There's no point, really there isn't, why try to get stuff done, even
important stuff like putting your screaming with exhaustion child to bed when
you have more pertinent things to do like feed Local Service another glass of
wine or entertain the local stone mason (Who proudly declares he built our
leaking roof every time he comes round) and his (admittedly charming) 8 year
old granddaughter for 40 minutes a piece come 7 o'clock on any given evening.
Along with the visitors come a large amount of locally grown, fresh picked
fruit and vegetables delivered without expectation of anything in return
(Indeed the whole village knows we don't have a veg plot and I sense a little
bit of pity for this in the offerings!).
It would be the height of churlishness to complain but we are starting to
creak under the weight of the offerings. The other night Local Service
turned up with a small crate of Haricot Beans (Yellow variety!) when, not
halfway through his congratulatory glass of Rose, Proud Roof Man arrives with a
carrier bag of the same (Green Variety!). Much politically correct
complimenting and critical eyeballing of each other’s beans ensues over the
next two thirds of the rose bottle. Local Service pointed out, next day,
that yellow variety are far superior.
In the last 3 days, they have both stepped up their game and we have had a
handful of hazelnuts, six courgettes, three cucumbers, two lettuces, a marrow,
a red cabbage, another carrier bag of beans and a bucket of tomatoes. In
return Competitive wife is going to start stepping up cupcake production to
industrial levels.
Showing posts with label Competitive Wife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Competitive Wife. Show all posts
Saturday, 4 August 2012
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
BZZZZzzzzzzz
It's be a while since I updated this blog, a lot has happened and that's
mainly why I haven't! I'll try to catch up over the next few days and
weeks and so fill you in on the various things that have been going on.
Just a recently a swarm of bees decided to take up residence in our garden, they were quite a sight as they form a house sized cloud above our roof buzzing like an armada of mopeds.
They settled in the corner of the garden wall (or the back of Retired Farmers house) about 20 feet up and we thought it a good idea to go and tell him. In an uncharacteristic flurry of activity he came straight around and insisted that we all went to his house for our safety! Competitive wife was expecting a visit from a hairdresser so he said it would be fine for her to stay indoors but I and Terrible two's girl really should come over to his and share a bottle of Rose (This is French Health and Safety practice in action) (Terrible two's girl did not share the Rose!).
Reluctantly I went and spent a lovely afternoon in next doors garden at the end of which Retired Farmer promised to be back at 8 that evening (When the bees had gone to bed!) to seal up the entrance as, in his opinion, they were not accessible for the local honey producer to come and collect them.
8pm came and went and we assumed that he had forgotten but a mere 2 hours later he turned up with his mate (one of the many non descript Frenchmen of a certain age who inhabit the village and have a repeating name, Jo-Jo, Ho-Ho, Fon-Fon, Lu-Lu etc, etc [that's not one]). Clearly they had spent the evening up to that point drinking as Retired farmer staggered in with a ladder and his mate just attempted to push, kick, poke or barrack him at every opportunity. Armed with paper and mastic he then set about closing up the entrance of the hive and by way of celebration insisted that I join them in his cellar for a bottle of wine.
3 hours later and 30 minutes after his mate had gone home we emerged from his cellar into utter darkness (The village lights were off) whereupon he looked at me and asked who I was! Laughingly I tried to respond by shining the light from my phone on my face whereupon he fell flat on his arse. Once I'd located him I helped him to his door where he once again asked me who I was and why did I have a bottle of his Vin d'Epine (which he'd given me an hour earlier as a gift) under my arm. I replied as best I could and went home.
The next day the bees were free again and that evening Retired Farmer turned up with his son and a can of expanding foam! I'm no bee expert but I didn't rate the chances of this plan working all that highly and funnily enough the next day the bees were free once more. On the 3rd evening he turned up with a local builder and a pot full of plaster!
At the time of writing the bees are yet again free.
Just a recently a swarm of bees decided to take up residence in our garden, they were quite a sight as they form a house sized cloud above our roof buzzing like an armada of mopeds.
