27 June 2008

Swimming, Stuffing and Snogging – The Hawiian Party

Yesterday was Hawiian party day. The end of school extravaganza for those selected friends of Kitty who could be trusted not to start fights, steal other girls’ boyfriends or sneak into my bar and drink the vodka. The limit was set at fourteen – that’s the number of invitees – their ages were 11 and 12. I was dreading it. At 57 and after years of living in slendid solitude and then reluctantly taking on a new family, having worked out that Kitty’s main financial demands would be when I was approaching 70, the last thing I needed was 12 kids (the 10 acceptances plus Guy and Kitty) running amoc in this oasis of tranquillity.

In the morning Kitty demanded that the whole pool area and the poolhouse be jet-washed to remove various cobwebs, dead earwigs and suchlike. She also wanted her Hawaiian posters put up, balloons and signs placed along the road for about two km to help direct visitors, the new barbecue to be tested and the plastic cups inspected for any signs of dust ! Two hours later it was done – you could have eaten your Full English Breakfast off the poolside terrace. Now it was my turn – the rules for the party.

These were accepted without question (which should have forewarned me of impending problems) and final preparations were made – the punch was created, popcorn was cooked or popped or whatever the term is, the burgers and sausages were readied and the melon and coconuts split and portioned. Amazingly, I was able to have a spritzer (yes – I know) and a cigarette before the first ‘guests’ arrived 15 minutes early.

Kids then arrived one by one until the full compliment of acceptances was reached. My groovy music was turned off to be replaced with mind-numbing, ear-splitting punk rock and the pool took on the look of a piranha feeding frenzy. Every magpie in the area went off for the day unable to compete with the high-pitched, 100+ decibel screeching which came from 8 adolescent girls and 4 boys and I closed all patio doors and switched on Wimbledon at the highest sound level. This was not much comfort as Maria Sharapova proceeded to grunt at every stroke at an ear splitting 103 decibels as measured by those stalwarts in the Wimbldon & District Noise Abatement Society.

One hour later I decided to have a quick look at the ‘party’. My immediate take was that this was a Facebook party in minature. One ‘couple’ were snogging like mad in the drive. The other two boys were trying to catch my goldfish by hand offering them little strips of burst balloon as an incentive to come to the surface whereupon they would be squished. The boogie boards were broken beyond recognition, and my bed-sized lilo was burst having been used as a trampoline. The poolside patios were covered with a cocktail of cranberries, popcorn and mango all of which when dried becomes like a new multi-coloured layer of render and the cats and Shadow were cowering on the top terrace….as was I ! ‘It was a party’ I tried to convince myself – 'there’s bound to be some mess' !

I ventured down to cook the food on the BBQ and noticed that the previously snogging couple had now split up and both were in tears being consoled by the other 11 year olds. The burgers and sausages were cooked to the diners’ satisfaction with the ‘snogging’ couple now sitting at opposite ends of the table. The food was scoffed down in record time and soon they were all back in the pool. Whatever happened to the advice about not swimming for at least an hour after eating….or am I being anal again ?

Soon the parents began to arrive to remove their stuffed, waterlogged and wrinkled kids. Some also had to cope with tear-stained, broken hearted kids but that was their problem – all I wanted now was a post-mortem on the rules, every one of which had been broken, another spritzer and a cigarette.

The sun still shone, the animals began to return to the house, the magpies started calling each other again and my spritzer and cigarette were pure bliss. Andy Murray won the tennis match on telly and I relaxed happy in the knowledge that for the next two weeks Julie and the kids were off to Spain leaving me and the animals to our own devices. More pure bliss !

26 June 2008

Women and Sport and Dinner is in the Dog

Sometimes spoken responses come back to haunt you. I can clearly recall during the final televised match of the English Premier league Julie asking me if that was the end of the football for the season. I innocently, but foolishly said that it was, thinking that I would not have that much interest in the European Championships given that the ‘home nations’ had not qualified. It was therefore with some relief in May that Julie looked forward to a few months of football-free TV. No more battles of wills about who would watch their programme on the other telly downstairs. No more late nights in the bar in the house keeping the kids awake as me and my mates watched football matches last until midnight. The problem is that the European Championships have become interesting.

