I've been a right little bi-lingual social guru since my last post, and if any of you have been waiting for an update (thanks Kel xx), apologies for the late response. It would appear that I seem to have become rather good at doing very little. Indeed, so much so that I just don't know where the days are going? "In a haze of red wine!", I hear some of you cynical doubters cry. Not true I can assure you. I've actually been rather busy talking. Quelle surprise!
My recent forays into the local ex-pat and French communities have left me with all sorts of Carrie Bradshaw-esque questions about life and relationships, albeit of the non-sexual variety, that I could head up my latest post with. And although I might be sitting here casually typing into my laptop with my NGBF (no not New Gay Best Friend, rather New Glass-Best Friend) next to me, I tell you now I'm certainly not sitting here in Agent Provocateur knickers and Jimmy Choos. I mean do you know how bleeding cold these Farmhouses can get? I'm more a hoodie and jeans type of gal. This aint no city after all folks, and well urrrhhh...there isn't really an enormous amount of sex (before any of you get too excited). I prefer to think of it as more of a"Booze in the Country" type setting. Nevertheless, like dear old Cazza, I've been spending the last week or so drinking coffee (and some wine, naturally) with numerous ladies discovering how le vie Francais has been treating them.
Interestingly, I've been lead to believe that the so-called "good life" en France tends to end in divorce. Another good reason not to be married then! I'll be sure to scribble that on a post-it and stick on the fridge before bed.
It would appear that selling up in the UK and moving over here without the stress of long working days, rush hour traffic, and not enough quality time with the family, was actually the key to keeping couples married in the first place. Now with time on their hands it seems a great many would rather call it a day, having realised that life was infact better when they didn't see each other as much. To the point where divorce is a more endearing prospect.
The thing is I can totally see where they're coming from. I've been keeping myself very busy what with mother and toddler groups, coffee mornings, French lessons and of course being a domestic goddess(!). Roy has been busy getting on with whatever he does on that laptop all day long (I jest of course, it's something to do with networks, I think) meaning that post dinner we have quality time to spend together, catching up on our respective days, sharing our hopes and dreams for the future and planning our lives together. Except of course I tend to fall asleep on the sofa around 9pm due to a serious lack of reality TV programmes in my mother tongue for me to gorge over, and maybe because that deadly combination of log fire, blanky on the sofa and a smooth glass of red leaves me feeling, rather, yawwwnnn..., sleepy. Who said romance was deadzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz?
p.s. Coming up in the next mind numbing blog-isode of "My Little Life" - discover how I get on at the French mother's circle. Does Rafferty deck petite Margot? Do I manage to (accidentally) insult any of the mums? And why does the whole room suddenly go deathly silent when you finally pluck up the courage to parle en Francais. The words "tumble" and "weed" spring to mind!
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Saturday, 8 November 2008
Better late than never...
...or so you'd think.
Roy eventually arrived at Le Sauvage on Thursday evening after clocking up a mere 6,800 mile journey from Brazil with the help of 2 planes, 2 hire cars, 1 train and a taxi. Due to arrive into Poitiers Gare at 6pm, he could only get the later TGV tain from Charles de Galle airport making his actual e.t.a 9:40pm. Well what's nearly 4 hours when you've been waiting 3 weeks!
The disappointment however, and the test of my patience to the extreme (clock watching etc.) led me to a minor meltdown, leaving me unable to make the treacherous (that's what I told him anyway) journey to Poitiers to collect him. Suggesting (or rather ordering) him to get a taxi to Ruffec (there was no way the driver would have found the house) was not the ideal scenario for our intrepid explorer laden with bags, a broken one at that, and heavy with gifts for his beloved family (the sob story certainly wasn't spared), but as a true soldier he agreed and promised to ring me once he knew the cost of the journey.
"50 euros" he said, "not bad is it?"
Bargain I thought, suddenly relieving me of any guilt.
So I settled down to watch the rest of my dvd, a cup of chocolat chaud and the warmth of the blanket. Well, I had a hour to kill.
Ring ring...20 minutes later. "Babe, I must be nearly here."
"Don't talk daft, how can you be?" I retorted (so polite).
"Well it says 35euros already on the meter, so I only have 15euros to go. Must be round the corner. Make sure you're there to meet me. I only have 35euros."
"Ok ok I'll leave right now."
Mad rush ensues. Get Raffers out of bed, wrapped up in blankets and bundled into car. Right, phone, check. House keys, check. Turn off lights, check. Open gates, check. Ah bugger...money!
Rush back into house. Best take a load of cash, just in case...you never know what might happen (ever the cautious type). So I grabbed a load of crisp notes, hidden under the mattress for safe keeping wink wink, always one step ahead of the game! And off we went into the freezing dead of night, the little Corsa trundling along the country lanes with Raffers sucking his dummy furiously wondering what the hell was going on!
Arriving at Ruffec station was like something out of a French film noir. The streets were deathly still; a light fog enveloping the few deserted cars parked nearby. Suddenly, Roy appears, the light on the taxi shining like a beacon through the darkness. It was like we were part of a secret rendezvous, members of the French Resistance, or simply star crossed lovers.
