Je suis une cynique

Originally posted 12th March 2010

I'm just about up to the back teeth with this country. Cheating, lying, swindling politicians, potholes all over, rancid buildings à la '1960s USSR', ridiculous policing that's more bothered about car speeds than hooligans, gang culture, chavs, the benefits system, "asylum" seekers who give a bad name to those really in need of asylum, story after story of scandal and misbehaviour... and I get a letter from Bolton Council to say they won't backdate my council tax rebate because 'ignorance of the rebate isn't a good enough reason' for them to back-date it. I've paid into the system for all my life. I've worked since I was 11. My mother never claimed benefits, even when she could have done. I went to a private school on a scholarship, so I cost the tax payer nothing for my 11-18 education. I have grafted every single day of my adult life. I've paid 40% tax at some points in my life. And because I'd rather be self-employed than on incapacity benefit for my bipolar disorder, they'd rather not give me any money. I still haven't claimed a penny. I still pay council tax. And here I am, eating spaghetti with tinned tomatoes for my lunch because I can't afford anything better. Spaghetti and a tin of tomatoes will keep me going for 4 lunches for less than £2.00. It disgusts me. I can't afford to buy washing powder, or bleach, or conditioner for my hair. And yet I have worked every day of my adult life. I worked hard. I didn't claim benefits even when I could. And because of that, I'm being punished.

Not only that, I can't open a bank account because I'm self-employed and I've only got 1 tax year's summary because I've only submitted one set of accounts. I can't, therefore, get a job that needs a bank account. I'm still waiting for bank cards that I asked for 14 days ago, and yet my bank harasses me as soon as they think I might go overdrawn. Bankrupts are treated better than this. It's no wonder people declare themselves bankrupt. I'd be able to open a bank account if I'd just come out of prison, yet I can't because I'm self-employed. So... those on parole, those who can't manage their finances, those who are benefits' hounds, they're the ones who have privileges. If you've got credit, if you use catalogues and have cards, and store cards and HP and loans, then they'll lend you money. But not me.

I hate this country and how it treats its citizens. It's all about money. I earn enough to live (just!) and yet I still get slapped for tax and I pay my prescriptions, even though my drugs are cheaper than a prescription price, and I pay to see, because I need glasses, and I pay car tax, even though the roads are full of potholes. And my local council can go cap in hand to the government and get more cash. I can't. If I can't pay my bills, the bailiffs come round, not someone from the government with some more cash. I pay more than enough for my bank account, and they, more often than not, are responsible for pushing me over the edge when they slap on fees. £10.00 for 5 pages of bank statements exactly the same as the print-offs I had, but the bank I'm trying to deal with in France only accepts 'bank' copies, not mine, and so I pay, even though it probably cost a pound to print and post them. £217.00 to get from here to London on the train. £7.00 return from here to Bury on the bus. RIP-OFF Britain. And I've had enough.

It makes me sick.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article3338076.ece

We're being constantly spied-on and monitored, and The Matrix is alive and well, people, and we're living in it!

Today's news:

terror; strikes; terror & strikes; expenses scandals; Budget reports; Income Tax rises; NI rises; man has heart-attack after yobs bait him; pay rise for MPs & pay freeze for doctors; Falklands' rows; vanishing species of flowers; birds fall from the sky....

Now, of course, you and I are rational people. We know this is media spin. Bad News makes Good News. Good News makes Bad News. No-one likes to hear about animals being saved, or kind people, or how much we give to charity, but it's just beginning to get to me. I'm a nihilistic sort of person suffering from anomie. Marx and St Simon were right. I can't stand all this corporationism and globalization, despite its positives. Yes, I can be in touch with people at the touch of a button. Yes, the internet gives me reading and information and TV and it's great. What I don't like is all the negativity.

So... in a way, I'm looking forward to being a bit of a rural terrorist, living off the grid, without gas and a TV line. To some degree, not having a phone would be great too, for business. I'd dearly like to pay only the hospital bills I need to.

I'm just reading:

http://www.off-grid.net/2010/03/05/off-the-grid-and-the-prepared/

which asks us what we'd do if our electricity failed. I know, because Steve often forgets to top up the meter until the last minute. I know about living without a fridge - did it at uni. It's amazing how far you can get without a fridge, and with powdered milk! Not sure how far we'd get without a freezer in France, because I'm planning on freezing a lot of it. Pickling and drying, I guess!! Living without music... a little harder, though you can make your own. Living without light? Candles, fire, early nights. Living without TV. Not so hard at all. Living without the internet? Not so sure.

Maybe this blog is kind of spiritual in the sense of sharing with an unknown world. My words are out there, even if no-one's reading them.

So... a moneyless existence, by and large. How ridiculous I was thinking of getting a horse, yesterday, because along with my bike, I'd need only public transport for longer journeys. No dependence on the car and on oil and petrol! I could wash my clothes in the bath, like I used to at uni, and barbecue stuff and cook it on the range. I could also read by candlelight, and go to bed with the seasons.

Perhaps, then, I should prepare well for an off-the-grid life. I want to be self-sufficient and cash only. That'd work! Except for the taxes. It's true what they say about death and taxes, you know!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whSYTSXm8wo

Paul Weller does a good job here of summing up my feelings!

Anyway, having listened to a bit of Bob Marley, a bit of Jimmy Cliff and some 'Lion Sleeps Tonight', I feel a whole lot better!

Gallivantin' wi' gobshites

Originally posted 6th March 2010

Steve's got the packing urge, really, really badly. He's now packing and labelling things with a fury that is going to outstrip my own. I must add, however, that it's in his own inimitable rag-and-bone, son-of-Steptoe way. All of the boxes are 'reclaimed' and have housed various other objects for various other places. I kind of like that. Boxes with history. They're all pre-labelled with suitably dull-sounding things, and because his office is moving, there's a lot of 'reclaiming' going on. There's an OHP and a gooseneck lamp, a drawing board and some large set-squares, about a hundred rulers and pencils and clip-on wrist-bands and drinks mats and bags and rubbers, strange filing systems, previously used box-files and the likes. And there now seem to be more boxes than there were things in the house.

My packing makes my house smaller and more free; his makes his more cluttered. I've relegated my boxes to the spare room, and whilst it's fair to say there are a good load at Steve's, I've still managed to reduce the contents of my house accordingly, and it's all now squarely secreted away in the downstairs toilet, waiting for April, when it will be moved to France. His packing has taken over the whole house. There are boxes everywhere you look, except in the bathroom.

All this means we're given to entertain Steve's friends in amongst the Steptoe Temple that is his front room. Mostly, they seem fairly used to it, as if it's not unexpected to be sitting between 30 pairs of odd socks, some kettle plugs, a dog harness and a book about the Hell's Angels. I, personally, shall be glad when I can relegate it to a room I never go in to. I would like to have more space simply so I can hide his findings more effectively. I would like to be able to sit on a settee without half of a laundry draped across it, and without a dog lead working its way up my rear end. I can't wait for that moment. In the meanwhile, he will have to live in the austere minimalism of my house, which is a zen shrine of simplicity, where everything is tidy and hidden and clean. I think he might implode. I know he will find my house very small and he and all his long limbs will struggle to fit into it, like a giraffe trying to fit into a hen-house. I dread that moment to the point where I'd quite gladly say 'you go off to France and be free for the next three months, and I'll bring Jake when school's over' as I think Jake and I can manage quite well without the chaos.

Still, perhaps I under-estimate his ability to adapt, just as I have adapted to his clutter and lack of space. Maybe he'll find it quite liberating, like last night when he shaved his beard off and said he felt like he could run faster now. I suspect he may even find it quite liberating.