They settled in the corner of the garden wall (or the back of Retired Farmers house) about 20 feet up and we thought it a good idea to go and tell him. In an uncharacteristic flurry of activity he came straight around and insisted that we all went to his house for our safety! Competitive wife was expecting a visit from a hairdresser so he said it would be fine for her to stay indoors but I and Terrible two's girl really should come over to his and share a bottle of Rose (This is French Health and Safety practice in action) (Terrible two's girl did not share the Rose!).
Reluctantly I went and spent a lovely afternoon in next doors garden at the end of which Retired Farmer promised to be back at 8 that evening (When the bees had gone to bed!) to seal up the entrance as, in his opinion, they were not accessible for the local honey producer to come and collect them.
8pm came and went and we assumed that he had forgotten but a mere 2 hours later he turned up with his mate (one of the many non descript Frenchmen of a certain age who inhabit the village and have a repeating name, Jo-Jo, Ho-Ho, Fon-Fon, Lu-Lu etc, etc [that's not one]). Clearly they had spent the evening up to that point drinking as Retired farmer staggered in with a ladder and his mate just attempted to push, kick, poke or barrack him at every opportunity. Armed with paper and mastic he then set about closing up the entrance of the hive and by way of celebration insisted that I join them in his cellar for a bottle of wine.
3 hours later and 30 minutes after his mate had gone home we emerged from his cellar into utter darkness (The village lights were off) whereupon he looked at me and asked who I was! Laughingly I tried to respond by shining the light from my phone on my face whereupon he fell flat on his arse. Once I'd located him I helped him to his door where he once again asked me who I was and why did I have a bottle of his Vin d'Epine (which he'd given me an hour earlier as a gift) under my arm. I replied as best I could and went home.
The next day the bees were free again and that evening Retired Farmer turned up with his son and a can of expanding foam! I'm no bee expert but I didn't rate the chances of this plan working all that highly and funnily enough the next day the bees were free once more. On the 3rd evening he turned up with a local builder and a pot full of plaster!
At the time of writing the bees are yet again free.
Monday, 21 May 2012
Getting stuck in.
One of our main concerns before we moved was to ensure that we joined in
with the local community and integrated with the French speaking part of
it. We needn't have worried, the French speaking community have almost
insisted on welcoming us and getting us integrate with village affairs.
Competitive Wife has already been roped into a variety of local events and meetings, in two weeks she has sat on the committee for opening a new community library, helped make the local goats cheese tarts called "Torteaux" and baked them in the community oven and at time of writing is at her French class in the local town followed by lunch with the French class at a Creperie called "Le Marmite" (I think it's a big cooking pot roughly the same shape as the jars of savoury spread, must be a connection there). Last week she also went (with a friend who visited from the UK) to a soiree Tartines, which we came to realise can only be described as a toast topping festival! I’m working on her to write an account of "soiree Tartines" for my blog but true to her name she won't let me have it unless it's better written than my entries! (Not altogether difficult one would have thought).
For my own part I'm getting into French society through the medium of DIY and vegetables. We have started receiving vegetables from a variety of sources, in exchange for anything from furniture to cup cakes. Green garlic are particularly plentiful at the moment, we've received about 30 of them so far and are running out of things to put them in. Along with those, in the last week, we have had 4 lettuces and a bag full of what Local service calls spinach but which looks alarmingly like doc leaves, nice in an omelette though. On the DIY front I'm pushing the limits of what I can do on a daily basis, I've replaced windows with cut glass and putty, wired the barn with lights and set up/aligned a satellite dish all for the first time ever. The window and TV work fine so 2 out of 3 isn't too bad. I'm afraid I'll have to call 40 cat man to help with the electrics but he will then need to have a drink with me afterwards and he does smell of cat wee and doesn't say anything while he's having his drink leaving me floundering around to make conversation in basic French!
Well, onwards and upwards and let there be light next time I write.
