Eye, Eye

I’m off down to Cannes with J today to get her eyes lasered. You’d have thought she could have got it done in a back street in Middleton when she was visiting Manchester last month but nope, I mean she’s only gone and picked a guy who’s ‘surgery’ is nicely located between Bulgari, Hermes and Louis Vuitton on the Cannes promenade.

In Cannes, the traffic is terrible as usual, exacerbated today by dozens of council trucks blocking the roads as they put up Xmas lights. Bah humbug! Parking the car is even worse as I cannot move for Porsches, Ferraris and Jags all vying for space outside their favourite designer shops. It’s strange. Just like Cap 3000 all the shop owners seem to recognise J and are shouting greetings to her!

I dropped J off in the middle of the road hoping she’d be mown down by a large truck so that I’d be spared the humungous bill which I know is coming my way but she managed to dodge them nicely – nothing wrong with her eyes! I went off to find a parking space. After a couple of circuits of the Cannes backstreets, I finally found a place on the seafront not far from the convention centre which is so absolutely lucky I cannot believe it. You could tour the 5 miles of Cannes seafront for a whole year and never see a space and yet, here’s one just outside Monsieur Laserleseyes. 

Before we’d left home this morning, I’d said to J that if she was a brave soldier I’d take her for a nice lunch whilst her eyes stopped smoking and knowing that she’d make a beeline for the Martinez or the Carlton, I put on my faded Levis which did the trick. ‘I’m not going to the Martinez with you dressed like that’, she said. ‘Result’, I thought. I’m sure we’ll find a sandwich bar somewhere. Anyway, she’ll be blind, she wont know where she is. I’ll be able to tell her anything.

After parking the car, I wandered up to Mr Laserleseyes establishment which was one of those large doors you would encounter in Paris. A door with lots of buttons, each one representing a different business. This place would once have been a magnificent Cannes mansion (it’s called Villa Denise), holding fabulous dinner parties with famous people wandering around in smoking jackets and expensive dresses, sipping chilled champagne and looking out from the balconies to the islands just off Cannes. Now it’s a collection of businesses, all charging exorbitant fees to pay for the upkeep of the place and the enormous rates I’m sure they have to pay.

Eventually, after pressing buttons repeatedly until my index finger hurt, I was allowed in. I entered Mr Laserleseyes ‘surgery’ (it looked more like a doctor’s waiting room) and there was the smell of something surgical happening. That unmistakeable smell of anaesthetic or whatever they put on you to stop your eyeballs falling out. I approached the receptionist’s desk and instead of grabbing her by the hair and asking why I was left outside buzzing for 10 minutes, I was niceness itself and said simply that ‘my wife is here’. ‘Which one’, she said. ‘Madame Cupples’, I say. ‘Non’. ‘Ah, Mrs Evans’, I tried. ‘Non’. ‘Mrs Hellon’, I said. ‘Ow many wives do you ave’, she enquired. I gave her the look that only a bigamist could and she relented. ‘Oui. Mrs Hellon is ere’. I waited about 20 minutes whilst J had her eyeballs measured and then we were told to go away for 3 hours whilst they tried to find a laser strong enough. Apparently J has ultra-thick cornea. I could have told them she was ultra-thick and saved myself the €160 for the initial consultation and measuring.

Anyway, we went off down the coast to La Thoule for lunch which was quite delicious and very reasonable until I worked out the likely cost of the whole trip and then I was sick.

Back we went to Dr Laserleseyes or more accurately, I dropped J off and  went plant shopping. I picked her up an hour or so later. Her eyes were watery and red but once she’d put on her new pair of Specsavers sunglasses (ha - Dolce and Gabbana or nothing) she was able to see better and indeed drive me home. We only hit 3 central reservations, 2 old aged pensioners and a white van, so it was a good test of the success of the operation…….none of those count!

More on the eyes in a few days but my big worry is that now she can see she might not like me!         

 

Baby 'P'

I am a troubled person at the moment. I was troubled last week when the Baby P story emerged but after reading the News of the World report on Sunday, which detailed the abuse the little boy got, I think about the poor wee soul constantly. I would not advise ANYONE to read the NotW story as it will haunt you. How any person or group of people could do such a thing is beyond me? Various crimes I can understand and would never condone, but I cannot, for the life of me, understand the utter brutality, and brutality is nowhere near an adequate description, meted out to poor wee Peter.