Men will always find a way to relate to a football team to justify why they should watch a particular game even if there is no overriding reason why they should. I hate Chelsea so I think it’s normal that I should watch their games. Similarly with Germany. I shout for the Turks because my neighbour Tan is Turkish Cypriot. I watch Italy because an ex-Glasgow Rangers player is in their team. Any old excuse really !

And then there is the cricket. And Wimbledon of course.

My point is that I don’t have any real hobbies. People think I love gardening and it’s a hobby but it’s not – I do it because it NEEDS TO BE DONE ! I don’t fly paragliders. I don’t spend hours cleaning and lavishing attention on my Alfa Romeo. I don’t even fish any more. I used to take flying lessons but the guy ran off with my money so I gave that up. I don’t really do anything so therefore I think it reasonable to sit down and watch a sporting battle and just relax.

So we come to yesterday. There I was planting, weeding and doing various other boring jobs in the garden when a thought struck me. ‘Wasn’t there a cricket match on the telly’ ? England vs New Zealand – the fourth match and the score was one each – it should be a good game. Gardening tools were cast aside and I sat down to watch it – after all it was 85 degrees outside – nobody should be out in that heat.

Well the game was pretty boring I have to report right up until England ran out a New Zealand batsman who happened to be lying on the grass having been flattened by the English bowler. England very unsportingly took advantage of the situation and looked to be heading for an unlikely and undeserved victory. There were 2 overs to go (about 10 minutes) and the game was at a critical stage. The NZ team were snarling after England’s very unsporting gesture and England had decided that a ‘win at all costs mentality’ was the correct attitude in this situation. It was tense.

Then a cry came from the kitchen ( I would say a screech but you might get confused with the Magpies). Julie wanted help with dinner. Now what is difficult about cooking spaghetti with tomato sauce and some breaded veal ? I popped my head round the door to say I’d be 5 minutes. Ten minutes later there was definitely a screech from the kitchen demanding my assistance. Luckily the game had just finished but again in a hugely controversial way but I decided to prolong my marriage and headed into the kitchen to help. I will not describe the mess (this is a subject for another blog posting) but I helped as best I could and we sat down outside on the terrace to eat. The kids were obviously looking for a fight and Julie was still wondering why there was so much sport on telly when I made a very unfortunate comment. I said, ‘this spaghetti is not cooked’ !

In a flash my plate of spaghetti and breaded veal was picked up and thrown over the terrace wall onto the drive below narrowly missing the car which Guy had spent all afternoon cleaning. Shadow headed off to have a tasty meal (for him) whilst I wondered about the wisdom of commenting on my wife’s cooking. Remember poor Geoffrey Palmer in that sit-com Butterflies ? Whenever he said anything about his wife’s terrible cooking, the plate was removed and he went hungry. Guy was also becoming stroppy at this stage shouting louder than Julie or I were and in a fit of pique threw a kitchen roll at me which struck me squarely in the chest. Being Glaswegian I could not let this go and threw a large glass of iced water all over him. Guy picked up the jug of iced water and tried to throw it over me but missed and hit the cats who were looking for any morsels of my now long gone dinner. We then all collapsed into fits of laughter – problem solved !

Later that evening I came into the lounge to find the family sitting contentedly on the sofa watching the start of what I knew to be a very funny film. As I sat down to join them Julie said without a trace of irony – ‘there a football match on the other side – don’t you want to watch it downstairs’ ?

One just cannot win.

