Oh My God – She’s Killed Him….

After last Wednesday’s blog about the delightful Vanessa, she contacted me about another traumatic moment on one of our journeys to work which she encouraged me to share with you. How could I have forgotten it? 

Taking up the story…..a couple of years have passed since Vanessa has agreed to drive me into BT. The authorities have relented and have allowed me to drive again but as we got along so well (!!!!!!!) we decided to continue the arrangement, however by this time I was able to drive the short distance to Vanessa’s house saving her some time. I wanted a reduction in the agreed fee for this but ‘sod off’, I think, were the words she used. 

Also by this time I had been dumped by J a few years back which Vanessa thought strangely hilarious. I think the logic was along the lies of ‘men dump women, women don’t dump men’ but as I cried, even after all those years, she drove on through the daily grind of London traffic singing horrible songs to music played on that horrible radio station. I Fall Down by Chumumbamumba or something was a particular favourite of hers! 

And then one day, I got a call right out of the blue from J who was in France. She wanted to re-establish contact so I played it cool……. I got the next flight over. No I didn’t – that’s the sort of crap you get in romantic chick-lit. I said I would consider her offer of having contact carefully and so after a few weeks we started off by writing to each other and then after a few weeks more we started talking on the phone. It appeared she was in an unhappy marriage and wanted out but she didn’t see any signs of escape. I asked about cliffs, wells, cut brake cables, poison mushrooms, Hit Men and the like but she said she’d have to tough it out. 

Of course, I relayed all this to Vanessa each morning – anything to get away from listening to Capital Radio! Whilst quite sympathetic, she was concerned in case our emotions (J and mine) ran away with us and we did something stupid or even worse, sinister. 

A couple of days later I left to drive to Vanessa’s for the onward slog into London and as I left the house, I picked up my post. It was probably the usual junk mail from Saga, a letter of invitation to join my mates from the booze rehabilitation course at the local pub for a party, something from the residents association asking me to refrain from having too many loud parties and a letter from the local police asking me to ‘pop in for a chat’. Strangely, there was also a small package which was intriguing. I didn’t open any mail until after Vanessa and I had our morning row about lane changing, pensioners with caravans overtaking her on the inside lane, her choice of radio station etc etc. It was at Kensington when I, at last, managed to concentrate on the mail and, of course, the first item I opened was the small package which had a French stamp on it and which felt strangely soft to the touch. Was it a silk tie or some nice hankies ? Was it a pair of her unwashed silk knickers or even better a pair of her socks ? As I proceeded to undo the rather well wrapped gift, I became more and more excited and as the last layer came away, Vanessa looked over at that precise moment and there, staring us in the face was…………………………………a human liver! Vanessa screamed but she was always doing that so nothing untoward there but after I managed to wrestle the steering wheel away from her as she narrowly missed pedestrian after pedestrian, we stopped and looked in disbelief at the bloody, gory mess which was starting to make the car stink. We both thought the inevitable had happened. The worst possible outcome of this renewed acquaintance. Utterly aghast Vanessa suggested we go to the nearest police station but I said we shouldn’t be too hasty – after all there’s nothing better than a nice bit of liver and onions. 

During the day I managed to contact J to find out what she had done only to be informed that the package contained………………foie. Goose liver. A delicacy down in Nice. This was J’s way of showing her affection. I wondered what she’d have done if I’d upset her!   

A Velly Bad Splain.....

Ever since I challenged J to get back into her wedding dress there’s been a marked change in the household. She now walks to the village (4 miles) when she used to take the car to the post box (50 yards). We now are fed Weetabix, without sugar or milk for breakfast and we have muesli for dinner. I will not divulge what the Wii said when she stepped on it for a weight test but it was along the lines of, ‘one at a time please’. She nags me for having two saccharin in my mug of tea and the kids go to school looking like undernourished refugees. All the exercise she is doing is making me look like a retired, lazy executive, which I vainly profess to being. 