I suspect that few of his friends recognise 'new' Steve... I think he's much calmer than he was. Listening to Lennie talk last night about him, I realised what a fine man he is. I never under-estimate him. Nothing he does surprises me. I think he tries to pass off his lack of French as something amusing, but it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest to hear him have a full-blown conversation. I don't think he likes to surprise, particularly, just that he doesn't boast, as I do! However, I think many of his acquaintances - maybe people who've never seen him at work - realise his talent. I know his boss, Tina, does - or at least, she seems to, seeing the same in him as I do... a man who is infinitely capable. It's almost as if many of the people who've known him in 'the real world' remember how talented and able he is. He is a man of gross understatement. I'm hugely looking forward to seeing what he will become in France: blacksmith, joiner, craftsman, gardener.... I think it's all up for grabs, and I think the Steve of the future will be a very different man from now. And I don't say that in ways I wish him to change. I love every inch of who he is now, and I know, deep inside, that my worries about him adapting are unfounded. He will wear this new life it as if it were a garment made especially for him.

Feckin whingey old Mary Anns!

First published 1st March 2010

Over a period of time, I've become increasingly disillusioned with the quality of people posting on ex-pat forums. That's a horrible phrase, anyway, 'ex-pat', it sounds so...... Malaysian-rubber-plantation-owner-in-a-gentleman's-club-drinking-gin-and-tonic-wearing-linen-suits... so...Quentin-Crisp-Englishman-in-New-York.... so.... pensioners-from-Merseyside-on-the-Costa-del-Sol.... and I don't like it. If I'm honest, I prefer 'immigrant' to 'ex-pat' - that's how snobbish I am about that word.
Anyway, many of the forums seem full of Malvolio-Malcontent, moaning about everything. They moan about other posters, about schools, about services, about telephones. They moan about neighbours' dogs. Here's some of the moans:

First, following the 'tempest' yesterday, there are people worried about their houses. I understand this worry, myself, but it has invoked the moaning of the ex-pat community because the original posters haven't worried about the 40-odd dead.

Second, there's an ongoing moan about the price of cake and coffee in a local coffee shop. Yes, really.

Then there's someone moaning that their broadband is bad, and someone else adding to the moan that they are lucky they even get broadband and moaning that they don't. This seems to be a regular occurrence, superseding a moan with a moan-trump.

There's people moaning about posters who don't put a photo with a sale, and those moaning about those who do. Then the moaners moan about those who ask for photos, and those who don't buy it when they've asked for a photo.

There's a big load of moaners who moan about Ryanair, and then there's those who moan about those who moan about Ryanair. There's those that moan about it and use it anyway, but they do love a moan!

The rank seems to go like this today:

1 Moan about the weather

2 Moan about tiles coming off the roof

3 Moan about people who aren't glad they're still alive

4 Moan about people who aren't sorry enough people have died

5 Moan about the price of cake

6 Moan about France Telecom

7 Moan about SFR

8 Moan about Orange

9 Moan about broadband

10 Moan about bank charges

It's like they're a nation of ex-teachers. Oh, wait... they probably are!

The worst thing about moaning is that it can really bring others down. Whilst it might do you some good to get it off your chest, it doesn't do any good at all for those who have to listen to it. It makes me feel pessimistic and worried and sick and panicky and uptight. And it makes me forget there are at least thirty people I already know who don't moan about it, even though life might be hard, and just get on with it, and are decent people. Bah.

So, there's the irony: me moaning about moaning.

I'm flummoxed... do they think I'm gormless?

Having sorted out (a bit) the finances... and realised it might not all slip away to nothingness and fantasy, we've been getting on with the process of uprooting and moving.

The first has been Steve's bike - a CCM 604DS - a beautiful northern beast of a bike - his love and passion. I've been frequenting a couple of forums for expats, and realising they might just not be the place for us! I'd asked what to do about importing the bike, only to have some quite superficially helpful advice.

Turns out, it wasn't so helpful. The guy who I was told to write to for an 'attestation d'identité' doesn't deal with CCM any more... so after I'd painfully transcribed it in French, he'd written back to me (in English) and faxed it through to CCM in Bolton, a mere 4 miles from my house. Bah.

Then it turns out it doesn't have a certificate of conformity because it was pre-1996 and it was not manufactured in great numbers... so it had a motorbike single vehicle approval, which isn't recognised in France, and it'll need the equivalent in France.

Not a big deal, I hope.

Still, I'm quickly getting the impression that the forums are full of moaners who have done things the hard way, if at all. They pass on second and third hand stories about difficulties they've faced.... without any specific 'do this, do this' info, and the guy who I did get some from was so much of a pedant I'd probably slap him in the face. He questioned whether I'd done as he'd advised (to the letter, and better) and then told me what I already knew. Bah.

Then there's the English ex-pats who want everything English - the same cheeses, the same meat, the same cars, who don't want to be in France particularly except it was cheap and not a big deal to move there. It might as well be Spain, Italy, Germany.... France is the accidental part of it.

Why even move to a country you don't want to really live in?

Steve and I went to his mum's on Wednesday, so I could make my famous Anglesey eggs (thanks, Hairy Bikers and ) and we were talking about how close we are to a complete monetary failure in England. So much is owed. We're like some tinpot dictatorship in Africa in the 1970s. It's quite shocking. I'm going to Cuba if the world's economy collapses. They're virtually self-sufficient, were it not for a bit of Hugo Chavez's oil. And they live like we plan to... fresh veg, chickens, bicycles, music.... I know there are social problems and problems getting various items, such as soap, when I was there, but when Hurricane Ivan swept over and much of the island was in black-out, it wasn't much different from normal. No street lights in Havana, no extraneous lighting, no ridiculous food, no commercialism. It's a world totally unaffected by commercial corporations, and I love that. I love that they sit 90 miles off American shores and stick two fingers up at McDonald's and Pizza Hut, Gap and Banana Republic, Abercrombie and Fitch and so on.... I like that they do things their way. I wish not every country in the shadow of America had joined the embargo.

But, it's a rural, quiet, basic life where people sing and play, work some and learn. They're healthy and literate and it's a beautiful untouched country. I like that about rural France.

So I'm not going to expect Sunday roasts and pubs and cheddar cheese and dole queues, but then I'm expecting it to be a lot nicer than England, too, if only because I won't be bogged down in all this political cynicism I've developed. And in many ways, I hope the ex-pats don't invade my turf. I'm interested in France, not living in an enclave or ghetto. Not for me, at all.

The day someone asks me something in French on the street, that'll be the day I'm at my happiest.

Anyway, why is it that people who don't know what they're talking about feel free to add their grumbles, the old women. It's as if they feel like they really should piss on your parade, just for fun. If something's been hard for me, I usually do the opposite and say 'oh, it was fairly easy' and assume that any complications were idiocy on my behalf, or stupidity on behalf of whatever it is I'm trying to do (like some of my ridiculous phone calls of late) not that it's impossible. That just makes me look incompetent.

Anyway, I've realised that someone is missing a damn fine PA. I'm very good at getting things done. I'm good at list-writing and ordering and colour-coding and photocopying, and things involving the post office. I'm good at phoning people up and following instructions and gathering stuff. I'm a paper-pusher of the highest order, and I do so in colour-coded box files and with multi-coloured sticky notes, with highlighter pens and dividers and folders and binders. I love Staples and Office World, and I especially love Paperchase who make organisation a kitsch and cute affair. I love boxes and labels and order.

I could definitely be a 'move co-ordinator' or a wedding planner or something like that. I would be an excellent sheepdog or shepherd, since I'm very good at corralling gormless animals, rounding up strays and bringing it all home tidily. At times, teaching is much more like herding cats, so all of this is easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.

So I say 'bah' in the general direction of the nay-sayers and the old Mary Anns who like to make everything sound impossibly difficult, and I promise, when I have done things, to share my wisdom and optimism about how easy it all was, in practical, colour-coded, logical steps. Yes.

