The back garden (potager) before we started clearing itAt least we hope so. In desperation, we phoned the telephone people on the cell phone to let them know that we are poised and expecting to be connected today and she cheerily informed us that we had been connected two days ago. So much for the promised call to alert us to this fact. However, this doesn’t seem to be the case as despite all sorts of hearty little pings and bleeps from the base set, nothing else seems to happen. The engineer is keen to come and help us install the “Livebox” (which apparently opens the door to the internet) but he is also keen to relieve us of 100 Euros to do this, but we would rather hang on to our money at this slightly precarious stage of our financial lives, so Jean is now re-reading the installation book and trying again. I always find that what I need is an Idiots Guide to the Idiots Guide when it comes to reading manuals of any sort. I tend to blunder along until by sheer good luck and zero good management, something clicks into place and starts working.
This is the first day that we haven’t been bathed in sunshine, but despite rather overcast skies, the air is heavy and still and I have taken to setting up the electric fan out on the terrace in order to stop the perspiration dripping onto the keys and shorting the computer. Having spent five years living in air conditioned surroundings, we are coming to terms with coping with the heat like everyone else here, and I keep a supply of small white hand-towels dotted about the place to mop up the really damp bits. I tend to forget that we survived eight South African summers on the farm without even the benefit of electricity, and before that I had spent twenty three years living in an old stone colonial house in Lesotho with only the wide verandah to provide a place to stay cool. Jean spent much of his youth in Liberia where he said it was either hot or hot and wet.
My only slight concerns regarding the weather are twofold.
1) I have put Jean’s jeans (you work it out) onto the washline so that they will be fresh for the féte champêtre tomorrow night,
2) I just hope that it won’t rain tomorrow night and spoil the féte champêtre, but I have done the British thing and put out two small umbrellas to take with us just in case.
I am about to perform a test. It is ten past twelve midday which means that every Frenchman worth his salt is sitting down to lunch. If this is the case, then who are the people still driving past the house? I can only imagine that they are locals racing home for lunch or are tourists who are lost. Normally at this time of day, a lull falls over the busy road, and we can reckon to get in lunch and a snooze before things start up again.
For the third night and morning in a row, Ralph who needs quite a sharp nudge to make him burst into song, has sung at 10pm and again at 7am. I have absolutely no idea what is activating his sensor as there hasn’t been a breath of wind to rock his tree branch, and I am firmly convinced that he is bidding us Bonsoir and Bonjour, as we are already tucked up in bed when he sings. From 8pm to 9.30pm we get out into the garden after supper and continue to dig up and turn over the beds, and once that is done, we fall into our own beds with cheerful exhaustion.
1) I have put Jean’s jeans (you work it out) onto the washline so that they will be fresh for the féte champêtre tomorrow night,
2) I just hope that it won’t rain tomorrow night and spoil the féte champêtre, but I have done the British thing and put out two small umbrellas to take with us just in case.
I am about to perform a test. It is ten past twelve midday which means that every Frenchman worth his salt is sitting down to lunch. If this is the case, then who are the people still driving past the house? I can only imagine that they are locals racing home for lunch or are tourists who are lost. Normally at this time of day, a lull falls over the busy road, and we can reckon to get in lunch and a snooze before things start up again.
For the third night and morning in a row, Ralph who needs quite a sharp nudge to make him burst into song, has sung at 10pm and again at 7am. I have absolutely no idea what is activating his sensor as there hasn’t been a breath of wind to rock his tree branch, and I am firmly convinced that he is bidding us Bonsoir and Bonjour, as we are already tucked up in bed when he sings. From 8pm to 9.30pm we get out into the garden after supper and continue to dig up and turn over the beds, and once that is done, we fall into our own beds with cheerful exhaustion.
Jean’s sister, who is coming with us tomorrow night, announced that we had better go in two cars because she doesn’t want to be too late. We heartily agreed until she announced that any time after 1pm was getting a bit late for her. I hate to tell her that as a rule, we have already had three hours sleep by that stage but maybe we will get into the swing of a rustic French supper and dance and still be kicking our heels up under the old oak trees after midnight.
Jean is making encouraging noises. Various bits of machinery seem to be “talking” to one another and the light at the end of the tunnel may no longer be that of an oncoming train but might actually be a view of the road ahead. Speaking of the road ahead, it is 12.25 and I can now hear the pigeons calling instead of the steady thrum of traffic. Time to sort out some lunch.
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