So it was with some degree of shardenfreude on my part that she returned from a walk the other day with a poorly ankle. Having set out to walk 100 yards to the nearest bar, her friend proceeded to take her up a near vertical climb to a place called Gourdon (see picture – you might have to zoom in to see it). Despite the fact that she was wearing flip-flops, she made it to the top but on the way back down, she fell over a wild herb which had grown across the path and she sprained her ankle. Luckily a French doctor was travelling in the opposite direction on another climb but by waving her bra in the air she managed to attract his attention. I wouldn't say that Julie has a big bust but easyJet pilots and astronauts on the space station also saw this distress signal so quite a rescue operation ensued. To his credit, the French doctor carried her down the mountain and then presented her with a bill (which is what they all do) and as usual insisted she take all her clothes off to examine her ankle. 

After an afternoon resting with a bottle of champagne beside the bed (yes – those of you who know her will recognise the post operative care she demands) she decided to call the local doctor to get a brace. I was told (not asked) to go to the doctors the next morning at 9am sharp to pick up a prescription for the said brace and to be on the safe side I got there at 8.50am. There was a rather tasty woman in the waiting room so the usual wait to be called was not too onerous. I kept thinking about how lucky the doctor was if she had ……no – let’s not go there. 

Anyway, at 9.25am I was called in. The doctor is Vietnamese and speaks a little English so he was a bit surprised when he called Mrs Evans’ name (she’s not decided how long she’ll stay with me so hasn’t changed her name yet) and I stood up. ‘Ah you Missur Evans ?’, he said. ‘Nope – I’m Mr Cupples’, I replied. He called out ‘Mrs Evans’ again and I explained that I was her carer and had come for the prescription. 

He ushered me into his little room (just big enough to swing a cat and no more) and immediately laid into me. I wont bother with the quotes but here goes… You Engrish – you come over here and sink you can jus oder us docors alound. You sink you can jus phone up and oder plescliptions like you do in Engrand and we jus hand em over. All you want is this bit of paper (pointing to his prescription pad)  so you get leimbursed. I don know what sot of injuly Mrs Evans has – I could give her wong thing and then you sue me. This not light – not collect plocedure.

I could see his English was struggling at this point so I started on him. 'Doctor Phlegm risten'. 

He said, 'my name is docor Pham'. I started again, Doctor Fang risten. I’m only the carer so don’t have a go at me. If you are not comfortable don’t do it. I’ll drag the poor rady in here so you can see fo youself. And another fing – I’m not Engrish so don’t go there. If you don’t wanna lite a plescliption don do it. And another fling – if you so much as ask her to take her crothes off I’ll come down here with my rawyer – ok ? 

He replied – ‘you extlacting the uline’. I smiled and reft….sorry….left. 

Later that morning J had to go back to his surgery where she had to take all her clothes off to have her ankle examined. She had, according to Dr Fang, a velly bad splain.He gave her a prescription for a brace. C’est la vie.       

See Me - Am Ah Beautiful ?

Caveat – there are some sweary words in this but are needed for context. No complaints please.

Every year I do a little trip to Glasgow to (a) see my three sons, (b) see my brother Robert, and (c) see Rangers play at Ibrox. It’s quite an exhausting, rather alcohol fuelled trip and I have to lie down for a week when I return home. I sometimes feel guilty that when I’m there I don’t see everybody I’d like to, including my 2 little granddaughters, old friends, my ex-wife (!!) etc etc but I do my best to see as many of them as possible. If I stayed any longer than four days I probably wouldn't make it back home. 

My brother will meet me, as he usually does and depending on the delays etc we may have time to get down to Ayrshire to see an old friend of mine who is just recovering from throat cancer and who has to eat everything through a tube. Bemoaning the fact that he hasn’t tasted fish and chips for over a year, my helpful suggestion was for him to get a blender and throw the lot in and reduce it to a liquid which he could then siphon through his tube. He wasn’t impressed. Anyway, his illness hasn’t stopped him drinking so we’ll pop down to his local for a few. My brother will abstain because he will be my chauffeur for the day. 

We’ll then head back to Glasgow and my brother’s house where we’ll have a few (drinks) before changing and setting off to meet my sons in the centre of Glasgow. TGIF’s is our favourite haunt because the waitresses are really fit (see picture) and they serve great cocktails. I will try to keep the bill below £300 and we’ll finish up by walking down to the cab rank about 11pm and hopefully I will not suffer the indignities of the last visit. 