Tha'll be maund'rin and maulin' about

Originally posted: 19th February 2010

I've got a couple of the bits and pieces coming through now to sort stuff out - namely, the motorbike and Jake's school. I'd sent letters (it's much easier to write in French than it is to come up with the right words when talking. I might pretend I'm mute) to the CCM importers in France, and to the Mairie, expecting bureaucracy, but not getting any. Harry, the guy from CCM Europa, doesn't even work with CCM any more, but still faxed on my letter back to (ironiquement!) Bolton where they're made, to ask for the Certificat de Conformité... moments later, I had an email from both; Harry said my French was very good - of which I was proud! - and Rachel from CCM asked if I could tell her in English what I wanted. If anyone tells me about French bureaucracy, I shall shoot them, especially in light of what happened later...

I also sent a letter asking what we had to do to get Jake into school - I've received the appropriate forms this morning, and had a little worry that his feeble 'short' birth certificate wouldn't be enough. It was back within 7 days, all sorted, all clear, as well as the details we need to get him into school.

Not so Bolton Council, who umm and ahhh about everything, don't send you stuff, lie about what they have sent, send you the wrong stuff, shout at immigrants and old people and entitled people and anyone who'll stop a moment. They have bizarre protocol for some things, and then none for other, more important things. Then we had Aviva, continuing to charge Steve for a van he's not had since October 2008 - and (in my very quiet opinion) his own fault for not checking his bank statements, but they'd also been charging him breakdown cover on a car he's not owned for over a year, and not really bothered, as long as the money comes to them.

I duly went out in search of a form Aviva said we needed to send to the DVLA. The DVLA agreed: the V888 was the form in question (nicely titled, to avoid confusion with other V documents!) and you could get it from any post office that sells car tax. Not so, it transpires. I went to Deane Road post office (yes, I'm naming and shaming you, because you've been rude to me twice, and the women at St Helen's Road Spar post office and the lovely Asian man in Daubhill post office are much nicer than you!) and was met by this:

Me: I need a V888 form.

BW: we don't have any

Me: but the DVLA said you do

BW: but we don't

Me: what is a V888 form? Do you even know?

BW: I know we don't have any.

Me: well, could you at least look??

BW: but we don't have any

Me: but the DVLA said you are supposed to

BW: Well, we don't.

Me: Do you know where I can get one from?

BW: maybe from Bolton Central post office.

Me: Bah. I curse you and your offspring, you bureaucratic weasel of the highest order. May the stamps you lick give you tongue cancer and may your tongue grow sores and cankers and fall out, thus rendering you speechless, which, surely to God is better than now.

* BW = bureaucratic Weasel. It's a name I give to jobsworths who rely on paperwork to get out of stuff. Mainly, they use the Data Protection Act as their main shield from doing work, but there are others.

So.... to anyone who tries to tell me that French bureaucracy is bad, I shall point them in the direction of Deane Road post office and tell them to go in there. What a waste of oxygen that woman was.

Things I shan't miss:

21. Bureaucratic weasels and the rudeness from them.

22. Unhelpfulness (though I'm sure that exists everywhere in the world!)

23. The drivers that block the roads when there's a lot of traffic

24. Drivers who pull out into the road when there's traffic and make everyone brake. Has the point of the single white solid line or the double dashed white line been forgotten????! It means STOP if it's the former or GIVE WAY if it's the latter. Why isn't this common knowledge any more? Has someone shifted the meaning to be that people on the main road should stop or give way???!

25. Overcrowded supermarkets

26. People who stop in doorways. Likewise, I know they will exist in France, but population density dictates these will be fewer and further between. I would, at this point, like to tell a little tale about a fight Steve and I witnessed in a car park in E Leclerc in La Rochefoucauld.... the man had obviously nicked her spot - which was ridiculous because there were about 200 spaces and only 20 cars... so she had got out of her car, where it was, where she had stopped in a moment of righteous indignation, and she was following him into the supermarket, barracking him and threatening to take his hat. It was hilarious. I think this should happen more often in England, let alone in France.

27. Those huge headphones. Anti-iPod headphones. As big as satellite dishes. What's the point? You aren't djing in the middle of the day, and the sound quality of an mp3 is pants anyway, compared with 'older' technology. You look like a knob if you're wearing them.

So... what is it that annoys me?

Originally posted: 18th February 2010

I was thinking I could do with a list of all the things with this bit of the world that hack me off (to be followed by a list of things I love and I'll miss!)

1. Potholes. Why are there so many??! Particularly the ones on Adelaide Street and the really, really deep one on Bury Road
2. Drivers. Slow ones. Fast ones. Ones that cut you up
3. People who stop too close behind me. What difference does 12 inches make if you stop that much further away from me? It MAKES me want to stall on purpose
4. The learner driver route that clogs up Bridgeman St
5. Traffic lights that aren't in sync. England has too many of them, and too many of them where you have to stop at EVERY SINGLE set, wasting time and petrol!
6. The grey sky
7. The fact it's nearly March and there are no signs of improving weather
8. The fact the council spends a ridiculous amount on stupid things, and then not enough on important things
9. Buses that don't give you long enough to overtake when they pull in
10. Tax. Fuel tax. I've paid income tax on my salary - any other tax is just stealth tax. I reckon actual costs are so minimal now and tax accounts for about 80% of the products we buy
11. The way council operatives talk to you
12. The extortionate amount credit card companies charge, without anyone stopping them and saying they're being ridiculous
13. Newspapers that feel forced to spin every single story and then can't see the irony of accusing politicians of spin
14. Miserable faces
15. The dirty shades of clothing Britain feels like it should dress itself in
16. Why all new building projects are in shades of brown and grey. I realise it would be ridiculous to build everything in white or colours, but it would make it a little less miserable if there was a smidgen of a pleasant colour about
17. The nastiness of my yellowing grass
18. Moss in my grass
19. Poor timekeeping
20. Cold calls, especially for anything you aren't at all interested in...

I'm sure more things will appear on my list as time goes on.

And the things I shall miss?

1. The hills around Manchester, especially when they're snow-capped
2. The Hark to Towler, a combination of pub, music venue and pirate ship
3. Rock Radio - nothing like Steve Berry's banter of a morning, and some rousing rock tunes to spice up the rush hour!
4. Manchester-friendly people, who'll chat with you just to pass the time
5. Northern curry houses - our best import! Trishna's fantastic house specials, and the lovely guy who brings them
6. Home delivery and takeaway - not that we indulge regularly, but I'm sure I'll miss it
7. Burger King and all its delightful burgers
8. Hot Dog vans and the smell of fried onions outside the town hall
9. Bolton library - France just doesn't do libraries like we do!
10. Manchester and city living - Affleck's Palace, Ancoats, King St South, Kendals, Selfridge's, Heals and all the shops, Kurt Geiger and Mac makeup. Paris is still a long way away!

I'm wondering if you can take the girl out of Manchester, but not Manchester out of the girl? It's made me gritty and hard-working and industrious; it's made me ironic and sharp, sarcastic and sardonic; it's made me 'mad fer it' and it's made me know how to celebrate. It's all Buzzcocks and The Smiths, Joy Division and New Order, Happy Mondays, the Inspiral Carpets, The Stone Roses and Oasis. It's made me all 'fuck you', but all full of self-swagger and insecurity. It's my history, my roots. Dark nights at the International watching punk bands and pretty-boy metal, goth bands and thrash; cold winter nights on the locks, sitting outside, laughing and drinking in zero degrees without a coat; fantastic chinese, thai, greek, indian, bangladeshi and british food, and more too numerous to mention. It's the Ritz on Monday night, and Dambusters. It's Jilly's and the Banshee, Band on the Wall and the Roadhouse. It's the Hacienda and the Boardwalk, Sankey's Soap and the Free Trade Hall. And Manchester has made me outspoken, concerned with social welfare; it's the city of Marx and Engels, of suffrage and Peterloo, of trade unions and political radicalism. It's a city of workers, lacking charm and sophistication. And it is me.

Can I reform sufficiently to leave this behind?

Thar's all moithered!

Originally posted: February 17th 2010

Still on the countdown... buying packs of vegetable seeds like mad and contemplating how many different strains of carrots to grow, in amongst countless viewings and worryings and so on. I've been compiling a list of things to be sure we can buy in France, food-wise, that make up part of our weekly diet... judge not!