The taxi door opened and there stood Roy in all his glory. We embraced, visibly relieved he'd made it here in one piece (and that I didn't have to drive!). I spoke briefly to the driver to show Roy how far I'd come in a mere 3 weeks and asked how much I owed him, knowing full well that I would be able to translate 50euros. He muttered something which sounded far too long to mean 50. "Pardon monsieur.." and he pointed to the meter. I gasped.
148.75 !!!
Ummmm Roy? Roy, who by now had hurriedly stuffed his bags into my car and was playing with Raffers, look up bemused as if he hadn't even been in the cab in the first place. "Huh?" he said.
"Thought you said it was going to be 50euros?" I replied, through gritted teeth, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach.
Looking dumbfounded, Roy sheepishly handed me 35euros, leaving me to delve deep into my pockets to retrieve the enormous sum of money.
Luckily for the driver, I had exactly the right amount on me. Unluckily for me, I had to politely hand over the cash and pretend it wasn't a big deal.
Well of course it wasn't really. I mean, what's 150euros when I have a lovely boyfriend back safe and well, and we're going back to our gorgeous home together to play with our beautiful baby.
2 days later, I'm lying in bed at 5am unable to sleep.
150 f**king euros!!!
I still feel sick.
Roy eventually arrived at Le Sauvage on Thursday evening after clocking up a mere 6,800 mile journey from Brazil with the help of 2 planes, 2 hire cars, 1 train and a taxi. Due to arrive into Poitiers Gare at 6pm, he could only get the later TGV tain from Charles de Galle airport making his actual e.t.a 9:40pm. Well what's nearly 4 hours when you've been waiting 3 weeks!
The disappointment however, and the test of my patience to the extreme (clock watching etc.) led me to a minor meltdown, leaving me unable to make the treacherous (that's what I told him anyway) journey to Poitiers to collect him. Suggesting (or rather ordering) him to get a taxi to Ruffec (there was no way the driver would have found the house) was not the ideal scenario for our intrepid explorer laden with bags, a broken one at that, and heavy with gifts for his beloved family (the sob story certainly wasn't spared), but as a true soldier he agreed and promised to ring me once he knew the cost of the journey.
"50 euros" he said, "not bad is it?"
Bargain I thought, suddenly relieving me of any guilt.
So I settled down to watch the rest of my dvd, a cup of chocolat chaud and the warmth of the blanket. Well, I had a hour to kill.
Ring ring...20 minutes later. "Babe, I must be nearly here."
"Don't talk daft, how can you be?" I retorted (so polite).
"Well it says 35euros already on the meter, so I only have 15euros to go. Must be round the corner. Make sure you're there to meet me. I only have 35euros."
"Ok ok I'll leave right now."
Mad rush ensues. Get Raffers out of bed, wrapped up in blankets and bundled into car. Right, phone, check. House keys, check. Turn off lights, check. Open gates, check. Ah bugger...money!
Rush back into house. Best take a load of cash, just in case...you never know what might happen (ever the cautious type). So I grabbed a load of crisp notes, hidden under the mattress for safe keeping wink wink, always one step ahead of the game! And off we went into the freezing dead of night, the little Corsa trundling along the country lanes with Raffers sucking his dummy furiously wondering what the hell was going on!
Arriving at Ruffec station was like something out of a French film noir. The streets were deathly still; a light fog enveloping the few deserted cars parked nearby. Suddenly, Roy appears, the light on the taxi shining like a beacon through the darkness. It was like we were part of a secret rendezvous, members of the French Resistance, or simply star crossed lovers.
The taxi door opened and there stood Roy in all his glory. We embraced, visibly relieved he'd made it here in one piece (and that I didn't have to drive!). I spoke briefly to the driver to show Roy how far I'd come in a mere 3 weeks and asked how much I owed him, knowing full well that I would be able to translate 50euros. He muttered something which sounded far too long to mean 50. "Pardon monsieur.." and he pointed to the meter. I gasped.
148.75 !!!
Ummmm Roy? Roy, who by now had hurriedly stuffed his bags into my car and was playing with Raffers, look up bemused as if he hadn't even been in the cab in the first place. "Huh?" he said.
"Thought you said it was going to be 50euros?" I replied, through gritted teeth, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach.
Looking dumbfounded, Roy sheepishly handed me 35euros, leaving me to delve deep into my pockets to retrieve the enormous sum of money.
Luckily for the driver, I had exactly the right amount on me. Unluckily for me, I had to politely hand over the cash and pretend it wasn't a big deal.
Well of course it wasn't really. I mean, what's 150euros when I have a lovely boyfriend back safe and well, and we're going back to our gorgeous home together to play with our beautiful baby.
2 days later, I'm lying in bed at 5am unable to sleep.
150 f**king euros!!!
I still feel sick.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Pain aux raisins, vin rouge and tantrums...
....but not in that particular order.
Please God HELP ME! I can't stop eating French pastries. Honestly I'm even fantasising about them. Waking at 5am and languishing (alone...yes still...) in my king size bed, tossing and turning from side to side with thoughts of light, flaky pastry with gooey, syrupy custard fillings and raisins all stuffed into my mouth...chopping, mmmm...chewing...yummm...slurping, even. Oh and chocolate chips. Don't want the humble chocolat chip(!) to feel left out.