There I was buying cigarettes when the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen approached me outside the shop and asked me for a light. Her slimy hair was plastered to her forehead and her eyes were on the sides of her head. She smelled of a mixture of urine and alcohol and her teeth had gaps in them that you could have driven a Glasgow bus through. She’d also had a few drinks so was swaying a bit  but that’s not my excuse for being unable to light her fag, it’s pretty difficult when you cant look them in the face, but I persevered. Once her fag was lit she pushed her face really close to mine, blew a cloud of smoke (and god knows what else) into my face and then the following conversation ensued….. 

She said… ‘See me, am ah beautiful’? What does one say ? I thought of the possibilities but decided that the positive approach was best so ah (sorry I) replied, ‘Of course you are beautiful darling’. ‘You’re a posh bastard aren’t yeh’ she said. Again I was stuck for a reply so kept quiet. ‘Am ah beautiful’ she repeated. ‘Of course you are – go and look in the window – you are beautiful’, I lied, hoping she would do so, so I could do a runner, but no luck. ‘Am ah really, really beautiful’? By this time I was hoping my brother would appear cause he would have just pushed her under a bus and we would have continued our journey home. ‘Am ah really, really beautiful’ she continued, starting to get on my wick by now. ‘Here have these cigarettes’ I said trying to distract her from her quest for beauty but she said it once more. ‘See me - am ah really, really beautiful’? Hoping it was for the last time I said, ‘listen – you are really, really beautiful. Why would I lie to you’. And then I got the response which made me run…….. ‘If am sooo beautiful why cant ah get a fuckin boyfriend then pal. Will you be mah boyfriend’? 

I definitely needed a drink after that. Just another night out in Glasgow!

Follow that car ..........

One of the great things which has happened since I started my blog (and don’t jump to any conclusions about Hollywood Directors) is that it has brought me into contact with old friends. You may have read that an old pal, Harry McIntosh, whom I have only seen two or three times in 25 years saw my blog and made contact which was great. Similarly, some of my ex-colleagues from BT and IBM have seen it and have made contact, the latest of whom was Vanessa whom I’ve not seen for a couple of years. Let me tell you about Vanessa – a wonderful girl, with a heart of gold and the patience of a saint! 

I vaguely knew Vanessa in BT. She was the girl to whom I would go if I needed to know how to get the phone, fax, photocopier, coffee machine to work. You see, I’d given up having a secretary after the last one had threatened to set her English rugby-playing brother on me after a night out (long story) and I had decided that another salesman would benefit us all more in the long run, so, as a result, Vanessa, who worked in another section entirely, became our girl Friday. 

Almost simultaneously, the authorities decided that I should have a year’s sabbatical from the rigours of the daily drive into central London and I therefore had to look for alternative modes of transport. The train service from Maidenhead was awful and even more awful, it terminated at Paddington. The local coach service was even worse, so after a week or so, I decided that another method of travelling was called for. 

I approached Vanessa, who, as usual cowered, wondering what obscure request I had for her that day, and I enquired if she really did live in Langley and would she be interested in driving into the office with me. As it turned out, Vanessa was as fed up with public transport as I was and as I had a parking slot directly outside the office, it sounded like a marriage made in heaven. The logistics and the contribution I would make were agreed (a bee Vanessa will have in her bonnet for years!) and the following morning a car pulled up at the designated meeting spot and off we went. 

The first part of the journey into London, along the M4 was quite straightforward although I objected strongly to the fact that she had Capital radio on. I suggested that as I was the paying passenger, Radio 4 would be better. We got to Chiswick and, as I’d been driving that route daily for the last 8 or so years and knew every nuance of the traffic system, I suggested she change lanes here, move out there, get into that lane over there, stop here, take that turning here etc etc etc. I must’ve been a rail pain but I looked upon it as education. Over the previous 8 years I reckoned that by judicious use of the various lanes and rat-runs you could save yourself about 20 minutes on a journey. Multiply the 40 minutes saved per day by the 240 days a year you work and you save ….wait for it…….wait………a whopping 7 days a year! Another weeks holiday!  Vanessa would no doubt say that she used those extra 7 days to come out to Maidenhead to pick me up but that’s another story. 

Anyway, we got to Kensington and were just about to turn onto the main road when a Post Office van swerved in front of us and a mail sack fell out of the back door. Although only about 7am I was still alert enough to dash out, grab the bag, throw it into the back of Vanessa’s car and scream, ‘Follow that car’.  Vanessa drove off after the rapidly disappearing red van like a pensioner doing their driving test but after a few encouraging expletives,  we eventually caught him and handed the sack back to a very relieved and thankful driver.  We got to the office without any further incident but later that morning when I went to ask Vanessa how you loaded staples into a stapler I was told she was down in the first aid area lying in a darkened room and trembling. That was the first morning's drive in – she only had 4 years to go!

