It has been raining all week. Our guests (only one of the holiday gites is full, fortunately) have consequently been lurking in their quarters making it very difficult for le Comte to do as much drilling as he would like. Our new gite, les Citronniers, is let out to happy holidaymakers in about 10 days time and there is still much to be done – lots of things require holes in them for various reasons, apparently. The kitchen tiles, however, look lovely. They are quiet and therefore finished.
Despite the rain, more guests are arriving tomorrow – a large Belgian family group, and a small English one (the adjectives refer to the size of the groups, not the individuals, which I can’t yet comment on). Le Comte and I are hoping the sun will shine just a little bit, preferably in the afternoon, so they can all appreciate what Coldspot would have looked like if they had come in July. It’s not forecast however, and the grass which has already grown very long, is destined to grow even longer.
In need of exercise that didn’t involve a broom or mop, I decided to go for a swim anyway, ignoring the inclement weather. At 22°C the agricultural bassin was still warmer than our salon (now up to 20.5°C). While I was paddling up and down it started to rain harder, then harder still. The raindrops splashing on the water, seen from the same plane rather than the usual above, were really quite spellbinding. The harder they fell, the faster I kicked, float held out in front of me, eyeballs at water level, while le Comte watched benignly from an upstairs window.
Then suddenly it occurred to me that it might start thundering and lightening. It would not be at all unusual in this part of France. It further occurred to me that semi-submerged in an agricultural bassin would not be the best place to be during a storm. I do not want to die in an agricultural bassin. This isn’t the ending I envisage for myself. I have always imagined death creeping up gently as I recline in my boudoir one winter’s afternoon with the central heating on full. And always in the very distant future. So I swam even quicker and climbed out. Ha! Missed me that time.
Le Comte and I have been out buying lots of things for les Citronniers. Actually this is the best bit of the whole process, trailing the second hands shops and grandly gesturing; ‘I’ll have that and that and two of those and three of these.’ Then asking for it all to be delivered as soon as possible so that all the new purchases stand hopefully in the hall like evacuees waiting to be placed. The downside is that the guests then get to use them, not us.
Anyone acquainted with Princess 1 will not be surprised to learn that mid-way through her revision, she has changed her mind (again) about her post-Baccalaureate plans. She is now going to live in London for a couple of months (chez les Vegetariens, of course). She anticipates finding gainful employment somewhere in that city paved with gold. As soon as she is eighteen she intends jetting off to Australia, camping initially at the home of an old school friend of mine now based in Sydney, and moving on (he hopes) from there. She will cook risotto and bake muffins in both places, I do not doubt.
End note: I haven’t yet managed to sign on the dole as they would only give me an appointment for Friday – which I refused as I had agreed to play golf. Anyway, they will not be pleased if I go too soon as our passports have not been returned. We had a call from the British Embassy in Paris today to say there was a problem with the payment – we have probably made a mistake with the card number – so they are sending the forms back for us to check and then return to them – all by recorded delivery, of course (aarrgh).
No comments:
Post a Comment