Back to reality

Today's errand was to go and find replacement flush and ball cock bits for the bathroom WC.  Both WCs in the house will need to be replaced soon, since leaks have left them irremediably rust-stained.  They were like that when I bought the place in 1998, so I oughtn't to grizzle, really.  In these circumstances, I was looking for a cheap short-term fix.  Went into a place in the rapidly expanding desert of big sheds on the edge of the market town, thinking I'd get the bits and then price up the definitive job.  No prices on the china stuff, nor on the repair kit, which I nevertheless walked along to the till.  There, the dame wanted to know my name and address, as though bog-fettling was some sort of licensable activity.  After a few minutes tapping at her computer terminal, she went along to the shelf from which we'd selected said fettling kit, came back, wrote another paragraph on her terminal and said '€38.60'.  'Non!' said I, with a certain de Gaulle-like emphasis, 'c'est trop', and stumped out.  Back to the trusty Bricomarché for a kit that will do the job for long enough, at €15.05.  I suppose that shop N°1 has higher costs, in that they require their staff to spend so long at their computers.  But then, shop N°2 asked me for my loyalty card, wot I ain't got, but said I'd like one.  So now I have another lengthy form to fill in: name, address, marital status, date of birth, e-mail address, colour of both grandmothers' eyes, nature of property, professional status, length, girth and current status of genitalia.  (Mild hyperbole.)  I may not bother.

Nice day off

Paid the builder this morning for yesterday’s work – around a third of what we’d expected, which is a relief, given that it was a matter of additional preventative measures in advance of the main work, since the administration seems bent on delaying a start until after the first frosts, which would surely bring more débris down.  That included the cost of the replacement of the already brittle corrugated plastic panel they broke in the process. 

I toyed briefly with going to Paris today for Etienne’s memorial service and wake.  Instead, in consultation with two others who knew him well and live locally, we got together at the Auberge du Somail for lunch, first raising a glass of local white wine to his memory.  Our menu du jour lunch was less good than last week’s €22 one, I have to say, but it was quite acceptable.  We had a table on the towpath by the old bridge, so were rewarded with much entertainment as Noddy-boat skippers struggled to avoid collisions – and frequently failed.  Running commentary from an old varmint at the next table: ‘Revenge for Trafalgar!’; ‘Chilly Willy: prepare the cannons!’.  (For such is the name of one of said Noddy boats.)  I limited myself to starting a round of applause once they’d all unscrambled the mess.  A few very smart converted barges came through during our three-hour lunch.  Must check what they charge for such cruises.  Another converted barge: the floating grocers, is moored at Le Somail, and is up for sale, in case you’re interested.

After lunch, we treated ourselves to an hour’s hire of a little battery boat and ambled very gently along to the aqueduct over the Cesse and back again, encountering a pair of black swans on the way.  Great fun, though even the experienced Mr Skipper Cooper struggled a little with its odd hydrodynamic qualities.  Our favourite Jack Russell enjoyed it too, even if I had to restrain her from going for the swans.

Crumbly bits

 

The builders have been, and I think we're now less of a threat to passers-by.  I'm sure the lawyers would do well out of an argument whether victims had been killed on municipal land or that of our neighbour, whose title runs into the middle of the street.  Good that they got the work done in less than a day - we'd been expecting two full days. 

I spent a shortish time at the Mairie this morning, handing in the numerous photographs required by the administration in support of my application to make the village look a bit less worse.

Meanwhile, I should probably offer to help the village prepare its application for accreditation as one the the 'Villages les plus merdoyés de l'Europe'.  To deal with the problem, they issue a decree.  Rather as with building permits, they dictate and fail to enforce.  Amazing, how often 'Paciência' comes into play hereabouts.

Douce France, vol. 173

Our remarkably fecund neighbour, who used to hack us off by revving his old bangers under our window (not to mention leaving a slick reminiscent of the Torrey Canyon), seems to have bought a mini-moto for one of his brood, and a scooter for another.  The paramour of a daughter has a small-engined trials bike.  All of the above are kept in Grandpapa's garage, which adjoins us, and are regularly brought out and revved up.  Consequently, one is forced to close the windows when they're out there, and one is not 'appy.

Still, it was a bit of an incentive to clean the fan that usually stands guard on top of the crockery cupboard, and it now stirs the fug rather more efficiently than of late.  We bought it in Colmar ten years ago, when a bug we'd caught in Belgium en route left us languishing in a top floor room in a pub in Riquewihr for two days.  Fortunately, said bug didn't get me until I'd been down to Colmar to get the fan.  It earned its keep in Riquewihr, and just added to its credentials when all we could get in Orange was a Première Classe room.  So, ten years on, it was entitled to have its face wiped.

We went to a piano recital at the salle polyvalente yesterday evening.  It was given by one Charlie Felter (look him up on YouTube), whose parents live in the village.  He gave a broad-brush rendering of the Goldberg variations, somewhat dictated by the cracking pace he set himself, and I guess that in our times that's as valid as some of the more clinical interpretations.  Some might say it got them over with quicker.  His Bach-Busoni Chaconne was good, but I think the general accolade went to his Chopin ballades.  Pretty good, considering that he gave the performance on an upright in the hall above the footy changing rooms, where the acoustic was surprisingly good.  I estimate that there were around 150 there, which ain't bad for a village with an electoral roll of scarcely three times that.