• cornflour.... custard, thickening, gravy
• suet... dumplings, suet puddings and suet crust
• olive oil - simply because last time we were in Geant, it didn't seem to have any! Can't believe it would be a rare commodity, but there you go
• corned beef - you can't beat a tin of corned beef in the cupboard as a classic favourite to make a mighty meal with - much like last night, when I'd mislaid my shopping (it happens!) and we had corned beef hash with a suet crust!
• curry spices
• mushroom sauce
• worcestershire sauce
• toasted sesame oil
• ginger
• baked beans

I'm sure there'll be more, but this is about it. As long as I've got something as a substitute, I'll be okay. I know we go through pints of double cream, so it'll be creme fraiche from now on, and I know we'll have to make the switch to French cheeses, which is fine, although you can't beat the versatility of cheddar or double gloucester, or the lovely acidity of lancashire or cheshire or caerphilly. I'm sure I can manage with good old Port Salut for melting on stuff, and I'm looking forwards to a proper tartiflette with a reblochon cheese, rather than mozzarella and cheddar. I'm not sure I mind going completely native, but it is good to have a suet crust from time to time, or a bit of custard. I am, however, looking forwards to the rewards of fresh eggs on tap - home made mayo, ice-cream, meringues, pavlova, forgotten pudding, yummy baked cheesecakes, boiled eggs for breakfast and proper egg pasta, and eggy bread, and bread and butter pudding.... I was reckoning I spent about £250.00 a year on good organic free range eggs - I might have given up my vegetarian ways, but I can't quite bring myself to buy something made in a cage by a poor life-less animal, unless I can absolutely help it. I don't even buy things with eggs in these days, for much the same reason. I'm planning on turning Steve meat-free, over the long run. I reckon with our own eggs, plenty of fresh fish and lots of vegetables and cheese and bread, that'll happen fairly easily.

What I love is how often he tells the Molly-dog 'you'll love it in France', which is sweet, if un-needed. I know animals understand a lot of what we say, but I'm not sure she yet understands she's moving from England to France. I think what he's really doing is getting himself excited. I hope so. He's not a gig-dancer like I am, so it can be very hard to the untrained eye to see if he's actually giddy.

There's a lot I shan't miss... the media frenzy and deliberate misinterpretation of facts, the 'sleb' focus we have in this country. I don't care what Jordan/Katie Price/Kerry Katona et al are up to, but someone must. They keep buying magazines with their faces on them, tuning in to programmes about them. I shan't miss that at all. I also shan't miss the way the press make demons of people, or angels, when we're all somewhere in between. It's shallow and fickle and cruel. Headlines won't affect us so much, I hope. I'm sick of the way the world has become managed globally, although I appreciate that someone somewhere has the foresight to see a big picture on our behalf, and I'm hoping I won't feel as enmeshed in politics as I do here, and that the media frenzy which turned a slump into a credit-crunch and a recession, in my opinion, is in some way responsible for the panic that ensued.

Neither shall I miss the foul-mouthed, nasty, small-minded underclass we've got in this country, the kind that litter the Jeremy Kyle show. I wish, I really, truly wish, that Jeremy Kyle had no guests and they were actors, but you can tell that they aren't. They're symptomatic of the foul society that Britain rests on, its weakest link, the Karen Matthews' of the world, who pop out children and fill up the welfare system and drain resources, and there's times when I wish the government, the police and social workers would say 'you're a foul individual! Stop being such a fuck-up and sort yourselves out. You've got no-one to blame for this but yourself. Now step up to the mark and start contributing to society instead of sucking it dry' Petty-minded, over-fertile, badly-nourished alcoholics and drug addicts and dependants who haven't got the slightest concern about any other living being, and feel like the world owes them a living. The worst thing is, there seem to be more and more of these as time passes. I don't know whether it's the distorted view I get from the press or the fact that I run into these oxygen thieves on a daily basis, but I'm sick and tired of the fact that nothing is ever done about them, although we all seem to despise them, and no-one would own up to being one. Where have all the nice people gone??!

And now you get a small sense of what it is that's driving me to abandon this country and have a go somewhere else. I'm tired of everyone running each other down with words, terrorising each other, abusing each other and thinking it's harmless. It's okay to scream at your children instead of loving them, blaming a seven year old for being 'bad' instead of thinking it's anything to do with yourself. I hate the way there's no-one left to intervene and neither the police nor social workers are even allowed to say 'this isn't okay', and it's left to Jeremy Kyle to say 'it's not okay for you to behave like this'. Heaven forbid anyone should cast blame on a parent for not bringing a child up effectively. I hate that. Maybe if we did say 'it IS your fault your three-year-old is naughty' instead of accepting excuses, then things might be a little better. Too few people take responsibility for their own weaknesses, yet find much to criticise in others. I hate that.

So... I'm hoping the nun-like solitude and the occasional copy of Charente Libre will keep me up to date, and revive my faith that the world is a lovely place after all.

Eeh, put th'kekkle on, I'm just back from th'ospikul

Originally posted: 14th February 2010

Day 46 and counting.... Steve's got the packing bug, now, and there are boxes everywhere. I'm still no nearer to finding a buyer, and despair of ever finding one, on account of I think people these days are trapped in a game of 'real-life-through-the-keyhole' and have a good game of a Sunday afternoon by going round other people's houses, seeing what they can glean about their personality and trying to work out 'who lives in a house like this?'. I half expect Loyd Grossman to walk in before them and comment on my artwork.

I personally didn't have the time for this when I went looking in France. I met up with a couple of lovely estate agents, including the wonderful Thibaud, looked at 7 houses which were 90% like I'd asked for. I had a clear view of what we wanted, such as land size, bedrooms, outbuildings, state of repair and budget (most important!) and I told the estate agents, both of whom found me things that mostly looked like what I wanted. I didn't care about where, as long as it was a small village in some space, and had some connections to amenities, and whilst every one of the seven houses was lovely, and I could see myself in any of them, at the same time, none were perfect. One felt right, and that's the one we're lucky enough to be buying. Hopefully!

But this breed of British real-life-through-the-keyhole-contestant/tyre kicker don't even seem to want to buy an actual house. Some want a look. Three of my neighbours had no intention of moving, they just wanted a nosey. Loads more seemed to think that a modern-three-bed-semi-detached should actually be a mansion with three en-suites, a utility room, a conservatory and several drawing rooms/morning rooms and that just over 6 figures is too much for the aforementioned mansion they want. Even in France (even!) you'd get a mansion, but it'd be a ruin needing £200,000 worth of work. With the average UK house price at quarter of a million (yes, people, quarter of a million!) I feel like kicking the viewers in the head several times before beating them repeatedly with several thousand estate agents' reports.

The family that came yesterday were a fairly typical example. The man knocked on the door, and then everyone decided to get out of the car (mum, kids, grandparents) whilst I'm standing there with a fixed smile on my face as all the heat blows out of my door into the wilds of Bolton's mid-February air. After five minutes of door-opened, freezing, fixed smiling, the family are all in. All of us in my small front room. I say 'What are you looking for, exactly' in the hopes of getting a better picture so I can aim my pitch more accurately, and the woman says 'just a look around'. I laugh, and explain, thinking she's got the wrong end of the stick, but in the end, I'm the idiot, because that's all they did want, not a house at all.