25 June 2008

Lunches – French Style

Everybody loves a lunch out. When I worked in London one of my greatest pleasures (apart from seeing my bonus statement) was to have lunch in one of the many fine establishments which were close to the office. Now I’m retired I still love to have lunch out but the sad thing is that now I have to pay for it. The days of the corporate (and virtually unlimited) expense account are long gone but the two hour ritual covering topics such as the forthcoming weekend’s TV sport, the latest bash on our cars and our wives’ most recent shopping splurges, still prevails.
And whilst I try to keep the magic of lunches alive by having no more than maybe three a month, my wife Julie would deem life to have ended if she did not have at least four a week, all lasting several hours and all with a different ‘lunch partner’. I honestly did not think she had that many friends – after all I seem to alienate most of them at parties by insisting that they witness my flaming willy trick or by betting them €2 that I can make their boobs move without touching them . You know the answer to this one – you grab them and then pay the €2 – it’s worth it – most of the time ! Anyway, the point is that whilst we Brits can quite easily have two or even three hour lunches and think nothing of it, we still regard the ‘lunch ritual’ of our Gallic hosts, who have lunch down to an art form, with a sense of wonder and bemusement.

So it is with a sense of fascination and envy that I watch my builders having lunch. They generally arrive at 7.30am each morning and stop whatever they are doing at precisely 12 midday for two whole hours….to have lunch. Concrete could be waiting to be poured, a delivery lorry might be waiting to be unloaded, but no matter what, everything stops for lunch.

The first thing they did when they arrived on site was to build a hut, then a stone barbeque and then make shelves for the hut where they could keep their olive oil, herbs and other cooking accoutrements. Then came the tables and chairs, the electrics for their radios and a pot for cleaning their utensils after lunch. The hangers for their clothes, the drawers to keep their cigarettes in and finally the gate across the hut door to prevent Shadow from sampling their food before they cooked it. After a week of this I wondered when exactly they would start to build the house ! For one awful moment I thought the hut WAS the house ! On the second day after they’d actually started building I found the young builder Philippe cutting parts of my Rosemary hedge so he could flavour his barbequed lamb. It’s no exaggeration to say that whilst building continued on and off for 5 years, we saw very little of Shadow as the food at the builder’s hut was significantly superior to that offered up at home.

So to say that the French love their long lunches more than life itself is an obvious statement to make – two hours – not a minute more nor a minute less. Why start at 7.30am and work through to 5.30pm and have two hours every day for lunch ? Why not grab a Boots or M&S (or if you’re tight a Benjy’s) sandwich and do with 15 minutes for lunch and knock off early ? I’m afraid it’s not in their psyche.

I would study them from my office window when I wasn’t out having dejeuner – they would finish their lunch after maybe 40 minutes and then just sit for another 80 minutes staring into the sky or just listening to weird sounding radio stations. Then suitably refreshed with a combination of French cuisine from their stone fire and French culture from their radio they would continue building – and a bloody good job they did too. Vive La France.

24 June 2008



10 Years Younger – More Like 50 !

After weeks of rain and generally unsettled weather, the sun is now shining with a vengeance. A slight haze masks the other side of the gorge whilst the smog hangs over the coastal resorts waiting menacingly to descend on those with breathing afflictions or simply those who smoke too many Marlboro Lights. From wrapping oneself in the winter duvet and wishing we hadn’t taken off the electric blanket when the clocks went forward (an annual ritual – it goes back on when the clocks go back) we’re now in a position where the patio doors are left open overnight and it’s almost too hot to swim in the pool. It’s too warm to do any work outside, much too hot to cuddle in bed and poor Shadow just mopes about seeking the ever-moving shade. Coco and Bijou (the cats) are too uncomfortable to move and therefore the screeching magpies are coming back only a day after the killing (see yesterday’s blog). Only a week ago us ex-pats were talking about the weather as if we were in Bridlington, Scunthorpe or Oldham. ‘Oh isn’t it cold and miserable. Did you see the rain yesterday – nearly filled my pool it did’ (although they probably don’t say that too often in Oldham !). It's now so hot that Angie next door is talking seriously about installing air-conditioning or at the very least ceiling fans and this is only our fourth day of hot weather. It’ll probably change back again soon and we’ll start talking in melancholy tones about the week of hot weather we had and wasn’t it wonderful.

