Comme ils sont fous...

We had only been at Chateau Coldspot a couple of days when le Comte decided he really needed to tackle the 6ft high undergrowth that passed as our lawn. I favoured arranging some of the furniture and unpacking some of the boxes, but le Comte, as usual, was not to be turned aside from his chosen task.
Most of our belongings were still piled in the hall because the removal men had arrived before we had finished cleaning the cat-turd encrusted surfaces. The piano, in particular, appeared out of sorts. This iron-framed upright with its rosewood veneer and missing candelabra had spent the last forty years unplayed in a freezing front parlour in Finchley. Bathed in a shaft of southern sunlight that gently illuminated its pretty wood, it had the air of something that, like the rest of us, was hoping this might prove to be a change for the better. I felt it needed to be given a permanent spot in its new home as soon as possible.
But le Comte would garden. In fact, he would strim. A special, mightly strimmer had been brought from dear old Angleterre for the express purpose of tackling the Chateau grounds. Even better it came as a complete kit with helmet, breast plate and spear. This was the Real Deal and le Comte was the man to use it. He attacked the task as only he knows how. Dressed in full armour in 35 degree heat he wielded the strimmer with terrifying resolve.
The activity at Chateau Coldspot had rapidly become the source of much local interest and from time to time a bemused frenchman would stroll along the footpath and pause at the Chateau gates. He might wave 'bonjour', smile and shake his head at le strimming Comte (le Comte strimant, en francais):
'Bon courage, Monsieur, bon courage,' he would call.(Comme ils sont fous, les anglais!)
Things went generally well until halfway through the second day when le Comte reached a bramble patch: viscious briars running high up into the trees. Undeterred le brave Comte waved the strimmer purposefully in the air, strimming madly at the tangled growth above his head. It wasn't long before both strimmer and strimmist conked out. (Comme ils sont fous etc.,) I found them both in a heap under the chestnut tree.
Le Comte (growling):'Strimmer's a load of old junk.'
Chatelaine: 'Indeed it is.' I passed him a cold beer.
I was hoping this might prove to be the piano's moment. Unable to strim further perhaps le Comte would turn his attention to the house and some of our furniture might be assigned a permanent home. But I had underestimated my husband. Having downed the beer in one Desperate Dan gulp, he was off scouring the cellars in search of a replacement implement. Before long he emerged, eyes squinting in the sunlight, brandishing a scythe. And off he went again... (Comme ils sont fous etc.,)
So for the time being at least, the piano was destined to stand in the middle of the hall while the princes squabbled and the princesses squarked and they all argued about whose turn it was to play chopsticks. I set to work unpacking some of the smaller boxes, peering out occasionally to observe le Comte still swashbuckling though the undergrowth.
Comme ils sont fous, les anglais.