Rip-Off Riviera

I’ve had one comment on my blog which says I must be brain dead (or bored senseless) to write my blog every day ….but I don’t (write it every day) and hopefully I’m not (brain dead). It’s a way of keeping me and my brain active and generally I do it when it’s absolutely bucketing down (like right now) and there’s nothing else to do, so some postings are more interesting than others but hopefully there are some little snippets in each of them which help people realise what life is like down here. Today’s posting is about the Rip-Off Riviera. 

I’m sure there are places all over the world where you get ripped-off but when you live in one which has made it an art form, it can become rather expensive....and frustrating. 

As soon as you arrive at Nice Cote D’Azure airport you see signs saying that it is the second biggest airport in France (in terms of passenger numbers) and probably because of that charges higher fees for a variety of services. Bollocks! That’s the first rip-off. Orly in Paris is the second busiest but in the best French rip-off tradition Nice says that all Paris airports are one big one (how logical is that ?) so Nice is second! 

Then you go outside and if you are a tourist you might get into a taxi. Big mistake! These guys are the biggest rip-off merchants going and will charge you a bras and a jambe (arm and leg) to get you to where you are going. The fact that they all drive Mercedes and can pay upwards of a £100,000 for their licences to rip-off the ‘poor’ travellers means that they must be raking it in. Passengers have found the meter conveniently switched off when they get to their destination so a negotiation is required which always ends to the taxi driver's benefit, or worse, the meter is switched on long before the unsuspecting holidaymakers get into the cab. 

Then you have the builders, electricians, plumbers and gardeners, who, upon hearing an English (ok Scottish) accent, suddenly see euros flashing past their eyes and double, or even treble what would be a reasonable quote. And how can one tell? It’s impossible when you first move down here to work out what a decent price is so it all takes time…..and money. You are introduced to tradesmen who, on the face of it are decent, nice guys but within weeks you want to strangle them, kneecap them and then disembowel them, not necessarily in that order. If they hadn't charged you so much money, you'd want to stuff it down their throats. 

Our first real experience of this was when J and I were introduced to, on the face of it, a really nice architect. He invited us to his house and his ex-wife’s house to witness his work and then we visited his practice where wine was served and bonhomie flowed over you like warm creme Anglais (custard). He drew up the plans for a new pool and a new house, which were perfect for what we wanted and presented us with an estimate. 

Never having built in France before we thought his estimate was ok (we’d had one other quote) and he set to work. Well, within a few months I was threatening to throw this guy into the hole he’d had dug and cover him with concrete which was a bad move cause he never returned, claiming his life was in danger and then he started to sue me. I thought he was probably onto a reasonable case as it was me who had arbitrarily cancelled his contract so I was a trifle worried. 

Anyway, as the dispute dragged on and I posted pictures of his crap work all round his village on lampposts, gates and restaurant walls, he discontinued his action and nothing was ever heard of the little shit again but out of the gloom and despair came light and hope in the form of Antonio, a 65 year old French Italian builder whom we met at a housewarming party. Antonio gave us a new quote which was half the previous charlatan’s (Michel Juillard was the name – don’t forget it) and he set to work. Five years later the work was completed, to a marvellous standard and to the original budget. We later found out that Antonio never advertises, he doesn’t need to. All his work is provided by word of mouth recommendations. 

So the moral of the story is – expect to be ripped-off down here but please ask for recommendations and more than that, if you see people like us holding a birthday party for their builder, you know he’s probably a good guy and not your typical French rip-off merchant.

I Live With A Spider

Just about now, i.e. towards the end of September, our weather changes. We still get warm days, sometimes even hot days but they are now interspersed with rainy days and some of them are even cold! Living on the side of a mountain, some 400 metres above sea level means that we have a micro-climate and often whilst we are suffering rain or mist, we can see the resorts of Nice, Antibes and Cannes in glorious sunshine. Of course, it also means that sometimes when they are having rain they can see Les Courmettes, which is the last vestiges of the Alps, in brilliant sunshine. The main climatic problem though is that all the hot, moist air from the Med just hits the top of the mountain, rises, cools and buckets down on us like it has done since Saturday night. Unfortunately, we left the windows of the cars open and now we have soaking wet carpets in them which will smell for months – c’est la vie! 