Competitive Wife has already been roped into a variety of local events and meetings, in two weeks she has sat on the committee for opening a new community library, helped make the local goats cheese tarts called "Torteaux" and baked them in the community oven and at time of writing is at her French class in the local town followed by lunch with the French class at a Creperie called "Le Marmite" (I think it's a big cooking pot roughly the same shape as the jars of savoury spread, must be a connection there). Last week she also went (with a friend who visited from the UK) to a soiree Tartines, which we came to realise can only be described as a toast topping festival! I’m working on her to write an account of "soiree Tartines" for my blog but true to her name she won't let me have it unless it's better written than my entries! (Not altogether difficult one would have thought).
For my own part I'm getting into French society through the medium of DIY and vegetables. We have started receiving vegetables from a variety of sources, in exchange for anything from furniture to cup cakes. Green garlic are particularly plentiful at the moment, we've received about 30 of them so far and are running out of things to put them in. Along with those, in the last week, we have had 4 lettuces and a bag full of what Local service calls spinach but which looks alarmingly like doc leaves, nice in an omelette though. On the DIY front I'm pushing the limits of what I can do on a daily basis, I've replaced windows with cut glass and putty, wired the barn with lights and set up/aligned a satellite dish all for the first time ever. The window and TV work fine so 2 out of 3 isn't too bad. I'm afraid I'll have to call 40 cat man to help with the electrics but he will then need to have a drink with me afterwards and he does smell of cat wee and doesn't say anything while he's having his drink leaving me floundering around to make conversation in basic French!
Well, onwards and upwards and let there be light next time I write.
Nous Somme Arrivés
Well here we are, we've arrived in France and house in the UK is due to sell
any day now (the point of no return, so to speak). It’s all a bit chaotic, and flying by, so far so
just a few bits and pieces here, possibly a better written and more cohesive
entry will follow shortly!
The big house (there are 2 on the property, the other one we imaginatively call the little house) is coming along well, totally unrecognisable from two years ago when we first saw it. It fights us tooth and nail to remain as it is with every simple DIY task taking 2 or 3 times longer than you would expect due to years of abuse from previous owners, I mean why use the supplied fixings to put blinds on windows when a blob of super glue does the job so quickly? Changing things like blinds then becomes a far trickier job than advertised.
I seem to remember referring to our 18 month old as having premature terrible twos in my first post, well perhaps she thinks she should be living up to it. I had no idea how prophetic those words would turn out to be. If anything fails to go her way at the moment she has decided that spitting on the floor will get her the reaction she is after. Where exactly this new fad came from, neither Competitive Wife nor I are able to fathom.
Last week one of the local British imports of Prop Forward physique, asked me if I could help him unload a lorry bringing his sheds from the UK over here. I said I'd be delighted but had little idea (nor, I think, did he) that it would take six men a full (and full on) 3 hours to unload. At time of writing I'm rather sore. Myself, Prop Forward, Local Service, Grumpy Welshman, the driver and a local plumber/electrician with 40 cats (40 cat man) managed to shift the equivalent of a small copse of trees from the back of the lorry and in doing so consumed (between us) 1 cup of tea, 2 Oranginas, 12 cans of strong lager, 5 shots of whiskey and a Pastis. Apparently nothing can be done around here without offering an alcoholic drink afterwards or in this case during. Grumpy Welshman was on particularly good form, turning up in a hi-vis vest and making sure the traffic got past the lorry safely, I'm sure both cyclists made it home all the more safely as a result.
That's all for now.
The big house (there are 2 on the property, the other one we imaginatively call the little house) is coming along well, totally unrecognisable from two years ago when we first saw it. It fights us tooth and nail to remain as it is with every simple DIY task taking 2 or 3 times longer than you would expect due to years of abuse from previous owners, I mean why use the supplied fixings to put blinds on windows when a blob of super glue does the job so quickly? Changing things like blinds then becomes a far trickier job than advertised.
I seem to remember referring to our 18 month old as having premature terrible twos in my first post, well perhaps she thinks she should be living up to it. I had no idea how prophetic those words would turn out to be. If anything fails to go her way at the moment she has decided that spitting on the floor will get her the reaction she is after. Where exactly this new fad came from, neither Competitive Wife nor I are able to fathom.
