Hanging around....

Yesterday was a very proud moment indeed for the N-o-T household, as TH’s latest job came to an end, following months of running round like a headless chicken (him, not me) and a long series of business trips taking in such exotic locations as Switzerland, Austria, Scunthorpe and Bolton….

Yes, dear reader, for the last six months, TH has been managing the construction programme for this: London’s first cable car. Or, as some have billed it, “the world’s most expensive Cable Car”.. a slight exaggeration, according to inside sources. Well, according to TH, who has had his hand on the purse strings for much of the venture.

We’ve had our ups and downs. Again, not me, as I’ve remained on terra firma, but TH would insist on sending me scary photos such as these, just in case the full impact of dangling 90 metres above the River Thames might have been lost on me. 

No, the ups and downs were more to do with the fact that Messrs Johnston and Livingstone held diametrically opposed views regarding the value of the project to London’s transport infrastructure, and the whole project could have been left in mid-air (see what I did there?) if the Mayoral elections had gone the other way.

Yesterday, Mad Boris was transported across the Thames and waxed lyrical about the marvellous feat of engineering for the assembled press. Owing to a mess-up in arrangements, I watched this from the comfort of my sofa, because plans to meet TH in London and take a ride were scuppered by other commitments. In a way, I was quite glad, once I learned that the hardier types had started forming a queue at 5 a.m. yesterday morning.

Well, it’s over now, and we can relax, safe in the knowledge that anyone who needs to dash between the Greco-Roman wrestling and the Tae-Kwan-do events at the Olympics will not find themselves having to swim between venues if their timings are a bit tight. And you may mock, but in the lottery that has been the allocation of tickets, you can bet that more people than expected have been left holding tickets for those two events, having randomly applied for anything and everything in the hope of landing tickets for something far more exciting.

Do I LOOK like a child abductor?

Much is made these days of the fact that children are overprotected by their parents.

I would like to venture the suggestion that there are some children who should probably be protected from their parents, as the parents do not seem to be the most reliable of people. I refer, in particular, to the following two experiences, both of which have taken place at our home in N-o-T within the last two months.

Scenario 1

Sunday, early afternoon. TH is busy doing the Tour du Shed (pre-burglary) and I am pottering. The doorbell rings. In the absence of anyone else to do the deed, I answer it.

On the doorstep stands a rather unkempt and slightly harassed-looking man, accompanied by a small boy.

“I’ve come to collect Katie” he says.

I look back at him, waiting for additional information.

“Katie?” He says “From the party?”

“I think you have the wrong house” I say, politely. “I do not know a Katie, and there is no party here”

He makes a loud “Tut!” of exasperation, turns on his heel and marches off, as if it is my fault that we are not hosting a party, or as if maybe we ARE, and have forgotten to issue Katie with an invitation.

I return to my pottering, throwing a bit of muttering in, for good measure.

Scenario 2

Approximately 5.45 pm this afternoon. I am sending a few e-mails. The doorbell rings. I answer it.

“Caroline?” says the man on the doorstep “Caroline’s mum?”

I refrain from jumping in with any response, pending further clarification.

“I’m looking for my daughter” says the man. “She’s here on a playdate, and…I’ve got the wrong house, haven’t I? My wife would kill me if she could see this, I told her I knew exactly where it was….do YOU know where Caroline lives?”

I reply that I’m sorry, but I don’t know any Caroline living nearby. None of the small boys next door appear to be called Caroline, and I’m fairly certain that none of the small girls in the immediate vicinity are called Caroline, either.

I apologise, and, refreshingly, so does he, as he sets off in search of Caroline, asking as he leaves whether I mind him leaving his car outside our house whilst he conducts his search.

I wonder how such a big thing as not knowing where you’ve left your child actually occur, and am then reminded that the PM and Mrs C successfully left their offspring at the pub over the weekend. It seems to be an increasingly common oversight. And rather worrying…..

Let them eat steak

When we first set up camp in Nowhere-in-France, we put up for a night at the local bar/hotel/resto, having a distinct lack of furniture in our new abode. It was thus that we came to know the patron, the lovely Yves, who has remained a close friend ever since.

