L’administraaaaaation française, chapter 317

I’ve wittered on in the past about the nonsense being ‘granted a rebate’ on a tax that, my being no longer a property owner in France, I was not liable to pay in the first place.  There have been a couple of rounds of correspondence about the taxe d’habitation and the taxes foncières, and the postie brought a letter the other day about a sub-set of the former: the ‘contribution à l’audiovisuel public’.  Each year, they ask you to say whether (a)  you haven’t got a telly; (b) whether you’re covered by a licence at another address, or (c) or (d), which I can’t be arsed to recite.  I patiently filled in the form stating, in essence, none of the above, since I sold up in November 2017, photographed said form and emailed it back.  (I refrained from adding that I’d told them this a year ago.)  At least they now give an email address which saves me the trek to the Post Office and the exorbitant cost of a stamp for France.  Next steps awaited.

Meanwhile, we have booked train seats to Avignon in June, and a rental car at the station, so shall take another trip to Lagrasse to see how it’s coping without us.  As before, we think we’ll drive to Ashford and park (and hope to find wheels on the car on our return).

Another quiz last night, with the same team as last year’s similar event in aid of Disgustedville Citizens’ Advice.  Unfortunately, one of this year’s marathon sheets was all about sport, our acknowledged short suit.  But another consisted of cryptic clues to local place names (eg angry tick: Mark Cross; damage study: Marden) so we still came third out of twenty-some.

Another letter in this week’s post brought the news that I get an extra £4-ish in state pension per week, less, of course, Hammond’s 40%. That’s a shade less than a bottle of Fortnums’ worst rosé.  Let joy be unconfined.

Spring?

Matters horticultural proceed apace.  The pelargoniums from the basket at the front door, despite some frost damage, have provided a lot of cuttings, and the hacked-down stumps of the donor plants are sprouting away like there’s no tomorrow.  But then, they are now basking in the sitooterie.  Where  various sowings are also doing quite well.  Mr Sutton’s cosmos were the first up, closely followed by Chrissie‘s saved tall orange marigold seeds.  Sutton’s rudbeckias - the few seed he sold us - are slow to germinate, even in the heated propagator, whereas the seed I saved last year from another merchant’s plants of the same variety, left lying in an envelope in the kitchen for months, are germinating like mad.  (Perhaps I should enter into negotiation with Mr S.). I’m having another crack at penstemons from seed, though I have greater faith in the cuttings, which have over-wintered well: so far.  The antirrhinums are also starting to germinate, but the seedlings are so tiny that it’s going to be a challenge to bring them on.

We planted quite a lot of bulbs in containers last back end, and some tiny hoop petticoat daffs are coming into flower.  The tulips are also coming along well, and I see that it was a mistake to crowd them into tubs with polyanthus, which are struggling a bit.

Yesterday we took a ride along to the nursery near Hartfield to buy a cornus plant.  I was seriously pissed off with our landscapers when they planted the wrong variety, since I wanted lime green bark to contrast with the red bark of the plant we brought with us from Smith Towers twelve years ago.  Well, we found a nice specimen, and have planted it.

At a less creative level, the car has been signalling that it wanted a top-up of what a certain Stryne motoring pundit describes as ‘glorified piss’.  I bought a huge flagon thereof yesterday, at a significant price, having only briefly toyed with the idea of improvising....

We had a most enjoyable visit last Sunday from a former work colleague and his wife.  Paul and I hadn’t met for a good 25 years, and neither of us had met the other’s partner, so I was a shade nervous about the prospect.  It went really well: a plain lunch and a good chinwag.  I’m meeting Paul in town next week to sit in the gallery at his local hobby venue, since he’s thinking of taking it up.
Next day I’m chairing the final session of a colleague with whom I swore at a judge on the same day back in 2004.  Tempus don’t half fugit.