After that, we all cram into my small dining room. They won't go outside, even though I suggest they should, so they can get an idea of how quiet the neighbourhood is and how secluded it is, and peer at it through the window. She asks a dumb question about why I've put double glazing in, and replaced the old, so I explain patiently. One previous visitor got obsessed by the water rates... bizarre. Think he was planning on running a water-bottling business from home. Then we all traipse upstairs. This is where the rudeness really kicks up a notch. Not one, not two, but ten of the viewers have felt it necessary to open my wardrobes and cupboards in my bedroom. When did this become de rigeur??! Whilst they're all lovely and ordered, it's still a bit much, especially if you're only on a lookie-loo. And then they can't be bothered to go into the bathrooms, bedrooms etc. It's soooooo rude. They basically want to march in, root around and then vacate. I feel like I'm in a surreal version of The Life of Brian, where the Roman soldiers all march in, root a bit and then all march out again. Next time, I'm going to gauge them from the window, and if I don't like the look of them, I'm going to shout obscenities from the bedroom window, until they go away. Or I might rig up the door handle so that it gives them an electric shock. I would love to know exactly what proportion of them go on to buy an actual house. Maybe they get tea and cake in some, and it's a bit like those people who go to wakes just to get fed. I can't think of a single real reason why anyone would want to spend their time looking round anyone else's house, especially if the owner is there. You feel uncomfortable and a bit awkward, especially if you don't like it, and you feel (well, I do!) like you should make soothing noises about how lovely it is, risking them getting excited about a future offer, so you don't come across as rude. But not these vultures. They don't care how rude they are, not one bit.

The worst thing is that it is starting to make me rude. I just feel like saying 'what is this? a fucking freebie freak-show?' I know families used to go to mental institutions in centuries gone by, to pass the time after church. Zoos have become a bit too saintly and ecological, without the chained animals and the rocking polar bears, Jeremy Kyle isn't on, and I'm sure they just want a good gawp at someone losing their sanity.

Not only that, even if one of these bemoiled rudesbies actually made an offer, I'd feel inclined to reject it simply because I like my neighbours and I wouldn't want to leave behind terror in my wake. I'd feel cruel.

Not that it will come to that. The woman (and family) yesterday were quite put out that the house had stairs. How very dare it. Stairs, indeed, in a house! Turned out it was for her elderly parents, and really they need a bungalow or flat, or assisted living, but I think the daughter thought it would be nice for them to spend the day getting cross at house owners for having stairs, which, according to many of my viewers, are in the wrong place. Or they're too big, or they're in a funny place. I'm guessing this is in that they go from downstairs to upstairs. How bizarre! Not only that, but my house is too small. I'm not sure, dearest Bastard Thieves woman, how I'm supposed to do anything about that, but thanks for the feedback anyway. That was a waste of two minutes of my life, and an added stress.

Whilst I write, the family I'm waiting for haven't turned up. How rude! At least it saves me from swearing at them through the letterbox and saying 'no tyre-kickers today, thank you!'

At least no-one told me it would be easy!!

Des Pissenlits

Originally posted: 8th February 2010

So Steve has finally started packing. Unlike my military-style, highly-organised packing, he's opted for the more laissez-faire approach. I'm now up to about 100 wine boxes, all labelled, all clearly identifiable, all helpfully sorted into room-by-room groups. I may colour code them, but I think that may be too much. Steve, however, has gone for the more ad-hoc approach of finding random-sized boxes of varying strengths, styles and shape, and he's filling them with whatever he comes across. This may not help very much with my deciding where everything is likely to go, but it will help create an exact replica of his disorganised home. I, for instance, have packed CDs with CDs, make up with make up, handbags with handbags. He's gone for the roman coins with shoelaces with history books with lead fishing weights. It's novel. I'll give him that. To give him credit, it makes sense to him. Quite why he wants to bring two small safes with him is beyond me. Both of them can be carried off to be smashed elsewhere, one of them has a single-tumbler lock and the other doesn't lock (or shut) at all. In fact, the most use they've been is for our baby-sitting rescue cat to hide in.

The rescue cat has a story of its own, and we're deeply affectionate about it (apart from Jake who seems to think the cat hates him with a passion)

Some time last summer, Jake and his friend 'found' a kitten under a hedge and brought it down for our perusal.

"It's dead." Steve said, unemotional as ever. The friend gave a look of abject horror.

"Dead?!" and the kitten was all set to be launched into space which would definitely have finished it off for good. Luckily, it gave a little move just in time, Steve realised his error, ran to its rescue and relieved the young boy of his fear that he may indeed be holding a dead animal. He put it in a box and waited for me to get home, having tried to tempt it with some milk and then some water. If Jake hadn't found it, it'd be dead. If Steve hadn't put it in a shady spot and fed it a little liquid, likewise.

Luckily, I have charm where animals are concerned. I've rescued a hamster, a gerbil, several fish and my own cat, Basil, from several near-death escapades. I hand-fed Basil New Covent Garden chicken soup when he was very poorly, and I know how to sort a cat out. Poor baby kitten was covered in fleas, lice, and most disconcerting, fly eggs and maggots, which had already begun to eat him. I washed him down and raced him to the RSPCA in Salford. This is an experience in itself. There was no apparent way in, as it has to be kept under constant lockdown from the nearby druggies, and it was operating on a three-door policy, where you went through one, were vetted, then went through another. Honestly, it was worse than airport security!

There was a chavvy looking bloke in there, with, yes, a Staffie and its pups. The Staffie had killed one, and they were worried it would kill another. Probably saw the life its children would lead and decided to put them out of their misery. Leather collars with metal spikes on, hanging around offies looking menacing, and being paraded as a menace when you're really a sweetheart dog must be enough to drive any mother to consider euthanasia. Anyway, the vet took a look and then it was my turn, with my little shoebox with the recently-named 'Ollie', partly in honour of Oliver Twist, the most literary foundling I could think of, partly in honour of having a sound-alike to 'Molly'. Steve had suggested 'Arfur' ('Arf-Alive) but I like to bestow literary names upon my cats, in the best T.S. Eliot style.

I was worried Ollie had broken back legs, but it was just that he was so weak he couldn't hold them properly. And the vet gave me some rehydration salts and sent me on my way.

Ollie had to be fed the fluid with a 2ml syringe. I sponged him down, put him in the airing cupboard, kept him warm, wiped his bum, knowing that baby cats need a mummy cat's tongue on their arse to make them wee, apparently. What a job. No wonder I'm not maternal. And I'm not even a cat. I gave him 2ml every hour, kept him clean, powdered him with gentle flea powder, and cleaned his eyes, which were glued shut with pus and snot.

Next day, he was still sniffing and sneezing. I knew the vet had missed something. Ollie had cat flu. He had to have. I took him to my vet, Michael, who is an adorable man. He's so gentle and kind - he's exactly what you'd want in a vet. And he agreed. Cat flu. Probably wouldn't survive the night. Didn't even know if he was old enough for anti-biotics. I thought he was about 6 weeks old, but in retrospect, he was probably only 2 or 3. So I paid up a princely sum for anti-biotics, cat milk, de-fleaing drops, and took him home to start the lengthy process of bringing him back to health.

The first two days, he didn't move at all. He barely woke up when I was feeding him, and he was not even moving an inch during the day, just sleeping face down on Basil's old cat cushion. I was convinced he would make it, despite what the vet said. I made another couple of trips to pick up more anti-biotics, and have check-ups, but it didn't bode well.

Then he did a little poo.

Ollie, a couple of days later

All was beginning to look a little better. He was beginning to move from 2 ml to a 5 ml syringe, and he moved a little bit on the Thursday. He was a little cleaner, and he managed to get one eye open. Over the next week, he began to lap milk from a saucer, coaxed by me moving the syringe nearer and nearer to it. And he began to sit up and look more alive than dead. I went through many syringes, many towels, many cotton wool pads and cotton wool buds that week.

He began to move about a bit, and was kind of nicknamed Wobbly Bob. I don't know why people who are wobbly get called Bob, but so it is. So Ollie became Ollie-Bob, and occasionally Bob Sagat (via Bob Seger!) and he began to get a lot more lively, although still very, very fragile!

Ollie looking a little bewildered

And he was beginning to follow Molly about, looking up to her like a surrogate mother. She loved it, and it made me feel a little bit sad that she'd been spayed, since she would have made an excellent mum! She was incredibly patient with him, though excited by the new addition to the family, never jealous of the time we spent with him. He even took to copying her mannerisms!