At that time (and still) the premises, as is so often the case, belonged to the local commune, and the fonds de commerce to Yves. It had been a stipulation of the commune that the person running the business should live “over the shop”, but Yves has his own home, wife and children in the village and didn’t want to move into the then rather cramped accommodation at the bar.

Back then, the place was a thriving village bar, with baby-foot, billiards and an excellent menu du jour (or soir), where locals and a few of us non-locals would congregate for coffee, lunch, New Year and other occasions. Yves is a wonderful cook, and his pronouncement that he would knock up “something simple” for New Year’s Eve resulted in one of the best evenings in terms of food and company that we have ever enjoyed in France. The whole place was “proper”. Slightly fading, full of various characters from around the village, and, simply, a centre for life and exchange of gossip.

Yves, however, became tired of having to keep the place going whilst not living on the premises, and his family life and free time was suffering. So, some five or six years ago, the place was sold.

The new owners, a couple, fresh from running a catering operation at a seaside camp-site, clearly had delusions of grandeur. Over time, the menus became more and more pretentious, the prices more and more ridiculous, and the number of cheesed-off locals increased exponentially with each change. Gone was the homely atmosphere, replaced with transparent plastic chairs in shades of bright orange and green. The local youngsters were banned, along with the billiard table and the baby-foot, and vegetable accompaniments were served in minute Kilner jars whilst the meat was garnished with a floral tribute. The whole thing was a real triumph of style over substance.  The local building firm, whose workers regularly numbered a good 12-15 people, moved to a Routier some 10Km distant to take lunch, and the waitress suddenly had to wear a radio microphone to liaise with the kitchen.   Just about everyone in the village had a tale to tell about how they had been upset by the chef-patron.

There was thus a current of excitement running through the village last week, as the couple from hell packed up and left, and a new couple moved in. The Grand Reopening (well, just a very low-key opening of the doors at lunchtime) was scheduled for last Thursday, and along with a group of friends, I went along to see what was what.

The new owners (the wife of the partnership is English, from Newcastle, whilst her husband is French and the chef – of course) seemed very pleasant and welcoming. She seemed genuinely surprised to see so many customers wishing to eat there on their very first service, but maybe they reckoned without the natural curiosity and optimism of a village deprived for so long of a convivial place to enjoy lunch.

We were a table of seven. Other tables were occupied. Since my recent car accident, I cannot set foot outside the house without bumping into the woman who hit me, or her husband, and they were seated at the adjacent table! Yves also joined us. He never got on with the previous incumbents, and I think he was hopeful that “his” bar would slowly become a more pleasant place again.

Oh dear. Somehow I’d sort of forgotten how very little it can take to annoy the discerning French. Never mess with a Frenchman’s lunch. You may as well go round to his house and immolate his family.

1. The prices had gone up (not much, but too much for some)

2. The set menu price was one where the choices were Entrée/Main/Dessert or Entrée/Main or Main/Dessert (let’s face it, first day of opening..they had no idea whether they’d be catering to the masses or watching tumbleweed rolling across the village square)

3. The helpings were deemed too small

4. THE WINE WAS NOT INCLUDED IN THE MENU PRICE

5. WINE WAS BEING OFFERED BY THE GLASS OR BY THE BOTTLE (the latter only came to light later) 

During the meal, small mumblings of dissent could be heard. By the time we walked outside into the afternoon sun, there was the start of a local revolt. 

“Well, we won’t be coming back for at least a month until they’ve got their act together” said my car accident woman’s husband “the helpings are far too small” (I can see his point: he’s built like a Sumo wrestler and half a small cow could well be too small for him)

“I’m not standing for this ‘glass of wine’ business:  it’s absurd having to call a waitress every time your glass is empty” said one of my party “I think we should tell them! They bought the 'fonds' so they must still have the pichets!"

“And what’s happened to the idea of being able to have just a Plat and wine?” wailed someone else “I had to have a dessert, because I was going to have to pay for it anyway”

The thing is, I suspect that the outgoing tenants had intimated that the village yokels wouldn’t recognise haute cuisine if it came up and smacked them, and that a pretentious, overpriced restaurant is just what the village needs, whether they want it or not.

I sincerely hope that someone takes the newcomers aside and explains that they can be as upmarket as they like in the evenings, or when there’s an “R” in the month, but that the lunchtime core business is predominantly the steak-frites-and-a-pichet brigade, who need more than a couple of miniature new potatoes to sustain them until dinner.