The names and pictures of the three despicable bastards who carried out this atrocity are now widely available on the net (but to print them or show them would be an offence so they are not included here) but it is hoped that some psychopath in their respective prisons has the decency to make them suffer as wee Peter did, although unfortunately, as they are in prison, a slow torturous death is probably out of the question. I’m sure the wardens will turn a ‘blind eye’ when the time comes, but the thing is, the perpetrators are probably too dumb to understand what is about to happen to them and it’s difficult to think of retribution evil enough to even come close to justice.

A lot of people have been wondering why the conviction was for ‘causing or allowing the death of’ Baby P, instead of for murder. This goes back a few years to a case where some smart-arse defence lawyer spotted that although his three ‘clients’ could be proved to be at the murder scene of an individual, there was no proof which showed that any one of the individuals struck the fatal blow. The ‘scam’ was for each of the three individuals, not to deny being there, but for them to blame each other for the killing. As the charge for each individual was murder and nobody could prove who struck the fatal blow, the jury, on the instructions of the judge had to find each individual ‘not guilty’.  As they were not charged with anything other than murder and had been found not guilty, then they had to be released. And so we have this pathetic cop-out of a charge of ‘causing or allowing the death’ which, no doubt, will have sentencing guidelines and which will result in what the public will think are lenient periods of imprisonment. On this score I urge people not to be worried. Whether these scumbags are in jail for two years or twenty, they will not survive it. Indeed, there are already forums encouraging a fund be set up for the prisoner who metes out some sort of justice to them. Personally, I would pay to be able to participate. I might be squeamish about pain to my own body, but I’d happily do whatever was needed to make these evil bastards suffer, and suffer long and hard.

Similarly, the doctor who saw Baby P two days before he died and did not examine him with his broken back, broken ribs and mutilated fingers because he (Baby 'P') was ‘too cranky’, should immediately be struck off but Dr Sabah Al-Zayat will no doubt be taken on by some other, well-meaning health group and her life will continue.

The care workers who saw Baby P days before his death and who were ‘taken in’ by the chocolate spread over his wounds to disguise them should also be sacked and never employed in any sort of child or healthcare profession again.

The  police person responsible for arresting and holding Baby Peter’s grandmother for kidnapping him and only releasing her on the day of little Peter’s death, when all she was doing was trying to protect him, should be held up to public ridicule.

Baby Peter’s father who occasionally had the child for weekends must have seen the cuts and bruises and yet did not appear to do much about it. Think about it. You get your one and only child for a weekend and he’s got all sorts of injuries and you ‘just report it to the authorities’ and then hand him back.

I’m afraid the list of the culpable goes on and on and we have to hope that Ed Balls, the Government Child’s Minister, will receive a report which allows him to act decisively, although I fear in today’s over-protected society there will be some harsh words, some slaps on wrists, some well-meaning new guidelines, some recommendations for people to resign…..and you know what ? Nothing will happen……and in another 5 or 6 years it’ll happen all over again.

Now I’m not one for encouraging people to sign petitions, but if ever a government (and I don’t blame the current lot for this) needed some public show of outrage and a mandate to allow them to throw the book at Haringey (probably the most useless authority on the face of this earth – they’ve featured in my blog before) and certain individuals, then the Sun petition may just help. The link is below.

Finally, J, can you say a prayer for little Baby Peter at church on Sunday. 

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/template/v-1.0/module/petitionsPopUp.jsp?article=1922794

Yes M'Lud

It was Guy’s appearance in court on Monday. The Grasse Magistrate’s Court. Not what they actually call it in French but that’s what it was. He didn’t seem too concerned despite the fact that nether J nor I were accompanying him. I had told him to be respectful and to rise and sit when told to do so. And I had also told him not to mingle with any undesirable characters outside the courtroom. ‘Keep yourself to yourself’, I’d advised. After all, if anyone should know how to deal with ‘the law’ then I should. When Guy got off the bus that evening, he was as cheery as ever. ‘How did it go’, I enquired. ‘OK’ but we had to leave the courtroom when a sensitive case came on’.

You see he had been on an outing to the courts. One of many really good school initiatives they run throughout the year. Guy’s already been on a week’s exchange trip to stay with a ‘typical’ family in Ireland and several times during the school term they’ll take them on visits to let them see what life is like ‘on the other side’. He’s got a week’s placement with an IT firm in January and no doubt there will be many more vocational visits in the pipeline. But he was particularly excited about visiting the courts. I suppose he’s picked it up from having to watch Judge John Deed on TV for the last 5 years. I haven’t the heart to tell him it’s not because his mother is interested in the law but because she lusts after Martin Shaw!