Molly teaching Ollie her best moves

He really was unbelievably small and wobbly. But one night, Ollie crept into Moll's basket and cuddled up, and she loved it. It was like she was made to be cuddled up to by small animals. She wouldn't move, and even when we went up to bed, she didn't come with us, and that never happens. She always comes up to bed!

Moll's best friend

Not long after, my sister, Abi, had professed a desire to have Ollie. On one condition. He had to have a new name. My brother-in-law insisted he should be called Clint, after his film star hero (I assume!) and Ollie had to go. Not a problem. We'd come to realise, confirmed by my vet, that Clint was deaf, so Clint it was. Clint Horan. More Clint Boon than Eastwood. And he's since lived up to the Clint Boon/Eastwood moniker by becoming a complete Manc hoodlum claw-slinging terror-mongering maniac. Now he's in full-grown kitten hood, and although he walks around with his head on one side a bit, due to his early cat flu, and he's balance-inept, and he's unable to meow in any other way than making a Sweep-like squeak, we love him completely.

He's come to rule my sister's house. He breaks draining boards, knocks things over, terrorises anyone without shoes on and will willingly hang from you if you walk past.

Whilst we've been babysitting Clint, he's managed to worm his way back into Moll's heart, and was cuddled up next to her this morning, albeit with her under the duvet, and him on top. He eats her dog biscuits, she leaves his food untouched. He steals her bed, she sleeps in a corner. She sniffs him, he bites her head. But they've had this ongoing game of kiss-chase going on for days, and we're really going to miss him when he's gone. Still, whilst he might play well with Molly, Basil's having none of it, since Clint seemed to think Basil was some kind of cat guru and has spent the last 4 days following him about everywhere in the house, trying to do exactly what Basil is doing, and desperate to play. But Basil is stately, now, and so he's just put up with him, desperately trying to get some proper sleep. As if I won't have enough animals with me without our little Clinton.

Originally posted: 24th January 2010

We've finally got our timetable together. Steve has quit his job. 10 years working for the council - it's a bit like that Deacon Blue song, except not quite so negative. He gets to hand in his resignation today, and I think it feels like a 'get out of jail free' card - the end is nigh. I felt the same when I handed in my last resignation, with nowhere to go, no prospects, no hope, no planned future. It was a little weird. Of course, mine wasn't in the same circumstances, but it felt liberating all the same, if completely and utterly terrifying!

I'd made a very beautiful, colour-coded timetable/calendar on Word, documenting our every move. I've started booking tickets, so I've hyperlinked all the reference documents in, put down key dates, started adding times and so on. It's an OCD nightmare/heaven. Only Steve's decided it works better in Excel, and has spent the last two nights working through it, counting up his days 'en France' until we're over there permanently, all together, on the 18th August. He's got 43 days down, 20 or so, 'seul'. I don't know what he'll do with himself. I've suggested he takes his night fishing equipment, since he won't have me, the dog or the boy to 'entertain' him of an evening, but I somehow suspect he'll get lots of pleasure out of it. It's a good thing, too, so he can get to know the area. I've been lots of times, know it more than he does, and to some extent, since I'm the one who's seen it properly, it's 'my' house - so I think it will give him ownership of it. I'm kind of hoping he eases into 'bar' life, going for 'un cafe' and meeting with the sage old men of the area, but I doubt it. I'm not entirely sure the bar, 'Celtix', actually opens. I've never seen it open, let alone seen people in it. I'm not sure where the local congregation meet, watering-hole-wise. I was looking on the town hall website yesterday, and it says, as of 2004, there were 499 people in the commune. That's so lovely. Imagine having 499 people to be responsible for. Every single school I've worked in has been bigger than that, by far. It's like the first year and second year of most schools. That's bizarre. I can imagine knowing who lives everywhere. I plan on becoming the village Mary Poppins, bringing light and love and laughter whereever I go, making teacakes in the afternoon for anyone dropping in, taking cassoulet round to the elderly/infirm in bad weather, sorting out problems. I know it won't be like that, but I can dream.

I packed all my lovely floaty skirts yesterday. They're the kind that look good with wellies, in a 'country chic' type of way. I see myself, a hue of yellows and oranges, floating from house to house like some kind of social butterfly. I know I won't speak to anyone for weeks, really, and I'll be living in jeans. But, like I said, I can dream.

Steve's pretty much looking forward to the fact that no-one will visit and he'll be all on his own, allowed to do as he pleases. I think his day will pretty much go like this:

8:00 get a pot of coffee on. Take the dog for a walk.

9:00 drink coffee, go to grange to do some general woodwork/metalwork

11:00 eat a couple of croissants and have some more coffee

12:00 do some light gardening

13:00 eat a hearty broth and some home-made bread

14:00 nap

16:00 pick the boy up from school

16:30 take the dog out again for a walk/do some light fishing/wandering/cycling

18:00 eat a hearty 'plot-to-plate' supper, light the fire, snooze with the dog (whilst watching Cop Wars, Road Wars etc)

23:00 to bed.

We're 38 and he's heading for retirement behaviour!

I'm having a panic about work. Like work in England, it is littered with acronyms like URSSAF and CAF and RMI and weird concepts like being an author means being in a different tax bracket than a tutor/commercial writer, and trying to get to the bottom of how much tax to pay, and to whom, since some of my income will still be British income, and all kinds of unknowns like chambres of commerce and CIPAV and so on. It's all vaguely reminiscent of England, but in complex ways. I'm hoping I find as good an accountant out there as I have over here. I love my accountant. He makes me happy in that he just takes over, sorts it out and usually finds me some kind of rebate at the end of it all. I know it's all above board and sharp and so on, with him doing it. I need the same in France!

Sometimes, I think my French is good, and then I resort to 'what???!' when I realise how complicated it all looks and when I think of the ways those rude women in the council offices speak to less competant English speakers in England, how they speak slow and louder and louder, getting more and more irate, simply repeating the same thing over and over. Will the same happen to me??! I hope not! I'll be standing in the chambre of commerce, desperately trying to start up a semblance of a business, and they'll be yelling at me in complex bureaucratic language, and I'll probably just cry and remember the north with a sadness.

Anyway, we're on countdown. It's 8 weeks and counting. I have a diary. I have dates. I'm organised beyond belief. I'm good at this.

No matter how much I tell myself this, I am still in a panic. Yikes.

Originally published: 22nd January 2010

A month in and no buyers. Can it get more nerve-wracking than this?? I really, really need a buyer, now!!

The sale is all going through in France. We're waiting on one document for the Acte de Vente, and then that's it. The deed is done. March is the deadline. Nine months from decision to doorkeys. Wow. It's been a whirlwind!

But we have all the practical things to attend to. I've been busily learning French by watching various BBC clips, working through ancient textbooks in the library, translating documents from Le Monde and Paris Match, translating everything I can lay my hand on (and spending endless hours playing sudoku on Le Monde which, strangely, isn't helping my french at all, but is definitely passing the time) and translating various crime-thriller books from french into English. If only I'd studied so hard for my A level!

