Seasonal ritual

Christmas cards: we think we've broken the back of the job.  This is a rare instance of productivity, since I usually find that I'm still at it in mid-December, usually running out of ink in the printer at a critically late stage.  I think I only have a few more to print, and although the printer has started grizzling about ink levels, the quality hasn't started to drop just yet.  I thought I'd ring the changes by getting a variety of coloured envelopes, and ordered accordingly - or so I thought.  We'll, everyone's card will arrive this year in a startling lemon yellow envelope.  Memo to self: re-read before confirming order.

I love my word games.  On my last day at primary school (and our much-loved Miss Archer's), we had no lessons before we left for the Regal cinema for the prizegiving.  I spent a couple of hours happily playing Scrabble with friends, one of whom had brought in a Travel Scrabble set.  My twelfth birthday fell few weeks later, and we were staying at the time with relatives in East London.  Mum took me up to Gamages to find a present, and bridled a bit at paying 19/11d for a Travel Scrabble set.  She and our distant relative Phyllis wore that set out in short order - the little pegs on the corners of the tiles break off easily, and we had to send off for a new set of tiles.  When in due course I moved away, I bought another set, which has travelled round the world with me.  At the Rio UPU Congress, translation work was very slow to arrive during the early weeks, so with my set and Claire Smith's, we had something of a Scrabble tournament: it came to the point at which we resented the arrival of work, since it disrupted the important stuff.  (I think Barbara and I were playing Scrabble on the plane from Rio to Dakar when an Air France Concorde overtook us, its sonic booms scaring the wits out of us.)

Well, I still love word games, and have a couple of dozen on the go on-line with friends at any given moment.  These days I tend to prefer a variant, Words with Friends, and play it via Facebook.  It is rather trickier than Scrabble, since it is so arranged that you can't easily take advantage of a triple letter or word score without offering another to your opponent.  It is not without its irritations, though: it is financed by advertising, and the content, to be charitable, is uninspiring.  The current lot advertises laxatives and electric contraptions for planing calloused skin off feet.  Others try to attract you to one or other of the UK's cynical and incompetent banks.  There are also come-on competition sites including one that rather disgustingly suggests you click on a sandal-shod foot to squash a scuttling cockroach.  I've seen plenty of those in real life without their appearing on my computer screen, thanks v. much, so am quick to minimise the window to the exact size of the board.  The company attracts fewer advertisers in Francophone countries, so when I'm playing there, games are interrupted by blank black windows for the length of time an advertisement would be playing if they'd managed to sell the slot.  The game is, of course, American, so the built-in dictionary offers a few interesting orthographic variations - and blind spots, but it also allows a surprising number of Scots dialect words  Not to mention some two-letter words the value of which lies only in allowing you to get rid of those pesky Qs, Xs, Us and Ks that you invariably draw in your last hand.

With the Christmas cards ready to go, I'm looking forward to another seasonal ritual in a month or so: the marmalade.  I'm on to my last but one jar now, so may be reduced to Fortnum's best by the time the Seville oranges arrive.

...and no sooner home than away again

By Monday, Martyn's cold had really got into its swing: I've never known him get such a bad one, and hope he caught it from the sniffles I've had.  He spent a lot of Monday in bed.  Fortunately he was in better shape on Tuesday for our booze cruise - Eurotunnel was doing a day return for £23, so we treated ourselves and friends to a trip.  The friends in turn treated us to a copious lunch at Cap Gris Nez, whence we had fine views of the Dover cliffs in the changing light of a blustery day.

Bit of a cheap shot, sniggering at perfectly respectable place names, but I'll allow myself this one.  Oh, what the hell: Bern boasts a suburb called Wankdorf, Bavaria rejoices in Aching and Attaching, and I'll refrain from citing the celebrated -ing across the border in Austria.  We pass the road end for Poncy on our way south through the Auvergne.