Anyway, my advice to him about the courts reminded me of a particularly amusing episode which happened to me (well I thought so) quite a few years back. I had already been told I’d been successful in my application for a job with IBM in Glasgow and I was working out my notice with the Passenger Transport Executive. I was driving my little green van somewhere to the east of Glasgow when I went through a red light. Now this must have been before cameras were deployed so I must have been spotted by a police patrol car. Eventually I got a letter telling me they would fine me £5 (I told you it was a long time ago) or I could attend court and plead my case.

Because of advice I got and because I’d never been to court before (honest guv) I thought it would be quite interesting to attend in person. Problem was when I got my court date it was on the day I was starting with IBM. Here I was, starting the job of my dreams and the first thing I was doing was going to court, albeit only for a motoring offence. I phoned my manager and said I had some personal business and that I recognised it was my first day and that I’d appreciate the morning off. It wasn’t a problem. He said we’d meet for lunch after I got back to the office.

When the morning arrived, I set off for Partick Marine Court where my case was to be heard. As it was my first day at IBM and I’d been advised on the dress code, I was resplendent in a brand new, navy blue, pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt and subtly striped tie. Shiny shoes and a brand new burgundy briefcase completed the outfit. Not knowing where the court was, I got to Partick quite early. I soon spotted it. It was like the Alamo. It was situated right in the middle of a piece of waste ground, its windows barred and filthy with broken bottles and rubbish of all sorts strewn around it. I stood there thinking that here was a judicial building dealing with Glasgow’s lowlife and the surroundings were completely in sympathy with the reprobates who would climb its worn steps to be sentenced. Then I realised I was one of them! I was laughing at the irony of it all when I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re new here. This your first time?’ I turned to see a guy dressed quite similar to myself, complete with briefcase. ‘Yes’, I said. ‘Don’t worry. Come with me. I’ll show you the ropes’, he replied.

He took me up some stairs , through a small door, up some more stairs and eventually into a dingy little room at the end of a corridor which I’m sure smelled of stale urine.

Once he’d hung his coat up, he introduced himself as Nigel and asked if I’d be going there regularly. I said I hoped not. ‘If  you come here regularly, you’ll have to chip into the tea and coffee fund’, he said. ‘And the magistrates usually finish about 11.30 so we’ll all be able to go off and have a curry up on Dumbarton Road’, he continued.

As I wondered silently what he was talking about, a smart woman appeared. ‘This is Jenny’, he said. ‘Jenny, this is ….sorry what’s your name and what case are you representing’?. ‘I’m representing myself’, I replied. ‘I’m up before the beaks for….’.

I never got to finish my sentence. In an instant, Nigel’s face turned a sort of grey, ashen colour. He grabbed my briefcase, thrust it into my hand and pushed me towards the door.  ‘This is the lawyer’s room’, he said. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake. Don’t ever come up here again’.

Later that morning, after the guy in front of me was given a £5 fine for riding his moped down the crowded pavement in Clydebank High Street and scattering pedestrians everywhere, I felt confident. When my turn came, I explained that I’d been carrying very sensitive equipment in my van (untrue) and although I had slowed down at the lights and, my front tyres had crossed them, I’d actually stopped before my back wheels had crossed the lines (also untrue).

'£20 fine', the magistrate said. 'And make sure you pay before you leave'. I reckon good old Nigel had had a word with m'lud - don't you?

A Good Start To The Day

I got up reluctantly. It was my turn for the school run. It was 6.30am and I was suffering from a bad night’s sleep caused by my mind darting off in all directions and the new duvet cover, which I am still getting used to. Whoever would think of attaching small jewel-like things hanging off of tassels to the sides and the end of a duvet cover? Still, as J is a doing an interior design course, who am I to question her judgement. I just hope I don’t swallow any of these ‘jewels’ during the night! Maybe that’s why they are on tassels so that if I do swallow some J can simply pull them back out again! If she does it properly she might not even wake me up.

Nevertheless, it was my parental duty to drag my excruciatingly painful back out of bed and whilst I moped around waiting for the sprogs to climb the stairs arguing and bickering like two badly behaved terriers, I popped out onto the terrace to see what sort of day it was going to be.  It looked good (see picture). The sun was just lifting off the Med before it climbed into the sky,. There were a few clouds over the sea but over land it was cloudless – my spirits rose. It must’ve been 70 degrees yesterday so hopefully today would be the same.

The sprogs arrived in the kitchen asking the usual questions and making the usual demands. ‘What’s for breakfast’. ‘Make sure my egg is not runny’. ‘Do I have to wear a jacket?’. ‘Are YOU taking us to the bus?’, which was an incredibly stupid question because J never rises before noon and even then, not if the ambient temperature outside is less than 75 degrees. Nevertheless, it was light hearted banter and I was in a good mood.

