January 24th - Happy (not so) New Year!

24/01/2008 by Brigid.

OK. Christmas and the New Year came and went, followed, almost immediately, by a trip back to Blighty for Betty’s 80^th birthday party. Oh, and we also became grandparents.

It has been a pretty intense month or so for us, so I do not intend to apologise too much for the lack of news. This entry is a bit of a marathon read, so I’ll try and split it up a bit to aid digestion.

Chapter 1: Eurostar and bust …

My mother arrived on 21^st December by train. Despite all advice to the contrary, she was determined that nothing could be worse than the departure hall at Heathrow airport.Early research suggested that train travel was not a particularly good idea for a slightly arthritic 78-year old. It was, after all, the last Friday before Christmas, and she was arriving during rush hour just as most of France was beginning the holiday getaway. Added to which, BF suggested that we should not even contemplate collecting my mother from Toulouse by car.

The journey was, predictably, a nightmare. Though, at least, Eurostar to Paris had more than lived up to expectations. Due to a technical problem with the air-conditioning, my mother was upgraded to First Class. Once in Paris, however, things things went rapidly downhill. A “kindly” taxi driver charged her 120€ for the transfer between Gare du Nord and Montparnasse. Mum said she was so glad to find a taxi to take her across Paris, she would have paid double, which is exactly what this nice man wanted for the return transfer on 26^th December … 240€ for a 5km, 15-minute journey. I don’t think so!

The 14:10 TGV to Toulouse was packed. Mum spent an excruiating 5 ½ hours pinned in her seat surrounded by uncaring Parisien commuters, their luggage and their pets. By the time I collected her from the station, she had pins and needles in her feet and hands, and was nearly in tears. It transpired that the stress of the experience had triggered a transient ischemic attack, a mini stroke!

Poor mum. She could barely manage the stairs to her first-floor bedroom. It took all of the four days she was with us to recover enough to go home. Since she couldn’t possibly be expected to make the return train journey alone, I ended up driving her to back Paris to catch the Eurostar: a round trip of some 1600km.

Despite being caught up in one of the worst traffic jams either of us has ever seen, and missing her train, we actually had a lovely day chatting and laughing about old times. And navigating through Paris on GPS was priceless. Mum and I were reduced to hysterical childish giggles by the mangled pronounciation of the Parisien road names and dead-pan delivery of such directions as “Enter the roundabout and take the second exit” … as we approached a terrifying eight lane intersection that reminded me of Vauxhall Cross at rush hour.

Chapter 2: Christmas cheer …

But I have skipped ahead a bit. I haven’t told you anything about Christmas yet, have I? Admittedly it was quieter than in previous years, with just the two mothers, the cats, John and myself. But it was none the worse for that.

John’s mum has a dread fear of mountain roads following a car accident in Wales several years ago. Living, as we do, in the Pyrenees, this does tend have a rather limiting effect on excursions. Even on the flat, car journeys with Betty are punctuated with sudden intakes of breath, clenched knuckles and frequent stabbing of imaginary brakes. The jury is still out as to whether this behaviour is less distracting from the front passenger seat or in the rear-view mirror. However, by Sunday, my mother had recovered enough from her rail ordeal to want to see a bit of the area and so suggested lunch out.

None of our usual eateries were open over the Christmas period, which left us with a bit of a dilemma. We could drive to nearby Bagnères de Luchon, an elegant Victorian spa town, whose principal businesses have sprung up to serve elderly, and predominantly rich, curistes, who come each year to take the waters. Luchon’s classy shops and restaurants are open year-round. However, being a summer resort, at this time of year the town has about as much life about it as a mausoleum and, besides, we have never actually eaten there. So we bit the bullet and drove up to the small but excellent Hôtel les Cimes in the Vallée du Louron … just below our favourite ski resort. We lied a little to Betty about the precise location of the restaurant but, once she had downed a brandy and lemonade to get over the shock, she found that the attentiveness of the chef/patron and panoramic mountain views more than compensated. The journey home was painless. Betty snored while my mother oohed and aahed over the scenery.