Matters practical this coming week.  I have murdered several forests in the process of producing the paperwork required by the free, equal and brotherly administration so that it may consider my proposed steps to stop the house falling on free, equal and brotherly passers-by.  Meanwhile, Pierre is coming to take off the most threatening bits of render from the back and side of the house, starting tomorrow.  We should get Kate's keys back on Tuesday from the tardy termitistas, and we are also meeting friends for lunch, and a toast to celebrate the all too short life of our mutual friend Etienne.  His memorial service will be held on Tuesday in Montrouge, followed by a bash in the parish hall.  With luck, we'll be able to honour his memory in the more restful shade of the surviving planes of the Canal du Midi. 

O tempora, o mores

As is so often the way, we made up our Canal du Midi itinerary on Wednesday as we went along.  We decided  after lunch to take a trip along to the eight locks at Fonsérannes (the spelling of which varies wildly, by the way). and our route took us along the old National 9 from Coursan to Béziers.  Every few hundred yards we'd see a working girl standing by the roadside, sometimes with a fellow sitting in a car nearby.  I was about to say that I'd never seen this in France before, but then I remember the Bois de Boulogne back in the early 90s, when the prostitutes parked their white vans in line, and sat in their underwear at the open back doors.  Indeed, I recall seeing a rather hefty lady standing by the roadside in the woods one morning: unfortunately, her five o'clock shadow was showing through the slap.  Someone told me the Porte Dauphine was the preferred pitch for the rent boys. 

And on that edifying note, I have to report that the kitchen electrics seem to be working.  I'm not sure why.  I replaced fuse 8, and all was well at sockets 1, 2 and 3 in the kitchen.  I then pulled fuse 6, and sockets 1, 2 and 3 went out, then pulling fuse 8 took out the socket by the fireplace.  The house has a rich mixture of circuit breakers and cartridge fuse boxes: one in the cellier, one in a bedroom cupboard and one in the bathroom, of all places.  Our old electrician, Jean-Paul, told me he'd bid for the rewiring of the house under the previous administration, which opted for an electrician who was cheaper, but drunk.  I think the moral, as in the case of the whores on the N9, is leave well alone.

Welcome guests

It has been a delight to have Celia and Andy with us for a few days.  Great and undemanding house guests, and they would not be deflected from treating us to lunch out on four successive days.  Corbières views on Monday were rather hazy, but from our usual vantage point near Bouisse they could get a fair idea of the lie of the Pyrenees in the distance.  And the trip offered the usual pleasures of wild flowers (though not so many at this season), cowbells and pizzas at the Grand Café in Limoux!

Tuesday to the seaside at La Franqui, via the Corbières and Perpignan, where I'd spotted in the distance an A400M doing circuits and bumps at the airport.  The first delivery of this much-delayed type is now scheduled for June next year, and it was interesting to see that they're still practising crosswind landings and take-offs.  They had a good day for it at Perpignan, and as we watched it getting thrown about on the approach, we were jolly glad we weren't in it.  The P4lm B3ach at La Franqui was a bit disappointing (excuse the Google-proofing): the others' meals were fine, it seems, but my moules were once again far too salty, though not quite as bad as the previous time, when I sent them back.  I didn't finish them, and complained.  You'd expect no less, eh?  Not that it did any good, except to prompt me not to have them again.  The semi-open location by the beach excuses a lot.  Quite a lot of flamingos on the étang at Bages, but the wind was so strong that we were dissuaded from hanging around for too long.

Celia wanted to see the Canal du Midi, so yesterday got as much exposure to it as she possibly could, short of being thrown in.  We started at Homps, then followed the canal by road to Le Somail, stopping there for lunch.  The Auberge du Somail was recommended to me some years ago, but this was the first time we'd tried it.  Good experience.  Excellent meal, reasonably priced, well presented and served. 

Sad to see so many of the plane trees alongside the canal dying off, though.  I read that munitions crates brought into France from the USA during the war were infected with a fungus that attacks plane trees and cannot be eradicated from the ancient population of trees.  This is very worrying, since France's roads, canals and village squares owe so much of their beauty to the mature plane trees that line them.  Large numbers are being felled and burned along the canal, and I read that they will all have to be replaced over time.  Landowners and local authorities are wrangling over who meets the cost, and I don't think France's is the kind of culture that would support a 'sponsor a tree' campaign.

We took the visitors back to the airport today via Carcassonne, where we had lunch in a familiar restaurant that may be slipping a little.  Elsewhere I've described the Maison de la Blanquette in Carcassonne as an island of culture in a sea of kitsch.  At the risk of horribly mixed images, I hope it isn't emulating the chameleon.  Anyway, at the airport, we were rewarded with another sighting of the A400M, and to Andy's great delight, one of a Beluga taking off.  I think there are precisely three of them in the world, so a rare event in absolute terms.  Daily fare in Toulouse, of course.

Back home to problems with the electrics: three of the socket outlets in the kitchen have suddenly packed up without tripping a circuit breaker.  'Ere we go again.

Recycling

In preparation for visitors, I've finally taken down the horrible infra-red heater in the shower room and replaced it with a fan job.  The usual list of snags, eg the lack of equipment to dig out a recess for the junction box, but Martyn having spotted in Bricomarché a surface-mounted box that matched the junction box, we're finally in business.  When we replace something serviceable but surplus to requirements, we sometimes take it to the déchetterie, but more often just leave it beside the communal dustbins at the end of the street.  We've 'recycled' lots of stuff that way, including a UHF telly aerial and mast.  The infra-red heater went out there at 13:00.  When I took the garbage down at 14:00 it had gone.