It's all Aged P's fault of course. After tomorrow when he departs for Angletterre I (hopefully) won't be letting another delicious pastry touch my lips. There is no way Roy (who arrives Thursday) will allow any of these bad boys to slip into the weekly shopping trolley, so unless I take up an elicit affair with a tray of pain au chocolat (stuffing them seductively down my trousaurs for safe keeping..now there's a thought!), I'll hopefully still be a size 10 before the six months are up. Hopefully... ;o)
Another, rather surprising, turn up for the books is that I've seemed to developed a small liking for red wine. Astonishing I know and also rather handy being in the land of the grape and all. However, before I admit defeat and sign up for AA I've realised why bored housewife's (or husbands...not one to be sexist) enjoy the odd Gin or two around 5pm before their beloved returns from a hard day at the office. I'll tell you why. Because looking after a 15 month old little boy day in and day out with no break or help is BLOODY HARD WORK! I recalled (at 5am this morning, my 'hour' for peace and solitude to ponder life's conundrum's) having said to my dear friend Kelly a few months ago.."I'm really enjoying this stage, now that Raffers is a bit older, he can say things and communicate with me. I'm really enjoying it."
Mmmmm..indeed he can communicate and say things effectively. He can communicate through the art form of the 'punch' or the more moderate form of the 'hit'. His ability to throw things is coming along nicely, ditto smashing and breaking things. But the piece de resistence is the tantrum. This truly takes some skill and natural ability, to which, luckily, my son is a dab hand. A proud mother I am at his eagerness to demonstrate such a talent, especially in the supermarket, or when putting him in the buggy, or the car seat (a particular favourite of mine). The reverse banana is a tough move to master.
Joking aside, I know it won't last forever and it's not as if it's ALL the time. Only usually when surrounded by gentle, sweet French children (who I swear to God don't have tantrums) and their parents are looking at me with pity and probably wondering how I manage to make it through the day sober! Well, what can I say, like mother like son. I don't remember being 15 months old, but I remember screaming and crying and taking all my clothes off in a black cab on our way to see Father Christmas at Hamleys in London. My sister and dear mother looking on astonished and visibly traumatised. Well, I was hot!
Anyway, I'm sure Raffers will be different. And if not there's always Super Nanny!
Please God HELP ME! I can't stop eating French pastries. Honestly I'm even fantasising about them. Waking at 5am and languishing (alone...yes still...) in my king size bed, tossing and turning from side to side with thoughts of light, flaky pastry with gooey, syrupy custard fillings and raisins all stuffed into my mouth...chopping, mmmm...chewing...yummm...slurping, even. Oh and chocolate chips. Don't want the humble chocolat chip(!) to feel left out.
It's all Aged P's fault of course. After tomorrow when he departs for Angletterre I (hopefully) won't be letting another delicious pastry touch my lips. There is no way Roy (who arrives Thursday) will allow any of these bad boys to slip into the weekly shopping trolley, so unless I take up an elicit affair with a tray of pain au chocolat (stuffing them seductively down my trousaurs for safe keeping..now there's a thought!), I'll hopefully still be a size 10 before the six months are up. Hopefully... ;o)
Another, rather surprising, turn up for the books is that I've seemed to developed a small liking for red wine. Astonishing I know and also rather handy being in the land of the grape and all. However, before I admit defeat and sign up for AA I've realised why bored housewife's (or husbands...not one to be sexist) enjoy the odd Gin or two around 5pm before their beloved returns from a hard day at the office. I'll tell you why. Because looking after a 15 month old little boy day in and day out with no break or help is BLOODY HARD WORK! I recalled (at 5am this morning, my 'hour' for peace and solitude to ponder life's conundrum's) having said to my dear friend Kelly a few months ago.."I'm really enjoying this stage, now that Raffers is a bit older, he can say things and communicate with me. I'm really enjoying it."
Mmmmm..indeed he can communicate and say things effectively. He can communicate through the art form of the 'punch' or the more moderate form of the 'hit'. His ability to throw things is coming along nicely, ditto smashing and breaking things. But the piece de resistence is the tantrum. This truly takes some skill and natural ability, to which, luckily, my son is a dab hand. A proud mother I am at his eagerness to demonstrate such a talent, especially in the supermarket, or when putting him in the buggy, or the car seat (a particular favourite of mine). The reverse banana is a tough move to master.
Joking aside, I know it won't last forever and it's not as if it's ALL the time. Only usually when surrounded by gentle, sweet French children (who I swear to God don't have tantrums) and their parents are looking at me with pity and probably wondering how I manage to make it through the day sober! Well, what can I say, like mother like son. I don't remember being 15 months old, but I remember screaming and crying and taking all my clothes off in a black cab on our way to see Father Christmas at Hamleys in London. My sister and dear mother looking on astonished and visibly traumatised. Well, I was hot!
Anyway, I'm sure Raffers will be different. And if not there's always Super Nanny!
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