The main activity however at this time of year is the annual battle between myself and J over the various things in the house which keep us, sorry her, warm. I refuse to put the electric blanket on before the clocks go back which is a little tradition I have (the blanket comes off when the clocks go forward etc) and I have to try and hide the ultra-thick duvets which J would have on the bed if she could find them. The curtains start to get drawn at night and there are repeated requests to light a fire. Only a week ago she was sunbathing beside the pool and seven days later there are heartfelt pleas to light the fire. It’s not as if it has gone really cold, it’s the subliminal message that if it is raining it must be cold so let’s do it. 

The problem is that once I light the fire, there is a great temptation to light it every night even if it is not cold enough. True, it makes the lounge and hall look very welcoming but I remember last September when we lit it for the first time. Within about 20 minutes we were trying to put it out because the house was getting too warm, the spiders, who love heat, had come out of their little hidy holes and were basking their multiple legs in front of the fire and Shadow was rolling about toasting his tummy. It was just the rain outside which convinced us we were cold.  

The other thing is that I hate being the first house in the area to light the fire. I just feel that all the Frenchies point to the smoke coming out of our chimney and say to their wives, ‘Oh look at zeee Eeeenglish down there. They have leet their fire already. What softies (or whatever the equivalent French term is) they are’. 

And so the battle will go on for another few weeks yet with J surreptitiously switching on the central heating and me equally surreptitiously taking out the fuses although today I made the first concession by getting a summer duvet out of storage for the bed. I have however, also prepared the grate and ash tray for the day when I cannot stand any more nagging (sorry advice) and the fire will be lit much to the delight of J and her friends the poor, wee, cold spiders.

It's Been A Funny Old Weeek....

….and a very sociable one I’m afraid. Too many glasses of wine and too many cigarettes but I can see the end, to the great relief of my liver……and my throat! We’ve got Alison, a friend of Julie and mine staying with us at the moment and although she was supposed to be returning to Gatwick last Friday, Julie persuaded her to stay until next Tuesday which means that her and I will again be out on the terrace at 1am drinking, smoking and talking about old times. Her husband and my great mate, Alan would have been here as well and we’d have had a ball but he went into hospital a couple of years ago for a simple operation and never came out again. There were great suspicions that the surgeon had been negligent but the hospital closed ranks and that was that. A partner, a father and a mate just disappeared overnight. So, some of our late night chats have been quite nostalgic and sad although it’s hard not to laugh when we talk about Alan cause he was one of life’s comics, a real good guy.  

We’ve had a 40^th birthday party, a ladies lunch where I was the token male, a lunch in the village and we went to Italy to stock up on the old vino so it’s been a busy week. Then Harry McIntosh, whom I last saw about 18 years ago sent me a comment on my blog. We e-mailed each other and then Harry called. We had a great chat but I had some friends round so we had to cut it short but I will return his call later in the week and we’ll catch up on old times. 

However, there was one episode which caused me a real problem. It shouldn’t have really but it was uncanny and took me aback. You see I started writing a book of my life a few months ago, mainly for family and friends to see what life was like from my perspective. It’s not being written for publication, although I will actually publish it myself, but there was always the thought that maybe, just maybe, somebody somewhere might quite like it and do something with it. Anyway, I was telling my brother Robert about this piece of literary genius when he completely took the wind out of my sails. He said, ‘Ach – I’ve just read a book like that. It’s identical so there’s nae point in dayin it’. Within minutes I was on Amazon and ordered the book which is called, Night Song of the Last Tram, which I thought was a crap title but then remembered that trams were a key part of Glasgow life so reserved judgement until I’d read it. 

Well I read the book in less than two days and the storyline is virtually identical to mine – an autobiography of a young boy being brought up in a poor bit of Glasgow, an abusive, uncaring father and a mother dying when her son was only 14 years old. I feel like my brain and my thoughts have been totally plagerised but of course anyone writing about Glasgow in the 50’s would describe the same things in much the same way and crack many of the same gags…… so I forgive him. So just in case you come across this blog posting Mr Robert Douglas I thought your book was ok but mine will be better.