They seem like lovely people. I so badly want them to make a go of things and to have our local bar-resto back as a pleasant place to be. I suspect, though, that no-one will step up and actually voice these concerns to them, and that they will plough a lonely furrow, trying to drag the locals “upmarket”…

I have to say that my lunch was extremely enjoyable. I had a delicious pork dish with a rich and flavourful sauce, followed by a café gourmand. No wine problems, as I stuck to water. Maybe I’m too easily pleased? Or is this one of those times when Not Being French is a real problem?

The Magic Roundabout

One of the best and most surprising bits of news from Nowhere-in-France last week was the arrival of Our Very Own « feature roundabout » !!

After my earlier blog post extolling the virtues of these local landmarks, I was very surprised to find that we now have one on the main road at the entrance to our village. Even more surprised, as it literally appeared overnight!

Having been to dinner with friends the previous evening, (via the roundabout which, at that time, sprouted some rather sad brown grass and a rectangle of earth) I was driving into the village to join them again for lunch in our local bar-resto (which, incidentally, is Under New Management – more of which anon…) and, as I approached the roundabout, I saw a whole host of people, cars parked all over the verges alongside, and this:

It’s a replica of the main doorway to our XII Century local church and, although it looks a little stark at the moment, I am assured that it is to be landscaped in the coming weeks, so I look forward to returning next month and seeing the finished article.

I later discovered that our neighbour can claim a certain responsibility for the success of the project thus far. Apparently, it was too heavy to lift into position, so he was summoned with his tractor to winch it upright. Very splendid it looks, too.

SO....what's been happening??

An interesting and fairly packed week in Nowhere-in-France for me last week. Or, as I sometimes call it, “the land the internet forgot”. I manage without the internet whilst in France, apart from checking for e-mails on my phone or falling upon the kindness of friends for a WiFi connection. The other alternative is McDonald’s, and I really HAVE to be desperate to darken their door.

Last week, however, N-i-F also became the land that TV forgot.  

Whilst I am by no means a TV addict, I do find it useful for keeping in touch with the world outside, and when I’m alone in France I enjoy curling up on the sofa to watch the odd programme.  Last week, however, the Freesat box decided to die a death.  No UK TV for me…

 Image: Wikipedia

“What’s wrong with French TV?” I hear you ask. Well, it’s like this: we can’t get French TV. There’s a perfectly serviceable ariel on the roof, but it’s never managed to convey whatever signal it receives from up there to down below. I did think that, with the advent of digital TV in France I might have a chance of getting something, but having borrowed the neighbours’ French free-to-air digital receiver and plugged it all in, it showed me what I could be watching, alongside a blue screen with the words of doom “pas de signal”.

Despite being a woman with vertigo, desperation saw me leaving the house via the bathroom window, sidling along the roof like spiderwoman (well, a sort of “off duty” spiderwoman  in shorts and a t-shirt), gripping the chimney and climbing onto the garage roof, and thence to the satellite dish, in order to do as exhorted by the error message on the TV and “check all cables and connections”. They were all fine. I checked, several times.  Don’t worry, I had the foresight and common sense to execute this manoeuvre in the company of visiting friends, in order that if things went wrong then my decomposing remains would not later be discovered on the patio below by a passing neighbour. One friend was stationed by the TV looking for signs of life, whilst the other shuttled back and forth in the garden, passing information between us and limbering up in case called upon to rush forward and catch my plummeting body.

Having read several times on the internet prior to the event that “the French” (for whom many British expat residents seem to believe themselves the official spokesperson) would not give a hoot about the Diamond Jubilee, and that any slightly patriotic gesture on the part of British expats would result in shame being brought upon the rest by association, I had to spend the rest of my stay confessing that I had no idea how wonderful it all was, as I didn’t see any of it. My unofficial and unwilling straw poll of “the French”, comprising most of my friends, the couple who run the tabac, the boulanger, three men in the bar and my neighbours, seems to indicate that they did give at least a small hoot, and were somewhat surprised that I couldn’t add any comments or observations of my own. 

TH will be present on the next visit. I’m relying on him (and on the purchase of a new box) to fix the problem. A week without TV is fine. Three months without TV is NOT.