 The ride home was pretty good.  We decided we'd try to get away a bit early since we'd done our shopping and it was eye-wateringly cold, hence not going-for-a-stroll weather.  Having bought a supposedly no-amendments cheapo trip, it was nice to find that the computer said 'yes' to a departure an hour ahead of the one we'd booked.  Well, we'd have caught it if we hadn't been in the UK Border Agency queue that was manned by cussed little pipsqueak who was determined to keep everyone waiting.  The other queues were zipping through.  Usually, the Border Agency people are really nice and move things briskly along.  Our man was plainly having a bad day, but we did get a crossing half an hour earlier than we'd expected. 

Since then, a day at the hobby, an art class which I left a touch happier than I entered, laundry, cooking, baking, chasing the double payment for Gatwick parking - usual stuff.

Home...

Thursday 14 November

We do have our little adventures.  The usual route to Gatwick out of East Grinstead was totally snarled up, so we’d to do a 3-point turn and knit ourselves an alternative route.  Good job Martyn knows his way around.  The airport was altogether bearable, though it’s always a long walk to the aeroplane from the tea shop.  (The excellent Café Rouge has opened an airside bar restaurant with a good view over the field.)  Question:  Why do the Easyjet gate gorillas insist on women packing their handbags inside their carry-ons on pain of a £45 surcharge, yet let blokes can carry on separate bags of airside-purchased booze with impunity?

The plane was pretty full, but mercifully free of screaming children this time.  For the first time we saw a couple of the newish Boeing 787s taxiing out, and very smart they look too.  Plastic aeroplanes for grown-ups, one’s tempted to call them.  We were less happy when we left the ground, however: we got a good throwing about, probably by the wake turbulence of either a 787 or an Emirates 777.  My last experience thereof, also in an A319, knocked the aeroplane completely out of control, and it seemed to take a lifetime to get it re-stabilised.  And a few days to get my suit cleaned after next door’s supper had landed on it.  So for a few minutes into the flight one felt scared and sick.  The rest of the journey was fine, with good views of the Mediterranean coast as we swung into Montpellier from the south.

Fair enough lunch in the Villa Plancha in the airport terminal – OK, my grilled veggies didn’t materialise, we’d to remind the waitress to bring the bread, and there was no view, but overall mustn’t grumble.  Well, not much, at least.

On arrival, I found that I’d printed and packed the car rental booking receipt, but not the confirmation, so didn’t have a note of which company we’d rented from.  I was pretty sure it was Alamo; Martyn thought it was Citer.  We couldn’t see Alamo anywhere, so tried Citer.  No trace.  Next plan: back to the airport to check my email via the free wifie.  Before we left the car hire building, however, I checked the other desks, and it turned out that Europcar represents Alamo, and they were expecting us.  What is it about the signposting out of southern French airports?  We went a good 450° round the roundabout before finding the exit for the A9 by elimination, having by this point already narrowly avoided adding to the already huge list of recorded damage to the car.  There was quite a mêlée following a 3-car shunt just before the motorway exit.

Your obedient servant having forgotten to pack the motorway toll gizmo, we had to queue up for a ticket at Saint-Jean de Védas.  Martyn posted it in a convenient slot in the dashboard, and I fear it will remain there till the car goes to the scrap yard.  Conversation ensued at the Lézigzag toll bar with electronically remote but helpful lady who let us through – despite the refusal of the Gaga card (good job I had the Banque Postale one with me as well). 

The car seems OK, but like last time it is quite elderly, with getting on for 37’000 km on the clock, and a great long list of dings and scrapes.  It runs well enough, and mercifully changes its own gears.  The auto box perhaps accounts for the still-acceptable state of the front tyres.  It didn’t take too long to work out how to operate the cruise control. But there was nothing the car could do to help with the huge numbers of  HGVs on the A9.  Not a great experience.  The main route from the rest of Europe to Mediterranean Spain, it carries a huge amount of freight.  We saw Bulgarian, Czech, Latvian and Romanian trucks among others: how do these drivers survive?  I’ve read somewhere that certain of their British counterparts survive on oranges injected with vodka.  Be afraid.