Whilst working at clearing out cupboards, I came across my French A level paper. It's no wonder I got an E. I wrote a poem. In English. Not a very good poem, either. Still, it reassured me that I'm not crap at French, just that I'd had enough of it at A level. We'd had this fabulous French teacher, Miss Mullineaux, for A level, who was like a cross old lady until you knew her, and then she was like your favourite old auntie. She was wonderful. She retired in the second year of my A levels, to be replaced by some randomer who was never there and I managed to get through my A levels having never really read any of the texts. I can't remember the other french teacher much. I remember my GCSE french teacher had a penchant for wearing her clothes back to front, had a very neat chignon and always reminded me of the nowty french teacher in Malory Towers, the school which I always wished I'd attended. She can't have been half bad, as I did very well, with little love of her. I think hers was the only subject in which I got an A without a huge girlie pupil-teacher crush on the teacher, or an absolute love of the subject. So all praise goes to her. My first french teacher had been Mrs Short, a welsh lady (who I recall wearing rather raunchy underwear) who seemed ancient, but was probably in her forties. She had a very flimsy blouse collection and was rather buxom. Lucky Mr Short. My first encounters with the language were therefore welsh-pronounced French. Better, then, than my Todmorden-pronounced Latin. I can 'sall-way-tay poo-elle-eye' in the best Toddy accent. I'm sure it's not what Caesar envisaged, but 'sall-way mag-eest-rah' should always be said with a Toddy accent, I feel. My only memory of Latin was locking Emma Taylor and Sue Littlewood in the cupboard, where they hid and played recorders, whispering "I am the ghost of Lucius Marcius Memor" (I think!) which we thought was rather amusing, being twelve and realising we could get away with virtually anything. I got 3% in my second-year latin exam. Good stuff! I was surprisingly third from the bottom. I even remember who did worse than me. I think the worst thing was that I wasn't actually trying to get 3%, unlike my french A level where it seemed like a really good idea to fail miserably, rather than pass miserably.

Hence, my language love has had to be re-seeded. And I'm enjoying it. I picked up South American Spanish, Portuguese, Japanese... so French had kind of got left behind. I know enough to eat out, buy stuff, read stuff... I got by in French life passing fair when I went over to visit my dad or stay in Paris. I even managed a whole four days in a windy, rainy, autumnal Dinard without speaking a word of English (including getting dragged to the casino at 10:30, half drunk, by two lorry drivers who were in town. They weren't our type of lorry drivers. We discussed why there is no french word for heaven, only 'paradise' and 'sky' which don't quite cut the mustard. And we discussed the difference between corsairs and pirates, piracy along the Breton coast, and the nature of romantic fiction - and the drunker I got, the better my french)

So learning it again definitely has its delights. It makes more sense why there'd be 'le' or 'la' - and it's mostly predictable; it makes sense to conjugate verbs. But, more than anything, I'm loving the idioms. I like that weeds are known as 'bad grass', and that 'a pot calling a kettle black ' is the equivalent of 'the hospital f&cking the charity'. I like the strange weather idioms, as you can probably tell.

But I'm also loving my own Lancy-shire-ness. I think, in the spirit of our Todmorden latin teacher, I should celebrate the butchering of the English language with accent and dialect. I like that Middleton people say 'Miggleton' and 'kecckle' for 'kettle', and 'frikened' for 'frightened'. I like words like 'nowty' and 'mard'. I like that old story of my mum (from Gloucestershire) coming up North for the first time and being bemused by 'side the table'. I'm sad that we don't have regional languages like the French, with six 'official' other languages, like Corsican and Breton. I think we should bring back Cornish, but celebrate dialect. I love being from the north, when I'm down in London. One guy I used to work with used to phone me up just to hear me say the word 'stuff', because I say the glottal 'U' as it's meant to be said, like you've been punched in the gUts, not 'a', making 'stUff' into 'staaff', which is a very different thing altogether. I like being able to get my tongue around vowels and not marmalise them into other vowels. I like that my 'bath' is a 'bath' and not a 'barth' or even 'barf'. I like the germanic gruntings of these harsh, basic, ancient words. And I think I shall do my best to celebrate it, though I know deep inside that I shall be softening my accent if I'm teaching English to non-natives, or to non-Northerners. I'm sad about that.

Language has always been interesting to me, not the least as an English teacher. I like that 'arigato' has Portuguese origins (which was one of those coincidences to me, that 'obrigado' should sound so like 'arigato' from two apparently unconnected countries, linguistically) and I like these connections and similarities, as well as the peculiarities. I shall enjoy it very much.

As for Steve, he'll forget English and not bother with French. He just isn't filled with Babel passion like I am. I'd definitely be a chatty monkey, whilst he'd be a silent gorilla. Or a lesser-spotted panda, perhaps.

On fait le choux gras

Originally posted: 31st December 2009

Everything seems to have been such a rush recently - so much seems to have happened in such a short period of time, which makes up for those weeks where we were sitting waiting for the chance to go to France and sort out Chez Blanchard, and whilst we've been waiting to sign for Les Capricornes - a name I shall explain later!

First, it was getting my house on the market, with the delightful Home Information Pack. Effing HIPS. Bah. Labour job-creating, money-wasting nonsense. Took ages to complete, then I swapped companies, on pain of small claims courts threats to the original company (does the small claims court still exist, by the way? It seems to have definitely slipped out of vogue!) and then the new company ended up being cheaper, faster and suddenly everything was on the go. House signs were erected, visits were arranged for initial voyeurs, the house was cleared out, my mother hacked some bushes, I vacuumed - and that doesn't happen very often! - and cleaned the kitchen. More things were boxed up, thanks to my local supermarket's free wine boxes. When we move in, we'll look like complete winos, though that is a role we intend to take up only when we're over there! I've labelled everything in a bizarre obsessive-compulsive way, with a 'theme' for each wine box, and then sub-categories. Cups and saucers are all wrapped up in newspaper, books are sorted and packed. I have accumulated an inordinate amount of cups and saucers. I like a lovely cup and saucer. Now I sound like my nana, I shall explain. I have my delightful Wedgwood tea set and several beautiful Habitat mugs, a few Whittards' cups and saucers, and some other beautiful china. I always used to mock my nana's insistence on a china cup and saucer, when I was in my grunge phase and didn't care about matching mugs, let alone cups, and heaven forbid a saucer would be used for anything other than putting underneath plant pots! Now, a couple of decades on, it seems like a travesty not to enjoy good tea from a china cup, or a fresh coffee in anything other than a Habitat porcelain mug. And whilst I may be forced to abandon the suits and shoes for a life on a petite fermette, I shall be wandering around in my wellies (more about them later) in a suitably flowery frock drinking tea from a china Wedgwood cup. It is the last bastion of culture, the last bit of 'Margot' in my new 'Barbara' Good Life. So they're all packed carefully and ready to go.

But whilst viewings have been frequent, which has been fantastic in a recession, with mixed reports from the papers - the housing market is on the mend, it's at pre-recession prices, it's at a standstill, it's dead, it's recovering, it's alive, it's dead - ad infinitum - the viewers have been a little odd. I've had neighbours knocking on for a look-see with no intention to buy, weird couples, a woman who seems to have married some kind of illegal immigrant half her age who can't speak English, a good few weirdos who march round the house as if to say 'is that it?' and I wonder what they expect. I bought the house on first sight. I loved the staircase, and it was big enough and in my price range. Similarly, Les Capricornes. It was big enough and it was in our price range. It's roughly where we wanted it to be. It needs work, sure, and it's not 'perfect', but it'll do. And I wonder what some of these buyers want with £110,000. Do they expect a mansion???! Sure, it's little, but with the average house price now being a quarter of a million pounds (How did it ever come to that??!) and usual-sized family homes going for half a million, it does make you wonder what they expect.

I have been doing my best with a good 'sell' job. Ann Maurice, House Doctors, eat your heart out! I've focused on the unique selling points, the quality, the garden, the added features, the fact that the house over the road is on for £20,000 more.... for a foot wider, an ensuite and a smaller master bedroom.... but no nibbles. Not even a little one. Now I wonder if we'll ever sell, and that in itself brings complications. Pessimism tastes horrible.

Despite this, I'd been over to France to sign the compromis, effectively guaranteeing that Madame will sell and we will buy. 90,000 euros by April. No worries! Now I worry about exchange rates, buyers' markets, unsellable houses, realistic pricing... And it's a trauma! Luckily, my fantastic accountant has sorted everything out for me, tax-wise, and my tax bill isn't too big. That's one relief.

So it was a wet Thursday morning that my sister Abi took me to Liverpool 'John Lennon Airport' (how that must grate upon Mr McCartney's nerves! Liverpool could at least have named the train station after him... especially after he brought LIPA to them! Can he do no right??!) and a quick Ryanair flight from snowy Britain into snowy France! To give them their due, Ryanair may be like a charabang to Blackpool, but they get you there and they do so without fuss, and mostly on time. And later, they really proved their worth.