Last week one of the local British imports of Prop Forward physique, asked me if I could help him unload a lorry bringing his sheds from the UK over here. I said I'd be delighted but had little idea (nor, I think, did he) that it would take six men a full (and full on) 3 hours to unload. At time of writing I'm rather sore. Myself, Prop Forward, Local Service, Grumpy Welshman, the driver and a local plumber/electrician with 40 cats (40 cat man) managed to shift the equivalent of a small copse of trees from the back of the lorry and in doing so consumed (between us) 1 cup of tea, 2 Oranginas, 12 cans of strong lager, 5 shots of whiskey and a Pastis. Apparently nothing can be done around here without offering an alcoholic drink afterwards or in this case during. Grumpy Welshman was on particularly good form, turning up in a hi-vis vest and making sure the traffic got past the lorry safely, I'm sure both cyclists made it home all the more safely as a result.
That's all for now.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
The long way home.
This could be a lengthy one so brace yourself. Well in fact, if this
bit hasn't been edited out, it is.
One of our trips to the house last year saw one of my wife's longest serving friends (Penniless solicitor: PS) come over to visit us for the last 4 days (Thursday to Sunday) of a 2 week stay.
Our aim for the 2 weeks was integration with the local community and to this end we had arranged a little "Apero" evening, inviting our neighbours by knocking on doors and speaking at them in our best French.
The Apero was to be held on the Friday and we were as scared as kittens. We had no idea how many would turn up, each invitee had been asked to "invite anyone you think of who might want to come". This led to a bit of panic buying in the wine and glasses departments and at the time of writing we still have far too many glasses.
The evening was pretty much a success, about 25 locals turned up (Including about 10 ex-pats but the rest were French locals) and we managed to communicate fairly well and keep all of the glasses topped up. Other than a small groping incident the night passed off without a hitch but somehow wife (Against her own rule of not entertaining the night before we drive home) managed to invite Grumpy Welshman (GW) and his better half over for dinner the following evening. This was the first link in a chain of events that will be family lore for many years to come.
The following evening, after we had got dinner sorted, we received an invitation from GW to come over to his for a pre-dinner drink. It was a bit close to little one's bedtime to take advantage of it so, very graciously, wife offered to let PS and I go as long as we were sure to be home by 7.30 given our impending early start and 12 hour drive.
Armed with 45 minutes, we set off on foot for GW's house and had barely managed 60 yards when a van parked in front of us pulled away turned left and removed a large chunk of trim from it's side cutting a corner a bit too fine. The driver, either unaware or unbothered simply drove away! Several neighbours came out to see what the noise was so we smiled, practiced our best Gallic shrugs at the little bit of van on the side of the road and headed off once more.
After another 20 yards a rotund Frenchman (with a nickname derived from his father's job at the water board, we'll call him WB) we recognised from the Apero evening came running out of his garage and insisted we came in to see the work he was doing on his house. We explained we that we needed to get to GW's house but he simply explained: GW, "he's my brother" as if that settled any and all argument! "And so it begins" were PS's prophetic words at just that moment. A full tour ensued complete with much appreciation of wall finishings, window trim, flooring, electrical installation and understanding of the costs involved, not to mention a considerable amount of boasting that it had all been done outside of the tax system!
We finally got back down to his garage and were about to bid our farewells when he produced a half bottle of whisky with a hairy Scotsman on the front and 3 disposable plastic cups. Something of a movie style dream sequence followed with WB, who spoke no English, teaching me (A Welshman from the valleys) words in Welsh while we all downed neat whiskey. GW had clearly been coaching him for this moment for years. By the time we got underway, WB in tow, it must have been 7.20 and we had managed 80 yards. Further drinks at GW's meant we didn't arrive home until 8.15.
This didn't go down well with wife who had been dealing with the little one who didn't want to go to bed and trying to keep dinner edible. This was entirely fair on her part however I still couldn't see any way around the delay without being rude to our new acquaintances! Much drinking was done for the next few hours and I think we staggered to bed well past midnight with a 6am start and 12 hour drive home the next day.
