Our new set of wheels
4.15pm - now which bit goes where?
4.45 - with a bit of help from his spanner mate“But it’s my turn”
“No you did it last time”
“But you always do it and I want to”
“Oh OK, here you are”
At last I got Jean to hand me the spanner and he held the screwdriver.
It’s been ages since the two of us argued – at least over a spanner and a screwdriver, but I always think that the spanner end of the job is more glamorous, and anyway, Papy had filed the ends of the screwdriver to almost nothing, which resulted in the screwdriver slipping off the head of the screw.
OK I know this is technical stuff for some of you, but then again, there are those who can work out how to operate Group Mail on a high speed broadband and those who can buy a wheelbarrow in pieces for twelve euros and put it together in half an hour.
Working on the wheelbarrow brought back happy memories of climbing halfway up the farm windmill scaffolding in order to pass tools to Jean who was clinging to the top with one arm and reaching down to me.
“No not that one, the red one”
“You mean the monkey wrench?”
“No the flat red one – spanner”
“Spanner face yourself”.
It would usually end up with windmill working again and the two of us hiking back to the farmhouse, holding hands and swinging a bag of tools while singing some fairly rude French song.
I was always getting told off because if the situation required for me to stand over him while he wrestled with a recalcitrant nut or bolt, I could never resist dropping a kiss on his ear which would make him bellow “Not now”. Not too many complaints this afternoon however, because a wheelbarrow is a much easier assembly job than a windmill breakdown, or dealing with a nasty knocking noise in a diesel generator, or a suspicious clunking under the farm truck.
I am starting to look back on those five years we have just spent in Miami and try as I might, I can’t remember seeing him with a screwdriver in one hand and a spanner in the other, and come to think of it, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him as happy as he is now. Any man who has a tool shed, a potting shed and a garage with a drawer containing lots and lots of assorted nuts and bolts is a contented man in my book.
Just as well we got the wheelbarrow built. It is now raining gently and the huge tree in the courtyard which Jean calls a “micoucouliere” is no longer acting as an umbrella. It won’t be more than a couple of months and the thousands upon thousands of leaves are going to start falling. Our English friends up in Braggassargues told us the other day that she had got a concrete mixer for Christmas and he had a power drill. . I wonder if I can ask Father Christmas for a leaf shredder!
As you can see from the photos, we are now the proud possessors of a Citroen Xantia which comes with power steering and air conditioning, and the rather alarming ability to raise and lower itself hydraulically. We have been grateful for the use of the old Golf, but my shoulders are going to be extremely grateful for the power steering. I understand that almost all French cars are gear stick operated and the drivers here sneer at the American dependence on automatic gearboxes. I am quite enjoying changing gears again, and I am far happier with the reduced size of the car. I fear that Big Bum, our monster car from Miami, wouldn’t even get its nose through the garden gate.
“No you did it last time”
“But you always do it and I want to”
“Oh OK, here you are”
At last I got Jean to hand me the spanner and he held the screwdriver.
It’s been ages since the two of us argued – at least over a spanner and a screwdriver, but I always think that the spanner end of the job is more glamorous, and anyway, Papy had filed the ends of the screwdriver to almost nothing, which resulted in the screwdriver slipping off the head of the screw.
OK I know this is technical stuff for some of you, but then again, there are those who can work out how to operate Group Mail on a high speed broadband and those who can buy a wheelbarrow in pieces for twelve euros and put it together in half an hour.
Working on the wheelbarrow brought back happy memories of climbing halfway up the farm windmill scaffolding in order to pass tools to Jean who was clinging to the top with one arm and reaching down to me.
“No not that one, the red one”
“You mean the monkey wrench?”
“No the flat red one – spanner”
“Spanner face yourself”.
It would usually end up with windmill working again and the two of us hiking back to the farmhouse, holding hands and swinging a bag of tools while singing some fairly rude French song.
I was always getting told off because if the situation required for me to stand over him while he wrestled with a recalcitrant nut or bolt, I could never resist dropping a kiss on his ear which would make him bellow “Not now”. Not too many complaints this afternoon however, because a wheelbarrow is a much easier assembly job than a windmill breakdown, or dealing with a nasty knocking noise in a diesel generator, or a suspicious clunking under the farm truck.
I am starting to look back on those five years we have just spent in Miami and try as I might, I can’t remember seeing him with a screwdriver in one hand and a spanner in the other, and come to think of it, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him as happy as he is now. Any man who has a tool shed, a potting shed and a garage with a drawer containing lots and lots of assorted nuts and bolts is a contented man in my book.
Just as well we got the wheelbarrow built. It is now raining gently and the huge tree in the courtyard which Jean calls a “micoucouliere” is no longer acting as an umbrella. It won’t be more than a couple of months and the thousands upon thousands of leaves are going to start falling. Our English friends up in Braggassargues told us the other day that she had got a concrete mixer for Christmas and he had a power drill. . I wonder if I can ask Father Christmas for a leaf shredder!
As you can see from the photos, we are now the proud possessors of a Citroen Xantia which comes with power steering and air conditioning, and the rather alarming ability to raise and lower itself hydraulically. We have been grateful for the use of the old Golf, but my shoulders are going to be extremely grateful for the power steering. I understand that almost all French cars are gear stick operated and the drivers here sneer at the American dependence on automatic gearboxes. I am quite enjoying changing gears again, and I am far happier with the reduced size of the car. I fear that Big Bum, our monster car from Miami, wouldn’t even get its nose through the garden gate.
It is 5.45 Saturday evening, and behind the rattle of the raindrops, I can hear the village church bell calling the faithful to mass. Ralph the blue plastic bird had a little sing earlier on. I think he enjoys the prospect of rain – either that or he was encouraging us in our spanner endeavours. It starts to feel like time for a glass of rosé wine and some of those delicious olives from the market. What can I get for you?
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