Not much longer...

I wrote to Orange in September to ask for information on steps needed to shut down my telephone and broadband subscriptions.  A month later: silence.  Dug out the English language customer service line number.  First attempt: 'Bugger off, we're busy'.  Second attempt: ditto.  Third attempt: 'Your call should be answered within two minutes'.  Euphoria short-lived: 15 minutes later the inane music on hold gave way to a ring tone, which promptly led to the call terminated tones.  At least the calls were eating up my mostly unused allowance of minutes included in the monthly mobile contract, rather than being billed exorbitantly to the BT fixed line.

Next stop, the Banque Postale, to ask what notice they'd need for the biggish cash withdrawal I'll need when I'm down south at the end of the month.  The only phone number given is a four-digit short code, inaccessible from outside France.  A friend in the village provided me with the full-fat telephone number which, of course, now diverts to an announcement: 'in order for us to serve you better, please call the four-digit number'.  Deep sigh.  Letter sent, with request for advice by email.  Suspect I may finish up ringing Jean-Luc at home in his lunch break.

I've been hoping to put off grass cutting till more leaves have fallen, but gave in yesterday when I saw how long it had got.  Much cursing later (the long, wet grass kept clogging the mower, and the tank ran dry half way through), the composting bin is full (grass cuttings and mouldy courgette plants), and the trees are still shedding leaves. 

There is still colour here and there in the garden, particularly now that the cornus have shed practically all of their leaves.  It's surprising that there are still a few flowers on the cistus pulverulens - in the garrigue, it comes and goes in three to four weeks.  The hypericums are covered in a new flush of flowers, and the good old penstemons are doing pretty well.  The bedding plants have largely been and gone, though the over-wintered fuchsias are flowering well.  The petunias are under a layer of mouldy courgettes and grass cuttings, and are about to be donated to our ever-benevolent toon cooncil.  There are still a few flowers on a few of the roses, notably Queen Elizabeth and the Justice of the Peace, and I noticed yesterday that Compassion has put up a strong new shoot from the base.  That's one of the nice things about gardening: even when the garden is slowing down for the winter, there are signs of good things to come in the spring.

Miss has been getting us to do seascapes.  I did a few hopeless water colour sketches the week before last, but took a canvas and the acrylics last Thursday, turning out a quickie of the salt pans near Gruissan.  I was rather taken with the way that the reflection of the sky diminishes as you get closer to the point of view, revealing the pinkish brown salt deposit.  I may fiddle a bit with it, but am inclined to keep it simple.  As a rule, if a piece goes over to a second visit, it is not going to work.  But then, I'm usually in favour of the 'do nothing' option anyway.

Another year older..

Martyn's birthday yesterday, but we had a pretty lazy day until early evening, whe we went out for supper followed by a showing of Victoria and Abdul at the local bug hut.  Quite a sweet little film, with the usual impeccable acting by Judi Dench.  A sort of Mrs Brown 2, I suppose, but a shade less convincing than N°1.  Ali Fazal's smiling Bollywood stare was captivating (if implausible in the context), and his delicate handling of the role was pretty good, but a lot of the surround was rather stilted and caricatured.  Well, a sort of feel-good film, which never does any harm.  I see that the Hindustani Times slams it for glossing over the wholesale massacre of Indians during the Raj.  Perhaps we shouldn't just treat these things as entertainment.

I slapped some water colours about at yesterday's class, remininding myself of my utter incompetence in the medium.  One or two decent clouds using wet-in-wet, but the few other decent results were scarce and modest.  It's a bit like skiing, I suppose.  If I could wake up one morning muscular, supple and skilful enough to tackle the black slopes, I'd like skiing.  As it is, I'll eschew the slopes - and the clever water-colour stuff

Bad news of our friend Sheila, recently widowed.  She was evidently helicoptered in to hospital in Carcassonne the other day suffering what sounds like acute kidney failure.  She was on line yesterday reporting on the state of said kidneys in somewhat anglo-saxon terms. Early days - let's hope for the best.