To say we were in poor condition to commence the drive home would have been an understatement, three hangovers and a loud baby in a car at 7am on the autoroute, mixed in with a bit of leftover tension from the night before was not ideal. We had to give up and stop at the first services for coffee and a bit of a group hug (Or the British equivalent, a sensible chat around a table). This cleared the air and our heads somewhat and we got back underway having wasted about an hour. Now behind schedule and struggling to catch our ferry from Calais, we pushed on as fast as we dared for 6 hours and with the port just 20km away were squeaking in on time to catch our boat.
At this point the petrol light in the car came on along with a warning that we had just 45km of fuel left. Wife was asleep in the back of the car and after confirming the remaining distance with PS who had the map I said "Let’s risk it". These are the words that wife woke up to asking "risk WHAT?". I started to explain but before I could finish we had run out of petrol. So now we are on a service road near the autoroute with a baby, it's foggy, cold and occasionally drizzling. Having jogged the half km to the nearest SOS phone to find that it didn't work I came back and following the instructions on the SOS booth dialled 112 on our mobile. My mistake was to ask if anyone spoke English because they just hung up! Another 10 attempts later we finally managed to explain our situation to someone and get a rescue vehicle on it's way to us, perhaps from Paris as it only took 2 hours to arrive.
On arrival he tipped 2 litres of petrol in the car, stuck out his hand and said 185 Euros please, when questioned about this he shrugged, said "c'est Dimanche" and threatened to call the police. We paid the man leaving us a combined wealth of 1 Euro, and headed off once more.
Arriving at the port we were told that we needed to go to the ticket office to pay to change our ferry crossing, a mere 87 Euros. When I explained that this was more than the original return crossing cost the lady behind the counter cheerily said "I know", she followed this up by saying we were now too late for the next crossing and would have to wait another 2 and a half hours. "Merci" I said with as little real meaning as I could manage.
The waiting hall consists of a huge room filled with 5 or six vending machines. Having not eaten since breakfast we decided to spend our Euro a single packet of crisps to share between 3 of us. Never has a crisp tasted so good and collectively we were almost weeping with joy when I held up the little one to look into the packet and said "look crisps!". Showing a previously undiscovered talent for comic timing she promptly threw up straight into the packet. We really did cry with laughter.
One of our trips to the house last year saw one of my wife's longest serving friends (Penniless solicitor: PS) come over to visit us for the last 4 days (Thursday to Sunday) of a 2 week stay.
Our aim for the 2 weeks was integration with the local community and to this end we had arranged a little "Apero" evening, inviting our neighbours by knocking on doors and speaking at them in our best French.
The Apero was to be held on the Friday and we were as scared as kittens. We had no idea how many would turn up, each invitee had been asked to "invite anyone you think of who might want to come". This led to a bit of panic buying in the wine and glasses departments and at the time of writing we still have far too many glasses.
The evening was pretty much a success, about 25 locals turned up (Including about 10 ex-pats but the rest were French locals) and we managed to communicate fairly well and keep all of the glasses topped up. Other than a small groping incident the night passed off without a hitch but somehow wife (Against her own rule of not entertaining the night before we drive home) managed to invite Grumpy Welshman (GW) and his better half over for dinner the following evening. This was the first link in a chain of events that will be family lore for many years to come.
The following evening, after we had got dinner sorted, we received an invitation from GW to come over to his for a pre-dinner drink. It was a bit close to little one's bedtime to take advantage of it so, very graciously, wife offered to let PS and I go as long as we were sure to be home by 7.30 given our impending early start and 12 hour drive.
Armed with 45 minutes, we set off on foot for GW's house and had barely managed 60 yards when a van parked in front of us pulled away turned left and removed a large chunk of trim from it's side cutting a corner a bit too fine. The driver, either unaware or unbothered simply drove away! Several neighbours came out to see what the noise was so we smiled, practiced our best Gallic shrugs at the little bit of van on the side of the road and headed off once more.
