - a waste of 36 hours but no harm done otherwise. I felt a bit sorry for the families and holidaymakers who would find it much more difficult to re-book and probably only had a fixed amount of time down here and I'm absolutely certain that Ryanair just left them to sort it out for themselves.
However, I did make a new acquaintance - the aforementioned Simon - who lives with his wife and young daughter in the Minervois. Small world that it is, he knows, from his previous life working in pharmaceuticals, one of our main contacts in the NHS with whom we are working to set up the clinical trials of the new product that my London job is bringing to market. His wife is also a Master of Wine, which could be interesting for me as a wine lover and me as proprietor of apartments to let. We have since exchanged emails and are planning to meet next week - indeed he has taken up my spare ticket for the Samoa v Tonga Rugby World Cup match next Sunday. Funny how fate throws people together in the oddest of circumstances.
I am not going to enter the debate about the rights and wrongs of air travel because there is so much opinionated guff and twisted statistics touted by people on both sides of the argument that it is impossible to understand the true position. I've made my lifestyle choice - end of story. Likewise I do not think that the service is poor or that one is 'ripped off' at every opportunity. It is a 'no frills' airline, so you get no extras unless you pay for them. Even then it is still cheaper than the alternatives.
However, the law of averages is such that I was bound to get stuck in airline/airport misery at some point and this week it happened. Cancelled flight, wasted trip to the airport, back home, back again the next day, lost 36 hours etc etc.
The day started with indicators that all was not going to be well. My cab was 5 minutes late picking me up, no big deal, except that I have done this journey so often that I now leave virtually no slack time in my schedule, for which I only have myself to blame. A couple of extra red lights more than normal and I missed, just, my usual train. Again, no big deal, another one in 15 minutes which would still leave me just enough time to get through security and get to the gate - no coffee, no shopping, no stopping en route. Actually, I could have dawdled all I liked.
At the gate there was a full compliment of passengers but no sign of a plane, the first indicator that all was not well. An announcement followed almost immediately - our plane was on final approach and would be here very soon. It had been delayed because of fog across Northern Europe, a fact that was to be of significance later in the day as it obviously had a knock-on effect on their whole fleet, but at this point just meant that we were running about 15 minutes late, which was nothing and could easily have been made up during the flight.
So we boarded and settled into our seats and nothing happened. The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom - sorry about the slight (ha) delay / noticed a technical fault when flying to Stansted / engineers now working on it / should take about an hour.
It's a bizarre aspect of human nature, well, maybe it's English human nature, that it takes something unusual or a bit of adversity for people to start talking to each other. Up until that announcement, everyone was settling into their seats, creating their own bit of personal space using elbows and bags and water bottles as demarcation points and were all very head down, avoiding eye contact. Immediately after the announcement, there was a collective sigh and groan and then a resignation as to the situation and everyone looking at each other uttering "What a pain" or "Just what I need" or "Not much we can do". This rapidly became "Do you want to borrow my paper, I've finished with it" - we are all in this together so let's support each other type comments - and then finally "Hi, my name is Peter" and "Why are you heading to the Languedoc?" type introductions followed by the whole plane talking to each other. If all that hadn't happened I probably wouldn't have got talking to Simon, which would have been a shame because we have a lot in common - more of that later.
An hour later at about the time we should have been landing in Carcassonne, the pilot came back with more news. The engineers hadn't been able to fix the fault and we all had to get off the plane and go back into the terminal and wait whilst an alternative plane was found. More sighing and groaning and resignation as to the situation.
At this point, Ryanair customer service started to deteriorate along with the patience and temper of the passengers. The sequence of events went as follows - there will be a further announcement at 1.30pm (nearly two hours away) - the second Carcassonne flight of the day was announced and departed (very irritating to all) - at 1.30pm we were told that our flight would leave at 22.10pm!, cue pandemonium, shouting, finger pointing and much outrage from about 75% of the passengers who totally lost it - I thought there was going be a riot which would have been interesting to watch and felt very sorry for the one departure gate assistant who was left to pass on this information and face the music, which was a disgrace on Ryanair's part - they should have had five or six people there and certainly someone more senior to talk to passengers.
Whilst the majority shouted and raved at the lone red-faced and stressed-out assistant, who was desperately calling for back-up, the rest of us discussed the options. The flight wasn't cancelled, just delayed, so we couldn't switch to another flight unless we paid - besides which, the second Carcassonne flight had gone and the Perpignan one was about to leave which left Dinard, La Rochelle and Marseilles as not very useful options - so we just had to sit and wait until 10.00pm.
Finally, a manager arrived - pursed lips, ginger hair and a face like stone. Ten minutes later she announced that the flight was cancelled and her demeanour said very clearly that she couldn't give a damn. That was the cue for me to leave - there was never any point arguing and certainly no point arguing with her, so I left everyone to it and headed for the exit. There was a long queue at the reservations desk so I went straight to the train back to London, phoned Debrah for the Ryanair bookings number and managed to re-book over the phone for the following day.
So I finally got here at 4.00pm on Friday instead of lunchtime on Thursday - a waste of 36 hours but no harm done otherwise. I felt a bit sorry for the families and holidaymakers who would find it much more difficult to re-book and probably only had a fixed amount of time down here and I'm absolutely certain that Ryanair just left them to sort it out for themselves.
However, I did make a new acquaintance - the aforementioned Simon - who lives with his wife and young daughter in the Minervois. Small world that it is, he knows, from his previous life working in pharmaceuticals, one of our main contacts in the NHS with whom we are working to set up the clinical trials of the new product that my London job is bringing to market. His wife is also a Master of Wine, which could be interesting for me as a wine lover and me as proprietor of apartments to let. We have since exchanged emails and are planning to meet next week - indeed he has taken up my spare ticket for the Samoa v Tonga Rugby World Cup match next Sunday. Funny how fate throws people together in the oddest of circumstances.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Old and a bit sad
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.
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.
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.
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