One of the consequences of the hot weather starting (albeit about 4-5 weeks later this year) is Shadow’s annual haircut. There are three words which strike fear into Shadow’s heart – vet, swim and haircut. Now much as I love Shadow dearly he is a bit thick – for example he lets the cats have first go at any meat left over from dinner which is put in his bowl and then wonders what happened to it. He has a stupid look on his face as he wanders knee-deep in the newly laid contcrete and then wonders why his legs are stiff and he cannot scratch himself – he’s done this for years – you’d think he’d know by now ! Anyway – whenever you mention the words Vet, Swim or Haircut…..he visibly shakes, cowers and then tries to crawl away on his stomach as if you cannot see him, so he cannot be that thick – he understands English. This morning I’ve had to block off the exit from the terrace as without doubt he’d do his impression of a retreating snake, slithering down the stairs and off into the jungle which is our ‘garden’. There he would dig up one of his ancient, maggot-ridden bones and lie in the thistles looking lovingly at it before burying it again. He would be happy. His bone had been undiscovered by the nocturnal, marauding sangliers (wild boars) and he would have escaped his haircut. What joy ! What a (dog’s) life !

No such luck. At 12 miday off we went to the Pet’s Beauty Parlour where he struck up an immediate friendship with a shaved poodle. It must’ve been the human equivalent of a hairy-arsed, sweaty, obese builder getting off with Gwyneth Paltrow. Still – there are stranger things in life. We left him with that sad look in his brown and white eyes (no – they’re not multi-coloured – he has a white eye and a brown eye) with the hair stylist asking if he had any ‘sensitive parts’. I felt like saying – ‘yes – watch out when you shave his bollocks’ but without the requisite French I just said ‘Non’. Julie and I then went to lunch (Julie’s 4th this week and it’s only Tuesday !) whereupon no sooner had we sat down than the poodle parlour called. I envisaged a rampant Shadow with the hair stylist’s arm locked between his jaws as she tried to shave his ‘sensitive parts’ or the Gwyneth Paltrow lookalike being humped by a hairy-arsed, obese builder but all it was was a wrong number – the parlour were trying to call Gwyneth’s owner to get him/her picked up.

A liesurely lunch followed and we duly picked Shadow up after the agreed interval of two hours. Well – to say it was a complete makeover would be something of an understatement. He looked at least two stones (sorry 13 kilos) lighter, smelled gorgeous and could have passed for a puppy. Now Shadow is ten years old (about 70ish in human terms) but now he looked about two years old. And although it cost a staggering 70 euros including a small tip I thought that if they could do that with Shadow what could they do with Julie ? Unfortunately I thought this aloud and received the requisite slap – such is life – a dog’s life !

23 June 2008

The Dead Magpie and My Feelings of Inadequacy

Well last night was something of a triumph – apart from limiting myself to only a couple of glasses of cider and two cigarettes next door (probably because Tan was in Poland) the kids declared my roast dinner – ‘absolutely delicious’. This highly unusual compliment may, of course, have been due to the fact that Kitty wanted me to do some work in her bedroom for the forthcoming Hawaii Party on Thursday but it made me feel somewhat chuffed. I’m sure it was the slow roasted vine tomatoes and black olives which was the crowning touch.

This morning however, my feelings of well-being and parental adequacy were well and truly shattered.

You see ever since I read that Magpies (those large black and white, screeching birds) peck out the eyes of new born lambs I’ve been gunning for them – literally. Not just because of the eye-pecking business, they’ve eaten my goldfish, they steal Shadow’s food (Shadow is our dog), they chase and dive-bomb the cats and make a huge mess of the terrace as they sit on the iron railings, screeching at Shadow and…… crap. So……the high-powered air rifle is always loaded and ready to take these vermin out. Those immortal words, ‘c'mon punk make my day ’ come to mind as I open my window, take aim and ……miss ! I’ve probably missed a few hundred of the buggers. I don’t think I’ve ever come close – cause they just fly to the nearest tree and continue to screech – I’m sure they are laughing at me.