Modest gardening efforts today: the storms are getting pretty lively, so I've hacked down the long stems on our 'sentry' roses either side of the garden steps, and done some modest dead-heading on the old faithful penstemons.  The grass is getting rather long, but I plan to leave it [sic] until there are a few more tons of leaves on it.  There are a few more days of strong winds from the west, so with luck next door's oak leave will land in their garden, but our goat willow and cherry, and the neighbours' silver birches, will provide some exercise.

Marketingballs, bureaucracy and the like.

A glance through the shopping bag reveals some interesting uses of the language, such as 'Carefully churned' butter.  'Truly juicy' orange juice.  Are people actually paid for dreaming up such garbage?  (I think there was something about 'carefully selected garden peas' a while back.  Picture the scene.)

Well, I can finally see most of the floor of my study, having hung a few more paintings, and found nooks and crannies for many more.  There are a few more vacancies, so we'll convene the hanging committee at the weekend and decide what's going where.  Meanwhile, I'm waiting for France Telecom to respond to my letter seeking advice on how to shut down my telephone and broadband subscriptions: they provide no guidance on their web site, far less a telephone number accessible from outside France.  The insurance brokers evidently need to see the deed of sale before they can shut down the buildings and contents insurance.  Much as I love France, there are moments when the bureaucracy really gets on my tits.

No further word from the motor trade about the spotty brightwork on the car window surrounds.  I guess that means a Humpreyesque 'I shall take no action unless you instruct me further', tucked into the bottom of the red box.  They underestimate me.

Culture and things

The flu jab provoked a less violent reaction than last year's, though I've been a bit groggy, stiff and sniffly for the past week.  Still, I managed a couple of days at the hobby, which I wouldn't have been able to do at this stage last year.

Nice treat yesterday.  Martyn treated us to tickets to the 'Grand Organ Gala' at the Albert Hall.  It was a nice programme of lollipops: the Saint-Saëns Symphony N°3, Parry's I was glad, the Hallelujah Chorus and the like.  The orchestra was a touch lacking in ensemble here and there, and a mistimed clash of cymbals was unfortunate, but it was all generally of a good standard.  The chorus was excellent, and the fanfare by six chaps from the army Logistics Corps was superb.  Of the solo organ pieces - yes, Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and Widor's Toccata from Symphony N°5 - mixed reports.  The organist, Philip Scriven, comes highly reputed, but I was sorry that he decided to play to the gallery of lollipop concert goers.  His tempi in the toccata were all over the place.  I know a toccata is a showing-off piece, but the expression 'fast and loose' came to mind early on.  Bum notes galore, and immoderate mud-and-razor-blades registrations throughout.  I thought he was going to treat the fugue with a bit of respect at first, but that too went crazy.  Oddly enough, his handling of the Widor was a little more disciplined.  Now that's a piece in which you can let rip with the reeds, and he duly did.  Shame he inflicted the same treatment on the Bach.

The two solo pieces are popular because they are good and well known.  Neither is its composer's best work, however, and it would be nice to hear a few different pieces from time to time.

The show was pretty well attended, though the audience was predominantly of a certain age.  The audience chorus in Land of Hope and Glory was somewhat less hearty than the Prommers', but respectable enough!

The travelling was not bad, though on a Sunday there are no direct trains to London from our preferred little country station, and that made for longish journeys.  Since we weren't going to be home until after 20:00, we got some microwave Ruby Murrays from M&S at Victoria, and they were actually quite good.

Today has been largely about the motor trade so far.  The Egg, over nine years old and altogether, was recalled for a warranty update to the ABS system, and has been fettled.  The one year old Ateca is in for its first oil change, and I'll collect it later.

My other date today is Mary's funeral.  It'll be interesting to see what sort of a gate she gets.  [Later]  Quite a good turn out of family, friends and six of us from the art class.  Unfortunately, the sky pilot was far too fond of the sound of her own voice, so the thing dragged on for rather a long time.  Oh well.

Thence to the Mall for a new watch battery.  It's surprising how much of the last few days I've spent looking by reflex at the pale strip on my left wrist.  On to round two with the motor trade, where I learn that the factory will not support a warranty claim to replace the spotty brightwork round some of the car's windows.  'We'll see about that!', responded yr obed servt, feigning litigiousness: the garage is hoping to get the customer care programme to pay.  Oh don't bother watching this space - it's just too trivial.