After another 20 yards a rotund Frenchman (with a nickname derived from his father's job at the water board, we'll call him WB) we recognised from the Apero evening came running out of his garage and insisted we came in to see the work he was doing on his house. We explained we that we needed to get to GW's house but he simply explained: GW, "he's my brother" as if that settled any and all argument! "And so it begins" were PS's prophetic words at just that moment. A full tour ensued complete with much appreciation of wall finishings, window trim, flooring, electrical installation and understanding of the costs involved, not to mention a considerable amount of boasting that it had all been done outside of the tax system!
We finally got back down to his garage and were about to bid our farewells when he produced a half bottle of whisky with a hairy Scotsman on the front and 3 disposable plastic cups. Something of a movie style dream sequence followed with WB, who spoke no English, teaching me (A Welshman from the valleys) words in Welsh while we all downed neat whiskey. GW had clearly been coaching him for this moment for years. By the time we got underway, WB in tow, it must have been 7.20 and we had managed 80 yards. Further drinks at GW's meant we didn't arrive home until 8.15.
This didn't go down well with wife who had been dealing with the little one who didn't want to go to bed and trying to keep dinner edible. This was entirely fair on her part however I still couldn't see any way around the delay without being rude to our new acquaintances! Much drinking was done for the next few hours and I think we staggered to bed well past midnight with a 6am start and 12 hour drive home the next day.
To say we were in poor condition to commence the drive home would have been an understatement, three hangovers and a loud baby in a car at 7am on the autoroute, mixed in with a bit of leftover tension from the night before was not ideal. We had to give up and stop at the first services for coffee and a bit of a group hug (Or the British equivalent, a sensible chat around a table). This cleared the air and our heads somewhat and we got back underway having wasted about an hour. Now behind schedule and struggling to catch our ferry from Calais, we pushed on as fast as we dared for 6 hours and with the port just 20km away were squeaking in on time to catch our boat.
At this point the petrol light in the car came on along with a warning that we had just 45km of fuel left. Wife was asleep in the back of the car and after confirming the remaining distance with PS who had the map I said "Let’s risk it". These are the words that wife woke up to asking "risk WHAT?". I started to explain but before I could finish we had run out of petrol. So now we are on a service road near the autoroute with a baby, it's foggy, cold and occasionally drizzling. Having jogged the half km to the nearest SOS phone to find that it didn't work I came back and following the instructions on the SOS booth dialled 112 on our mobile. My mistake was to ask if anyone spoke English because they just hung up! Another 10 attempts later we finally managed to explain our situation to someone and get a rescue vehicle on it's way to us, perhaps from Paris as it only took 2 hours to arrive.
On arrival he tipped 2 litres of petrol in the car, stuck out his hand and said 185 Euros please, when questioned about this he shrugged, said "c'est Dimanche" and threatened to call the police. We paid the man leaving us a combined wealth of 1 Euro, and headed off once more.
Arriving at the port we were told that we needed to go to the ticket office to pay to change our ferry crossing, a mere 87 Euros. When I explained that this was more than the original return crossing cost the lady behind the counter cheerily said "I know", she followed this up by saying we were now too late for the next crossing and would have to wait another 2 and a half hours. "Merci" I said with as little real meaning as I could manage.
The waiting hall consists of a huge room filled with 5 or six vending machines. Having not eaten since breakfast we decided to spend our Euro a single packet of crisps to share between 3 of us. Never has a crisp tasted so good and collectively we were almost weeping with joy when I held up the little one to look into the packet and said "look crisps!". Showing a previously undiscovered talent for comic timing she promptly threw up straight into the packet. We really did cry with laughter.
Thursday, 23 February 2012
Actually buying a house in France!
Perhaps this should have been my first post but maybe I've been trying to forget the wholr tortuous process. Seriously it really does seem to take forever. Considering we were first time buyers, buying a house with no chain, I'd have to say that 8 months between agreeing the price and actually owning the house is a little excessive. It only took Henry V 6 months to take Rouen by siege (Although 5 months of that could have been taken up by trying to work out the road system!).
For the entirity of this process we had only the most tenuious grasp on exactly what was happening. I won't bore you with details but I do feel the need to say that between my wife and I we had to provide nearly 1000 signatures! That's one each for every piece of paper in the contract (twice as there was an ammendment) and every page of the surveyors report!