You can therefore imagine my surprise this morning when, on opening the kitchen door, there, placed perfectly on the doorstep was…….a dead magpie. And a few feet further back sat Coco (our cat) looking at me with a self-satisfied smug look on her cute face. I could tell what she was thinking…..’this pratt shoots away and never comes close and all I have to do is hide in the bushes and grab them’. Anyway – picking up the still-warm carcass I decided to throw it up on top of my neighbour’s trees (ostensibly so the cats couldn’t eat it and then puke all over the lounge carpet) but as usual, I missed and the dead bird ‘flew’ over the trees into her garden where I heard it land with a thump on her immacculate lawn. Almost immediately every magpie in the area descended on this tragic scene. The screeching was almost ear splitting as they all sat round their dead colleague and cried in unison. It was an unbelievable sight and then about 20 minutes later they all flew off leaving their dead friend to do what dead magpies do – rot !

For a few minutes I thought that if these birds are capable of such devotion and emotion should I be shooting them or trying to shoot them ? And then I saw the purple mess on the pool-side. More magpie crap – c’mon you feathered buggers – make my day’.

22 June 2008

Cyclists and Guns - Another French Sunday

Another fabulous day in paradise. I sit on the terrace having slept a whole 12 hours wondering what the football score was last night – yet more alcohol and cigarettes from Tan and Angie my neighbours, have conspired to remove all memories of Saturday night. I hope I behaved myself !

Some manual work is in order to clear up the mess the builders have left (and the mess in my head after a night at the neighbours') – and after only a few barrowloads of sand and gravel later, my arms are aching as if I’ve been hung like a side of Sainsbury’s 24 day old beef.

I consider a jaunt on my scooter (again to try and clear my head) but then remember that the main road is closed to allow those poncy, licra-sprayed, mobile traffic roadblocks (called French cyclists) to travel at break-neck speeds between two picturesque Provence villages causing untold havoc and several car accidents in their wake. The last time this happened, I inadvertently drove onto the road heading for the village completely unaware of the thousands of psychedelically coloured cyclists blocking 20 miles (sorry about 32 kilometres) of the most picturesque tarmac this side of the channel tunnel. No sooner had I driven onto the road, which was quiet only because I had managed to slip into a gap between two enormous groups of cyclists, than a policeman on a gleaming white BMW motor cycle roared up beside me and screamed at me to get off the road. Hoping he wouldn’t understand English I shouted back ‘where the **** do you want me to go. There’s a gorge on one side of the road and rocks on the other’. This reciprocal screaming proceeded only to make him even more aggressive and he pulled out his gun whilst driving single-handedly (a manoeuvre which I secretly admired) he waved at me to pull over. I thought about this momentarily and then came to the conclusion that a couple of dozen cyclists would be sweeping round the bend soon at 50 kilometeres per hour and the last thing our battered Honda CRV needed was even more dents in the rear, not to mention the blood and guts which would inevitably splatter the back windscreen and blood is such a difficult thing to remove once it dries ! So, ignoring the increasingly frantic, gun-waving, BMW powered, French law enforcement officer (a true oxymoron if ever there was one) I continued to drive. The fury in his eyes was a sight to behold (even through his visor) – he was obviously thinking that his job was on the line if a superior officer (or the mayor) spotted this cycle-race violation and I was bravely or stupidly thinking….'I hope the French twat shoots me and then there’ll be a huge diplomatic incident and the British Government will ban the importation of Foie Gras and Champagne' – some chance !

Well, as this happened a few years ago and I’m writing this, it is clear the incident passed off relatively peacefully. Although maybe the fact that the local plods came along relatively soon thereafter and closed down my house building project, was, in fact their retribution. But that’s another story.