The Teeming Metrollops

Two trips to London in recent days, and another in prospect.  I repeat myself, I know, but each trip reminds me how grateful I am that I no longer have to do it every day.  I'd a meeting last Friday at Guildhall, and the travelling was reasonably painless, even if the 9.00-ish up train was pretty crowded.  Disaster looms, however: I've got into the habit of using a country station where one can park free, and find that a lot of groundwork is in progress to create more parking.  You guessed it: parking will cost £4.30 a day in future.  Wednesday's London trip was the other way round - quiet on the 1:00 pm-ish up train, but no direct evening train.  Train 1 was packed like a jar of anchovies, and I'd a lengthy wait at an intermediate stop for train 2.  For some reason, evening peak hour trains do not stop at our station.  But although parking is much reduced by the groundworks, I did find a slot each time.

It was rather striking to see how much the City has changed since I worked there.  Familiar buildings have come down (and no bad thing, in the case of BTI's monstrous ziggurat, Mondial House) to be replaced with new landmarks like the Shard (only the bottom few floors of which were visible in last Friday's gloom) and the Gherkin, but also by some pretty ordinary structures.  Bucklersbury House has come down, leaving a large hole diagonally opposite Cannon Street station.  A problem in London just now is the sheer scale of disruption caused by work on the Crossrail link.  The bus I use to get from London Bridge to Islington goes pretty well straight there as before via the Bank, Moorgate and City Road, but on the way back it has to thread its way round the back streets almost as far as Liverpool Street before twisting back to Threadneedle Street.  Good job I'd allowed plenty of time.

I'm quietly pleased with the outcome of the elections for our county's Police and Crime Commissioner.  First because a vast majority of the electorate treated the whole thing with appropriate disdain.  Second because those of us who did vote returned the outgoing chair of the police authority (who stood as an independent) with twice the vote of the runner up political candidate.  I'm less happy with the amount of money it has cost the taxpayer, though I suppose it pales into insignificance compared with recent governments' other futile gambles.

The election meant that the art group could not meet at its normal venue, a scout hut in a neighbouring town.  We were due to debrief a project, so I invited the crowd here, and we did the session in the sitootery.  Very pleasant, and I got to show off with a bit of home baking. 

Return match

We've been out and about today, having been invited to lunch with Kath and Martin (see 9 May blog) at their place near Midhurst.  They are such good company, and regaled us with a fine lunch.  The drive there was pleasant in the autumn colours, though a bit more sunshine would have helped.  I'd forgotten how charming the countryside is in parts of Surrey and West Sussex.  We tend to become a bit complacent about the surroundings in our county, and it's refreshing to be reminded that we don't enjoy a monopoly of scenery.

On Thursday, among many other things, I should go and vote in the election of our police commissioner.  I cannot understand the logic for this initiative, other than to show the editors of the red tops that the government is Doing Something.  But at what cost?  If I vote at all, I shall ignore the party line and vote for the outgoing (Independent) chair of the police authority.

Oh, and while I'm on a rant, why is it that diesel costs more here than in France, where the vehicle tax has been factored into fuel taxes?  Well, the answer is clear: if they up the diesel price, the republican highways will grind to a halt behind opérations escargot in which all that's needed is a truck in each lane and on the shoulder running parallel  at 30 kph.  Successive governments, I've heard it said, have thus been blackmailed into keeping the diesel taxes low, which is why I drive a heavy oil burner.  But the principle is impeccable.  Taxation is based on consumption, and rewards fuel efficiency and low mileage.  The heaviest taxes are paid by those who do the most damage to the roads and to air quality.  By adopting this approach, the government could close down the vehicle excise duty industry at the DVLA at a stroke, and save police enforcement effort and court time.

Home

Air travel is never a great experience, and I'm sure Mr O'Leary would agree that he isn't interested in  making it any less unpleasant.  His outfit raked in close on half a billion Euros in profit last year, which can't be bad, even if his customers do grizzle.  The flight got us back on schedule (which they never cease crowing about) despite some delays getting rolling at Perpignan.  We'd plenty time once the closing-down chores were done, and so ambled across the mountains, rather than use more fuel and pay tolls on the autoroute.  Lovely views of the Pyrenees and of the vineyards, which are now colouring up nicely. We also had time for a serviceable lunch at the airport.  (Don't have the red fruit crumble - served cold in a stodgy pastry case, and desperately sweet.)  Nice view south across the apron, watching the starlings swooping across the horizon.   Of aircraft movements, next to nothing: a couple of light aircraft only apart from our flight and one for Orly.  Perpignan serves relatively few destinations, so it was surprising to see a Nordwind Airlines 757 parked there with no stairs attached.  Who they? you enquire.  No clue in the Bermuda registration, and it turns out to be Russian.  There's a firm at Perpignan that does a lot of re-painting and cannibalising of older aircraft for spares, so we speculate that there wasn't room for it on the maintenance hangar apron, which is rather full of de-engined 727s etc.