Not withstanding the fact that we only had two guests this year, John and I had still made our traditional English Christmas Pudding and rich fruit Christmas Cake several weeks in advance as usual. We had bought and distributed most of the presents in November. We had even written our annual newsletter. Then, what with one thing and another, we had put Christmas on the back burner. On Monday we remembered, just in time, that it was Christmas Eve. Our cards hadn’t been posted, I still needed to pick up my mother’s Christmas present from the shop in St. Gaudens, we didn’t have a Christmas tree, and I hadn’t even ordered a turkey!

It wasn’t, as it turned out, a particular problem, though my mother was less than enthusiastic about an afternoon’s independent exploration of St. Gaudens with Betty while John and I finished our shopping. “But I don’t want to be left to my own devices”, she pleaded, when we suggested that they spend an hour or so browsing the prettily-decorated boutiques and delicatessens that line the cobbled side streets.

We didn’t need a big turkey for the four of us and the butcher had a tray full of locally-reared free-range dinde. Rather off-puttingly, as is common in French butchers shops, they still had their heads and feet on. I can’t bear being watched by something I am about to eat and birds’ claws, particularly, always make me think of voodoo curses. I felt rather feeble asking the butcher to remove them. French housewives always seem to be able to produce tasty and economical dishes out of the most unlikely delicacies, and butchers’ cabinets are full of ears, feet, tails, gizzards and other such unappetising body parts. However, on this occasion, my request was met with sympathetic giggles from the other customers. “Would you like me to clean the bird?”, asked the butcher. Eeek! It had never occurred to me that the bloody thing still had all its innards.

Chapter 3: Silly Billy

We arrived home on Christmas Eve to find a new message on our answer-machine.

How strangely old-fashioned that sentence looks. Who talks about answer-machines these days, and, remind me, when did we all start leaving “voice mail” for each other?

Anyway, I digress. The message was from BF, telling us that he had broken his back and was now in Lannemezan Hospital. Apart from the fact that he sounded a bit drowsy, he seemed quite matter-of-fact about this appalling news, and went on to ask if I could do some Internet research for him. We rang Mrs F to check whether Billy was still in possession of all his faculties.

It transpired that an ill-judged attempt on a ski run riding a child’s toboggan had resulted in a broken vertebra, so BF was indeed now in hospital, and brim full with morphine.

Lannemezan Hospital quickly decided that they didn’t have the specialist skills to deal with such a delicate injury, and transferred BF to Pau. Mrs F was suddenly faced with the nightmare of a potentially crippled husband, a house full of guests and hospital visits involving a round trip of around 120 miles. Not unnaturally, Christmas cheer chez eux was a little thin this year.

However, the prognosis is good. The surgeons at Pau inserted a plate to shore up the damaged vertebra, and quickly got Billy up on his feet again. He is now back at home, making good progress and, despite the doctors’ optimistic assurances, vowing never to venture onto the snow again.

Chapter 4: Ed York RIP

Not so lucky was our American friend, Ed York, who was killed in a car accident on 27^th December. Our hearts go out to his widow, Karen, and son, Dave. We have travelled many thousands of miles across the US with them on three separate trips in 2001, 2004 and 2006. There is little one can say at times like this, except that we will miss him dearly.

 

Chapter 5: New bikes and birthdays …

Next, in chronological order, came my birthday, which I spent baking a cake for Betty, whose birthday falls four days later. Since one’s 80^th is a biggie (not mine, fools, Betty’s), John’s brother and sister-in-law had organised a bit of a shindig down at her local church hall. Being in France has its advantages when it comes to these sort of events. All we had to do was produce some cheap fizz and a cake.

The family were on tenterhooks all week. John’s daughter and son-in-law were expecting their first child, and the hospital had initially suggested that they might induce on the Tuesday before Betty’s do. Ree was huge, and becoming huger by the minute, and there was some concern that the baby might become too big to deliver naturally. The phone lines were red hot between prospective grandad and prospective parents. But no, it was not to be. The hospital gave mum the thumbs up and told her that baby could wait another week.