Friday 15 November

Good job it’s a dreich day.  We waited in for the builder until midday, when he emailed me to say he wasn’t coming, but was sending a stooge tomorrow instead.  Snarl. 

So, a day for model-making and reading.  I toyed with starting a new canvas, but the one I have in stock is too big to fit in my back pack.  So let’s have another glass of that nice Côtes du Rhône Villages.

Saturday 16 November

Call from stooge: 'is it OK if I come tomorrow?'  'No, it isn't.'  'OK, j'arrive.'  We've agreed that they'll do a patch-up on the end wall (but not before the spring), and will get in and sort the leaky window on the roof terrace a bit sooner.  Good, since the water was running down the bathroom tiles after all the rain.

Nice evening with Irish neighbours Sheila and Henry. 

Sunday 17 November

We left in rain, wondering whether it was a good idea, given that the river is rising again.  The next ten hours will tell. 

Montpellier airport fails to impress.  There are two men’s lavatories landside.  One is closed for repairs.  The other’s 2^nd class accommodation was cordoned off.  The lavatory for disabled users was out of service.  The men’s at gate 14 had no lighting, forcing one to leave the door open.  (Fortunately it was a minor visit…)  The staff we encountered were just f@%&ing  rude.  You go up an escalator to departure level, then have to walk down a flight of steps without the option.  The catering on offer was expensive, tepid, unimaginative and highly indigestible.  But coming through Gatwick tends to put things in perspective: long walks, stinking lavatories – oh, I give up.  Fortunately the car park shuttle was fairly rapid, and the drive home was dry, if beset with fools how don’t know how to dip their headlights.  We live to tell the tale.

Cabaret: touring performance

See it.  Hull New Theatre next week, Wolverhampton the week after.  We went to the first night here yesterday, and were very impressed.  We'd heard mixed reports of Will Young as Emcee, but once he'd read and recruited the audience pantomime-style, he did very well indeed.  It's a very dynamic show, though with a lot of quiet scenes dripping with pathos.  I think I enjoyed the dance routines most: they could have done with a touch more ensemble, but the gymnastics were nonetheless impressive.  We especially liked Lyn Paul's Fräulein Schneider: she can't half act!  I last saw her in Blood Brothers decades ago, and in the meantime her voice has gained in timbre and maturity - chapeau!  If you do go, prepare for a really chilling ending.

Leaves are falling like mad, but at least we no longer have a trillion ash leaves to rake from the grass.  With the deluges of the last week or so, I can't get to the iris sibirica, which need cutting back.  The roses are looking a bit sad now - rain and rose buds are uncomfortable bedfellows. 

Off south tomorrow, but only because the tickets are irrevocably paid for.  The plan had been to inspect finished work and pay the bill.  Hoping to instruct the builder on Friday, not least as to timescales.  And final inspection and payment will be to our timetable.

...and another thing!

Home ownership, joys of, ctd.  It occurred to me to check the renewal quote for our house insurance and - fancy that! - it was up 27% on last year's.  On calling them, I found no sign of flexibility or haggle room, so have moved the business elsewhere, for a premium a good 10% lower than we paid last year, let alone the inflated renewal quote.  It's clear what's happening: the insurance companies now rely on low, come-on, introductory quotes, and rely on inertia and/or 'Oh, I don't want to make a fuss, dear!' to hammer people in year 2 et seq.  It seems to me that this discriminates against the unassertive members of the elderly community, and against people who lack the wit and energy to kick over the traces.  If you make a claim, you tend to find that, when renewal time comes round, the underwriters decline cover: the time-honoured mutual risk-sharing principle of the insurance industry is a dead letter in these post-Thatcherite times.  Well, being for the time being a time-served and active member of the geriatric delinquent tendency, I'm not having it, OK?  And I expect, if I'm spared, to be telling you the same story next year.

