Looking down on to village Tabac - newspapers, cigs and social centre
The view from the Mairie balconyWe walked up to the Mairie this morning in order the make enquiries regarding the swapping of our American driving licences for French ones. Apparently a great deal of the urban paperwork has devolved onto the local council offices, so instead of having to get the early tram into Montpellier and present ourselves at the Prefecture at some ungodly hour, we can merely toddle up the road and get it all sorted.
The Mairie is situated in the heart of the village and is a fairly imposing building by village standards. When we arrived on the 14th July, the flag was waving bravely from the flag pole attached to the upper balcony, but today there were only the nodding heads of the petunias which are still in flower waving in welcome.
In order to reach the office where all the business of the day is undertaken, the first thing that the general public has to do is to make an assault on the steep stone staircase which leads up to the first floor (or second floor if you are one of my American readers). Huffing and puffing and making use of the decorative cast iron banisters, we arrived in the main office to find that there was a great to-do going on. Two concerned lady citizens were leaning over the desk imparting news of great seriousness and a young bespectacled man was talking urgently into a phone and making copious notes as he did so. A member of the local constabulary walked in carrying an armful of files and there was an air of determination and disbelief.
“What gives?” I asked Jean, pretty sure that the ladies had come in to place a complaint that would require nothing short of the presence of the Mayor in order to sort it out.
“Somone pinched their poubelle” he whispered, and I had to turn my head and admire the view rather than allow the forbidden giggle that arose in my throat to be heard. Of course, it was Tuesday which meant that it was “smelly belly day” and we had already retrieved our freshly emptied bin and returned it to the garage. Imagine the horror of seeing the rubbish truck pass you by, and then realising that they had nothing to stop for. Did the thieves remove it before it was emptied in which case, what did they do with the contents?. Is there a law about being found in possession of other people’s empty cat food tins? Maybe they were cunning and waited until the bin had been emptied and then they struck, quickly removing the bin before the rubbish truck had rounded the bend.
I couldn’t help but recall my son-in-law’s hugely funny account of a woman who had lost her wheelie bin. “But where’s your bin?” asked a concerned friend. “No but where’s you wheelie wheelie bin”. Silly I know and you have to be there but this was no time for attempts at humour. We have a poubelle thief in our midst which means that none of us are safe. I am sorry, but Jean will have to sit up all night on Wednesday to make sure that our recycling bin isn’t carted away at midnight, and we find ourselves at the Mairie, giving our details to the bespectacled young man.
Having sorted out our paperwork with the helpful lady at the Mairie, I have high hopes that she will arrange for my American licence to be swapped for a French one. Every time I move to a new country, some bright spark decides that I need a new driving licence and this entails a test, and since my driving record has remained totally unblemished for nearly 40 years without so much as a parking ticket, I would feel very upset to lose it simply because I got confused about turning “à gauche” or “à droit”.
The Mairie is situated in the heart of the village and is a fairly imposing building by village standards. When we arrived on the 14th July, the flag was waving bravely from the flag pole attached to the upper balcony, but today there were only the nodding heads of the petunias which are still in flower waving in welcome.
In order to reach the office where all the business of the day is undertaken, the first thing that the general public has to do is to make an assault on the steep stone staircase which leads up to the first floor (or second floor if you are one of my American readers). Huffing and puffing and making use of the decorative cast iron banisters, we arrived in the main office to find that there was a great to-do going on. Two concerned lady citizens were leaning over the desk imparting news of great seriousness and a young bespectacled man was talking urgently into a phone and making copious notes as he did so. A member of the local constabulary walked in carrying an armful of files and there was an air of determination and disbelief.
“What gives?” I asked Jean, pretty sure that the ladies had come in to place a complaint that would require nothing short of the presence of the Mayor in order to sort it out.
“Somone pinched their poubelle” he whispered, and I had to turn my head and admire the view rather than allow the forbidden giggle that arose in my throat to be heard. Of course, it was Tuesday which meant that it was “smelly belly day” and we had already retrieved our freshly emptied bin and returned it to the garage. Imagine the horror of seeing the rubbish truck pass you by, and then realising that they had nothing to stop for. Did the thieves remove it before it was emptied in which case, what did they do with the contents?. Is there a law about being found in possession of other people’s empty cat food tins? Maybe they were cunning and waited until the bin had been emptied and then they struck, quickly removing the bin before the rubbish truck had rounded the bend.
I couldn’t help but recall my son-in-law’s hugely funny account of a woman who had lost her wheelie bin. “But where’s your bin?” asked a concerned friend. “No but where’s you wheelie wheelie bin”. Silly I know and you have to be there but this was no time for attempts at humour. We have a poubelle thief in our midst which means that none of us are safe. I am sorry, but Jean will have to sit up all night on Wednesday to make sure that our recycling bin isn’t carted away at midnight, and we find ourselves at the Mairie, giving our details to the bespectacled young man.
Having sorted out our paperwork with the helpful lady at the Mairie, I have high hopes that she will arrange for my American licence to be swapped for a French one. Every time I move to a new country, some bright spark decides that I need a new driving licence and this entails a test, and since my driving record has remained totally unblemished for nearly 40 years without so much as a parking ticket, I would feel very upset to lose it simply because I got confused about turning “à gauche” or “à droit”.
We then headed for the Bureau de Poste in Castries where, rather than standing in a queue, we simply popped the envelope onto the scale, tapped the computer screen and Hey Presto, out popped our stamp in return for the coins that we pushed into the slot. From there it was a quick zip round the supermarket and a whistle stop tour of the vegetable market. When we arrived, I suddenly thought I was seeing double. The last time we were there, we were served by a charming rather good looking gentleman in a burnt orange tee shirt. This time there were two of them, and I realised that the place was run by either brothers who were very similar in looks or identical twins. I made their day by telling them that I would be writing about them on my blog, so if you ever go shopping at the excellent fruit and veg market in the centre of Castries, you can assure them that they were right here in print!
3 comments:
Very well written indeed! You should sell this!
Excellent. I felt as though I was there!
very vivid description of the happenings in your charming village. I enjoyed reading your well-written prose.
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