Having rashly offered to bake Betty’s birthday cake, it occurred to me, a bit late in the day, that I had no idea how to ice it. Luckily, cake icing is a bit of a speciality for Mrs F and, after all she had been through over Christmas, she was happy to settle down and give me a day’s masterclass.

We have a charming picture of Betty, aged about 5, in Welsh national dress. My idea was to model the little girl sitting on a Welsh mountainside, surrounded by daffodils (the national flower of Wales) and sheep … (Don’t go there!)

I think Mrs F and I did rather well, don’t you?

 

 

Of course, the principal reason for our trip to the UK was for Betty’s party. But there was another. John’s new bike.

Following the abortive attempt to re-register his Triumph Trophy in France, John was forced to take it back to the UK and trade it in on a brand new, caspian blue, 1050cc Triumph Tiger. Shame.

So, on Saturday, while us girls sweated over vol-au-vents, sausage rolls and onion bagiis for the evening’s feast, John got to put some miles on his new bike. Shame!

The party was a great success. Everyone came – even Ree and her bump! The following morning, just as Ree was going into hospital, I had to catch the ferry home. But we just couldn’t deny Ree the moral support of her dad, and nothing would have persuaded dad to leave his daughter on the eve of the arrival of his first grandchild anyway. With his son and son-in-law, both offering to look after him in my absence, I left John behind and drove home alone.

Baby Alex arrived at 23:40 hrs, Monday evening: a healthy 8lb baby boy!

 

Chapter 6: New plumbing and gutters …

We have an English friend, who has installed a new bathroom in her house. She got an Australian friend, a builder, to do the work for her. Our Australian friend is a good builder, but speaks no French. Our English friend was taking French lessons …

The Aussie looked over the job, calculated what materials he would need and asked our English friend to order them from the local builders’ merchant which, with the help of a pocket-sized dictionary, she duly did. A smiling sales assistant helped her load several sheets of plasterboard, lengths of pipe, assorted joints, washers and other bits and pieces into her car.

Unfortunately, as is often the case here, the job turned out to be more complicated than at first anticipated, and required several more trips back to the builders’ merchant for more pipe. Each time our English friend was helped by the same smiling assistant.

It was only some time later, amongst French friends, while praising the excellent service she had received from the builders’ merchant, that our English friend discovered that the French word for a length of pipe is ‘tuyau’. The word she had been using was ‘pipe’: a word that can mean either the sort of pipe you smoke, or something rather rude involving oral sex …

Which, in a round about way, brings me to the subject of our neighbour’s gutter.

Our absentee neighbours are doing some much needed renovation work to their house, which backs onto ours in the Impasse de l’Ecole. The workmen have been there now for around six weeks, and we have got used to the sound of bashing and drilling next door, so pay them no mind. I was slightly alarmed to find a man on a ladder outside our first-floor bathroom window last Friday morning, but simply decided to use the second-floor one instead.

On Friday night, as I was brushing my teeth, I noticed a fat galvenised downpipe apparently leant against the bathroom window. I assumed it was just propped up there temporarily, but mentioned it to John anyway. John, already in bed and half asleep, muttered, “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure they’ll move it on Monday”.

The following morning we went outside to have a look … Doesn’t look very temporary, does it? I was livid. Actually, as one of the cats had just eaten a whole in one of my new curtains, I burst into tears.

On Monday, I asked the advice of our own, long-suffering, plumber, who confirmed what we already knew … that the work was très mal fait and would have to be redone. This is all very well, but it is not so easy to argue with someone who lives the other side of France and, besides, my language skills aren’t up to a protracted dispute. I took some photos and went to the Mairie to get the owner’s details. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and the receptionist’s reaction was enough to make me laugh. “Ah, c’est superb!”, she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

 

Let’s hope the owner sees the situation from our point of view, before John makes good on his threat to get out the hack saw.

 

 

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December 19th - Another fine mess …!

03/01/2008 by Brigid.