As when we left, the journey from Stansted home was less bad than we'd expected, with only brief spells of crawling in the M25 queues.  Busy, of course, and unpleasant in the rain and darkness, but it was over in an hour and a half, including a pause to get bread and milk in the village.  It's nice to be back in a centrally-heated house, though, and to get back to our competent vehicles.

During our absence, the Mairie has replied signalling no objection to my proposed re-pointing of the house, saying only that the work must be finished flush to the surface of the stones, using local sand that matches the colour of the stones.  Good news, since the town clerk thought I might have to re-render the wall, which would have cost substantially more.  So, armed with letters from the Mayor, the Architecte des Bâtiments de  France, the Direction Régionale des Affaires Culturelles de Languedoc-Roussillon (Service Territorial de l'Architecture et du Patrimoine de l'Aude), the Ministère de l'Ecologie, du Développement Durable et de l'Energie (whose comment, incidentally, reads 'sorry, mate - not my department, but here's a list of a few other other ministries who could do with the jobs') and the Prefect, no less.  The cream of the Grandes Ecoles having thus been kept busy for three months, I am now authorised to point my walls.  Just don't let them discover 'elf 'n safety, please!

Moving on

The week has flown by. We'll be cleaning and laundering tomorrow, and working our way through the usual leaving checklist.  Exquisite light this morning as we came home from a quick shopping trip to the Préfecture town.  The low sun shows up the contours of the land and the texture of the vegetation very well, and the leaves on the vines are starting to colour up nicely.  The village is starting to move towards hibernation: a number of restaurants have now closed for the winter, though there were still a lot of tourists here at the weekend.  Last Thursday was the Toussaint holiday (the village bone orchard is a blaze of chrysanthemums and cyclamens), and a lot of people will have taken Friday off to make a long weekend (known in these parts as faire le pont).

As we approached town, a white van came the other way, towing a trailer.  The driver was rubbing an eye with his left hand, and clamping the mobile phone to the right ear with the right.  So, one eye in operation, towing a trailer, and steering with I'd sooner not enquire what. The carnage on French roads is pretty easy to explain when you've driven here for a few days.  As I write, a fellow just started up his 4x4 across the way, then started backing up the street while at the same time giving more attention to flicking a cigarette out of the packet and into the gob.  Perhaps I'm wrong about all this: maybe French drivers are without exception sublimely skilful,  attentive - and constantly attended by guardian angels.  And perhaps not.  Despite other people's driving and the sloppy handling of the rental car (which I'm starting to loathe) we made it to town and back unscathed.

Next year's agenda here is about building repairs (officialdom permitting) and plumbing.  We've confirmed the choice of new lavvies that I'd seen on the Lapeyre web site.  We'll get them ordered up and fitted next year, when we shall have a short list of jobs for a plumber.  One of  the taps in the cellier has jammed shut, so we're having to use the dishwasher and washing machine one at a time, and the supply pipe is not properly fixed to the wall.  Still, at least our waste water is dealt with by good republican drains, and not by the temperamental septic tanks that afflict some of our friends.  We really do know how to have a good time, don't we?

Tomorrow brings airports, a cramped and under-pressurised Boeing 737 and the M25.  Stand by for an industrial-strength grizzle next time.

The Joys of Motoring

Footnote on the rented vehicle.  I'm getting used to its bulk, but hate the sloppy handling, which is not helped by seats that are out of tune with the suspension, and lack lateral support.  The gearbox is a bore: despite selecting the setting that supposedly changes gears and locks up the slush pump at lower revs, it seems really fussy, so that the wheels seem only loosely connected to the engine, and there is none of the mechanical harmony that I'm used to with the people's cart back home. For a big, butch-looking vehicle, it sounds distinctly limp-wristed.  It's not without its good points: it steps off the mark briskly, thanks to a low bottom gear (but so did my 1995 Laguna). The large load bay allowed us to schlepp the firewood home in fewer layers, so that there was no fallout over the sides of the tarpaulin - so often we bring home the firewood and stack it, then have to hoover out the car.  Talk about damning with faint praise, though: I'm reminded of a friend of my father who said of a certain Ford 'It's got doors like a Daimler: but I look for more in a car than doors'.  Oh, and by the way, the key fob defines the colour as noir foncé.  That's good: I can't stand pale black.