That's not the only cage I've been rattling today.  I've been round to pester our hedge-trimming man, who has been busy the last week or so sawing up trees that fell across drives, sheds, croquet lawns, orangeries etc during the recent little zephyr.  Hoping to see him next week.

Not immune ourselves to harrassment, I got a snottygram yesterday from the neighbour in Another Place about the lack of progress on repairing the end wall.  Given that we have had the fragile bits of rendering taken off, hence that there is no longer an immediate risk to his roof, I'm getting seriously close to telling him: MYOFB. The essence of his comments is to bad-mouth our builder (of which I'm perfectly capable myself, le cas échéant) because we declined to use his preferred man.

I slapped some paint around yesterday, and am consequently a shade less anxious about the piece I've been asked to do, which involves a complex task of perspective and lighting.  Version 1, on canvas, is somewhat stalled, but what I'm learning in the course of Version 2 might help me to get it flying again.  Version 2, (on paper, since the complex perspective and detail dictated a preliminary pencil drawing) is beginning to take shape.  I might have a crack at a Version 3 while we're closer to the subject next week, though the brevity of the visit may dictate otherwise.  On verra.

The joys of home ownership

The good news is that the central heating is working fine.  The bad news is that the system isn't heating the water, so one's date with the bidet on Friday was something of a shock to the, er..., system.  We do have an electric alternative, fortunately, but it overheats the water, a fact for one's awareness of which the, er..., system is more than grateful.  The eponymous Mr Waterman spent a good few hours here yesterday trying to make sense of it, concluding that the problem lay with the box on the kitchen wall.  We expect him back here later this afternoon with new box and commensurate bill.

It's an ill wind.  Since the boiler cupboard has to be emptied before the excellent and eponymous Mr W can 'attend to me boilers!' [honorable mention to spotters of the quote], I took the opportunity to reinforce the U-shaped shelf on which we keep the cookery books: Delia, Pru, Nigella, Madhur, Slater, Spencer, Tonks, Hollywood et al impose a severe burden.  Said shelf fits in round the boiler, hence makes good use of otherwise wasted space.  It's been a while since I've made busy with a crosscut saw, drills, clamps etc, and it was quite a pleasant way to spend the odd hour on a bright, breezy autumn day.  We couldn't find any suitable batten in our stocks of scrap timber, but Martyn found a bit of melamine coated chipboard that has been knocking around in the attic since it ceased to be part of some sort of self-assembly furniture.  Cutting it to length presented no problem, and I found enough recycled one-inch N°6 screws to fasten the pieces together while the glue hardens.  What I hadn't done, of course, was measure fore and aft.  Needless to say, the reinforcing batten conflicted with the support studs in the side of the cupboard, so I had to make with the chisel to get it to fit.  Well, as our favourite duty solicitor would say, there you are.  It's all in place, and the shelf is somewhat closer to the horizontal than it once was.  We have also lined up a few rarely-used books for the next trip to the Hospice in the Weald shop.

We took advantage of the dry weather the other day to bring the fuchsias and olive indoors for the winter.  We took a lot of cuttings in the spring from last year's fuchsia plants, and scattered them round the garden, where they have done very well, despite the dreadful soil and egregious neglect.  We treated ourselves to a couple of glazed pots in the spring, planting them with still more fuchsias, and they seem to have liked that environment as well.  I've been a big fan of fuchsias for years, going back to my days as a lodger with my aunt and uncle in Orpington and later Sidcup.  We have a few hardy plants round the garden as well as the half-hardy summer bedding varieties, and they are invariably rewarding.

Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, the builder has decided that the rendering is good except where it has already fallen off, and would we mind if he didn't start work till we're there.  Not 'appy, having bought the flights, parking and car rental for a planned stay of three nights, y compris Friday and Saturday.  I think the assumption is that, as owners of a second hovel, we must be rolling in it.  I suppose the final bill be un peu moins salé but snarl nonetheless.