Writing so long after the event, I have no idea what happened to the ten days after my last entry. I remember that we managed a trip to Toulouse to buy furniture, and we borrowed BF’s trailer to pick up our new sofa in St. Gaudens.  And the elusive Monsieur Buret, with whom we had been playing telephone ping-pong, for seemingly months, finally contacted us with a firm date to quote for some work on the roof.

In my nightmares the two octogenarian mothers, the cats, and John and myself, were forced to share a single, rather chilly, second-floor bathroom with the roofers working on the house next door grinning maniacally through the steamed-up window.  Then I woke up and remembered that our new kitchen had no water or gas, our first-floor bathroom and shower room had no hot water, and our ground floor toilet was non-functional. It was 19^th December and our first guest, John’s mother, was due to arrive that evening.  I got up and showered quickly, preparing, as I put on my dressing gown, a last minute plea to the plumber in my best and most fluent French.

Mercifully, my speech was not required.  As I got to the top of the stairs, the cats alerted me to an intruder below.  I could hear the clang of tools on the tiled floor and sounds of exertion from the smallest room …  “Bonjour”, I called hopefully.  “Bonjour madam”, a disembodied reply came from somewhere behind the lavatory pan. Halleluia!

M. Buret and his sidekick turned up mid-morning to examine the roof and quote for some minor repairs. They had been introduced to us by a local acquaintance as “serieux” but, dressed in paint-splattered overalls, the two men looked like Laurel and Hardy.  M. Buret quickly drew up a devis for fixing and cleaning the tiles, and went to get some cement. 

The noon air-raid warning siron signalled lunchtime and, as is customary around here, the plumber went for a bite to eat.  The doorbell rang.  The local municiple policeman wished to know what we intended to do with the lavatory that was now sitting on the pavement beneath our front window.  I looked outside.  I hadn’t realised that the plumber had left it there.  It was indeed a pretty repulsive relic: the sort of toilet that one would be embarrassed to let a builder use.  But installed under our front window, intact, and outwardly clean, with its green painted wooden seat, it was a comic sight.  I expect the officer was just concerned in case one of the elderly folk from the maison de la retraite tried to use it.

Laurel and Hardy returned from the builders’ merchant with the cement and a bomb-like contraption for applying the cleaning product.  After a bit of thumping around in the roof, M. Buret’s short round colleague reappeared asking if we had any cord with which to secure his boss.  John and I exchanged worried glances and gave him a roll of strong nylon webbing. 

The plumber returned from lunch and started work on the kitchen sink.  He quickly had the taps connected, but the waste syphon proved more problematic.

Why, oh why, do we never learn?  When we picked up the kitchen elements from Ikea, we had reached the check-out by the time I realised that the polythene bag containing the syphon was split.  “Oh well”, I thought, “it looks complete”.  The trouble is that, by the time one gets to the check-out, going back to exchange a damaged or incomplete item means another trek around the store’s one-way system.  So often we have ended up taking an obviously damaged box because it is the last one left, only to find that someone else has previously had good reason to return it.

In this instance, the overflow pipe was missing, and the plumber was not at all sure that he would be able to get a standard one to fit.  The boss was called in.  After much scratching of heads and one or two mobile phone calls, the part was identified and a replacement ordered.  In the meantime, the gas was connected and the boiler lit. 

I took a Thermos of coffee up to Laurel and Hardy.  One of the men was leaning out of the skylight window, apparently taking the weight of the other on the nylon webbing.   “J’ai vous laissé du café”, I shouted up to the legs on the step ladder.  “Merci” came the reply, and the top half of the short round one appeared through the skylight.  To my horror, there was a loud clatter somewhere outside followed by a shriek from Stan.  Ollie quickly returned to his station and I made a quick exit and left them to it. 

John’s mum had managed to book her return trip ‘free’ on Airmiles.  It wasn’t, of course ‘free’ at all and the limited choice of flights meant that she arrived at 22:40 hrs. We could have done without the hour’s drive to Toulouse at that time of night, but that paled in comparison with her return flight with a 06:00 hr check-in that we had to look forward to.  Mind you, Betty was equally delighted when we told her that she would need to be up and dressed for the plumber the following morning at 08:15 hrs …

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