Ultimately what we have is, or at least will be, amazing. There are 2 houses around a courtyard-garden and an enormous barn space that we have no idea what to do with but will provide sumptuous accomodation for Monti (Our little 1972 Fiat 500), not that he requires much in the way of space. All this for less than the cost of our 3 bed semi in provincial England.
For the entirity of this process we had only the most tenuious grasp on exactly what was happening. I won't bore you with details but I do feel the need to say that between my wife and I we had to provide nearly 1000 signatures! That's one each for every piece of paper in the contract (twice as there was an ammendment) and every page of the surveyors report!
Ultimately what we have is, or at least will be, amazing. There are 2 houses around a courtyard-garden and an enormous barn space that we have no idea what to do with but will provide sumptuous accomodation for Monti (Our little 1972 Fiat 500), not that he requires much in the way of space. All this for less than the cost of our 3 bed semi in provincial England.
Builder's advance!
Well it hasn't taken long for something odd to happen.
We have a father and son builders team working on the french house. Originally from deepest Essex, they live in the area and work for €10 an hour each (doesn't cost us too much though because they only manage to work 4 hours at a time and a full Monday to Thursday would be a very good week!). If ever you thought the term "salt of the Earth" was a cliche then you need to meet our Clacton builder and his octogenarian dad complete with matching roll up fags, tattoos and a beaten up old car as a works van.
I heard from my wife (She's over at the house with my mum for the week.) last night, that they were going for a pizza with the builders and a couple of other friends we have met over there. Not so surprising as it seems to be difficult to work with/employ someone in rural France without socialising or becoming friends, which for all it's wonderful positives, adds to the whole culture shock thing.
After they got back the word was that my mum had a few hand squeezes with octogenarian builder and would accept a dinner invite if he asked! Oh good god, it's uncomfortable writing about it sitting in another country. At least they are home tomorrow, hopefully both of them.
We have a father and son builders team working on the french house. Originally from deepest Essex, they live in the area and work for €10 an hour each (doesn't cost us too much though because they only manage to work 4 hours at a time and a full Monday to Thursday would be a very good week!). If ever you thought the term "salt of the Earth" was a cliche then you need to meet our Clacton builder and his octogenarian dad complete with matching roll up fags, tattoos and a beaten up old car as a works van.
I heard from my wife (She's over at the house with my mum for the week.) last night, that they were going for a pizza with the builders and a couple of other friends we have met over there. Not so surprising as it seems to be difficult to work with/employ someone in rural France without socialising or becoming friends, which for all it's wonderful positives, adds to the whole culture shock thing.
After they got back the word was that my mum had a few hand squeezes with octogenarian builder and would accept a dinner invite if he asked! Oh good god, it's uncomfortable writing about it sitting in another country. At least they are home tomorrow, hopefully both of them.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
How did we get here?
So it came to pass that after a couple of holidays in remote European villages. We decided we would like to move to France.
Long story short, we bought a house last year are now just a month out from moving in, our house in the UK having sold to the only bidder. This means we have reached the point of no return.
It might be considered a rash decision for all of us: me, my wife, our 18 month old baby girl with premature terrible twos and a cat with a closed door complex but decision made so here we go!
Anyway, so much has happened just owning the house in France and popping over when we can to try to decorate, repair or build bits of it that I'm just going to throw in random topics for my first few entries. This should (I make it sound like there's a plan!) get the background sorted before I do anything chronological. That said if it's happening now I'll let you know.
Long story short, we bought a house last year are now just a month out from moving in, our house in the UK having sold to the only bidder. This means we have reached the point of no return.
It might be considered a rash decision for all of us: me, my wife, our 18 month old baby girl with premature terrible twos and a cat with a closed door complex but decision made so here we go!
Anyway, so much has happened just owning the house in France and popping over when we can to try to decorate, repair or build bits of it that I'm just going to throw in random topics for my first few entries. This should (I make it sound like there's a plan!) get the background sorted before I do anything chronological. That said if it's happening now I'll let you know.
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