Limoges was kissed with snow - and it looked beautiful. I cried a little on the descent, simply because it was so gorgeous, and with a little luck, a small part of it might be mine! Dad picked me up, and as we drove back to St Angeau, it was snowing a little. Then it really started coming down. Dad's house looked fantastic - like those Christmas ornaments you get of houses with snowy roofs and shutters, lit up. There was a blazing fire and it was toasty warm in there, though it was cold outside. Swamped in a huge sofa, in front of a roaring fire, watching the snow fall outside... it was perfect. We had supper with Brian and Lesley, two of my dad's fellow villagers, and I realised how relaxed and laid-back everyone is here.

The next day, I took my father to sign the compromis. I like to have my dad about, even if I am 37 and know more french than he does. I don't think you ever really stop feeling glad you've got your parents there, even if you are approaching middle age. Maitre Ferrant was charming as usual, the estate agent, Thibaud, was on holiday in the Dominican Republic, and instead of Mme Roses, I met M. Roses, which was a little surprising, to say the least! Madame arrived, looking very frail and tired, and I realised what a marvel she really was. I really took to her. At one point, I just wanted to say 'well, we'll ALL live there!' She'd come with her two daughters and their respective husbands, and we all crammed into Maitre Ferrant's tiny office. I have to say it was very convivial, despite the obvious sadness that Madame was giving up her home of 40 years, and they were really wonderful.

M. Ferrant whipped through the reports. We have some asbestos. We have a little lead in the paint on the shutters - not a problem as long as you don't lick the shutters, he joked. And we have an infestation of capricornes. Lots of capricornes. And some vrillettes. Some kind of insect, he explained. You can treat it with a toxic liquid. No problem. I did want to ask what capricornes were, but I liked to let my mind wander a little. My dad's a capricorn. So's Steve, and Dean, our very good friend. My sister is almost a capricorn. I had a vision of a house infested by December's and January's children, all being goat-like and capricious together. I understood it was some kind of insect and left it at that, my imagination free to go as wild as it wanted.

It did seem that the French are much more glib than the British about sorting out housing issues. Asbestos? just be careful when you get rid of it. Lead? Don't injest it. Capricornes. Just kill 'em. Meh. I liked this attitude. No drama. No expensive builders and pest-controllers coming out to suck their breath over their teeth and present you with an enormous bill.

I signed numerous pages, which were then signed by just about everyone else. I realised we're in a flood zone, but apart from mud slides in 1999, further up in the village, it's not been a problem. I'm coming from flood-unundated Britain and feeling a little worried about it, but then I remember the house has been there since 1850, and it's still there.

The energy efficiency document was the most charmingly sad thing about the house. Mine in Manchester is a good B. It's efficient, warm, double-glazed, insulated and so on. The only advice was to get solar panels (what, are you kidding???! I've paid £30 for some nitwit to tell me that solar panels would work in Manchester??! Has he never BEEN to Manchester??!) and the EPC man chortled as he said it, knowing full well it was some government-spin that would be utterly unworkable in Manchester and take 20 years to make up for its initial cost. But Les Capricornes, as I named it there and then on the spot, was an F. Only a G is worse. An F. Poor house! I'm not sure what you have to do to be an F, except be a total waste of energy, but it was quite sad, but quite sweet! Likewise, the same advice adorned the french EPC report about solar panels, and I had to wonder whether some Bruxelles bureaucrat had devised the same piece of advice for all houses, except those A* houses with it installed already. I'll make that house an A if it kills me to do it! Nothing makes a challenge for a teacher except to see some poor predicted grade for some hard-working delight. I'll take that F and give you an A, I vowed, silently. The only teacher in the room, I didn't want to raise suspicions about my mental health.

After that, we went back to Les Capricornes a.k.a The Triangle on account of the shape of the land, to get some further pictures - since French estate agents don't care for Ann Maurice, thinking 'if you can't see the potential yourself, then knob off!' Ann Maurice wouldn't be a popular lady in France, on account of the fact that most 'vielles maisons' seem to be sold in a complete state of disrepair. Madame's daughters (in their sixties, no less, just in case you were imagining some youthful french ladies) were just my type. They'd brewed some good strong coffee, got two cakes and were chatty and really friendly. They liked my prenom and kept saying "Emma-Jane!" with delight, though I pointed out that only my grandmother calls me this! We joked about English traffic, and were bewildered by the notion they still held that London is constantly held in a pea-souper of a fog, like Victorian London might have been. I blame Ladybird books. I had the same notion until I was about seven, on account of a Ladybird book about England.

Then Brenda, La Belle-Mere, my father and I took a wander about the snowy grounds. Everything we saw delighted us further. Grapevines. An orchard. A polytunnel. Several sheds. Several lean-tos. A barn I'd forgotten about. A cabin for Jake. A forge!

I hadn't seen the forge before, and yet when my father pointed it out, you can hear my tone of disbelief on the video I was recording.

"A forge??!"

Steve would love this. He hasn't yet seen inside, and I know - I just know - that he can't possibly imagine how wonderful it is yet. A forge. He'll be made up! A wood-work workshop, a metal-work workshop, a barn, a hangar, a tractor, the land, the vines, the cave, it was all just a little too much to take in.

And yet, when I lay in bed, late that night, tucked up against the snow, I was possessed by a terrible fear. What the hell were we doing??! I know little about farming, except for a couple of weeks in my youth when I visited my maternal family's smallholding in Stow. Steve and I are city babies, grey through and through. We're English and we're city babies, with a confused child who doesn't know whether to be excited or terrified. Would my house sell? Would we get out of the country alive? It was all a little too much. And yet, that vision of Steve's face when he sees the forge. It'll all be worth it! I started to imagine the curtains, the living room, the kitchen I'd have... and it more than made up for the worries and the doubts.

On the day I was due to return, Papa and I set off for Limoges in the dark, not really taking on exactly how much snow had fallen. When we got to the airport, the plane was allegedly still going to land, so Papa dropped me off and I milled about, waiting for the call. It didn't come. I overheard someone talking about how it had been diverted to Bergerac. I had visions of the time Abi and I were trapped in Cork airport, with 11 other hens, for her hen weekend. We'd been there for 9 hours when Aer Lingus told us the flight had been cancelled because some daft baggage handler had driven the baggage truck into the side of the plane, rendering it unfit for flight. By that time, we were fraught. Or at least, I was. We were put up in a hotel, given sandwiches and told we might be able to get a space on the Monday flight, but if not, the next one would be Wednesday. It was absolutely out of the question, they said, to transfer us to Dublin for a flight, or to replace the plane. One of the girls with us was supposed to be going on holiday, several of them were nurses with shifts to run. North Manchester General would come to a standstill! So I envisaged a cancellation and I waited to hear.

But better than that. Ryanair would transport us to Bergerac and fly from there. I know I was alone in thinking this was jolly good of them, since they could just say 'oh, bugger off home and try your luck on the next flight that can get in' but they didn't. Within an hour, they had three coaches for us, and off we went, down the snowy roads (just having to put the fear that if they can't land a plane, can you really transport 50 people on a coach out of there???!) across to Bergerac, where we hopped on the plane and were taken back to Liverpool. Lucky I'd chosen 'John Lennon Airport' - Manchester was closed. Just out of interest, what would they rename Manchester? "Noel Gallagher Airport?" (Now that would piss Liam off!), The Buzzcocks' Airport? Mick Hucknall Airport? I'm sure there's no-one quite as saintly for us.

Steve and Jake were late. Ironically, it took them longer to get from Bury to Liverpool than it took me to get from Bergerac to Liverpool. The snow was pretty bad. Steve was full of a cold. I've not often seen him so ill. And yet my excitement was brimming over. He was delighted. I knew he would be.

Now we have the house, the hard work starts, all the worrying begins.... and I've still got Christmas to get through!