Breakfast over (lightly fried pitta bread with a fried egg on top – their French friends would be appalled!), we climbed into the car and we set off on the short drive downhill to the bus stop. We passed the horses who have just had the most beautiful foal and then stopped at the road which climbs to the top of the mountain. Reluctantly, we turned downhill instead of taking the high road to Les Courmettes and drove slowly trying to let the rising sun catch us up and beat us to the next corner, but all too soon we were at the main road. I had decided this particular morning to actually cross the road in the car and sit at the bus stop so Guy and Kitty could benefit from the now warmed-up car. I looked both ways (as you do) and saw a car coming out of a branch road to my right. It stopped at the junction which is partly hidden by a house which occupies the apex of the corner so there was nothing I could do to wave them on or signal that I was happy to wait, which I was. There was also no point in me signalling as I was going straight across. So we both sat there.

After a few seconds the small white Citroen dashed into the main road, turned immediately left and came up beside me. Inside was this woman, probably about 30 ish and obviously French cause I could see her nicotine stained teeth and smell the garlic through two sets of windows, and she gave me the most withering look. Now normally I would have made some sort of gesture which would have would her up even more, but today I just looked at her, smiled and I hoped what was going through my mind would be communicated to her…which was. ‘Listen darling. I know my hair’s a mess but I’ll be able to go home and comb it. On the other hand you are soooo ugly and there’s not a lot you can do about it………’. She knew. She knew. She drove off showing more stained teeth and that was that. We waited for the bus which came along at precisely 7.30.

As I drove home, I passed the foal again which was nuzzling into its mother. The sun was now slightly higher and was warming my face through the windscreen. I looked forward to getting back into bed and watching Breakfast TV. The day was indeed going to be good.

As I rounded a particularly bad bend on the single-track road which is not far from the house, I slowed because all sorts of maniacs speed round it, totally blind.  Just as well, because the ugly woman with the white Citroen screamed round it. As she sped passed, I smiled again. She grimaced again.

It was going to be a good day for me. For her on the other hand, I couldn’t have cared less.    

It's Our Two Year Anniversary

Next week we’ll have been in our new house for 2 years. The time has literally flown by. It only seems like yesterday when we were moving in, 1 week before Tan And Angie moved into our old house. Indeed, thanks to Tan and Angie we moved in probably a couple of months before we were due to. The builders had taken their time in making sure everything was perfect before they handed it over but one day we had to tell them, finished or not, we had to move in, so for the first couple of months in the house, we lived upstairs whilst the builders finished downstairs.

Going back a few years, we’d actually started the process in November 2001 by hiring an architect, who on the face of it, would provide everything we wanted which was a Provencal style house on the outside with modern space and facilities inside. We also hired him to build a pool at our existing house which turned into a contractual and financial nightmare. We had no option but to continue with the pool, but when he doubled the price of the new house before a sod was dug, that was it. We fired him which started a 3 year legal dispute but luckily I had taken loads of pictures with all the things which he hadn’t finished and our lawyer reckoned we had a stone wall case against him if he sued us and eventually it all petered out.

Around about the same time, just as I was working out the best way to exterminate this little weasel of a man, we were invited to a ‘housewarming’ by people at the end of our lane who had just built a new house. We were impressed by the house and even more impressed by the fact that we met their builder that night, Antonio, the Italian stallion, who agreed to give us a quote for building our new place. His quote was half the old architect’s (or equivalent to his original quote) and we signed the papers and we were off. The bulldozer arrived towards the end of October 2003 (things don’t move fast in France !) and thereafter there was constant activity on the site for the next 3 years.

As we sit in our house now in front of the roaring log fire with wonderful views down to the sea, we often think about the trials and tribulations of a 3 year build, nothing to do with Antonio, I hasten to add, but with the authorities and the occasional lack of money.

One day in June 2005, just as the roof was about to go on, the local policeman arrived. He told me to get the builders off the site and then proceeded to take pictures of the house in its unfinished state. Just before he left he said J and I had to be in the mayor’s office the next day at 10am. We knew there had been some problems with the foundations and that the levels of the house had had to be altered, making the overall height of the house slightly outside the planning limits but this was ridiculous.

The next day we duly arrived in Mr Bertaina’s office to be read the riot act. It appeared that many of the ex-pats, particularly the English, were building houses which did not conform with the approved plans and we had been caught up in this ‘purge’. Building could not restart until new plans were submitted and approved. Panic stations all round!

I rang a friend of mine who built and restored villas in the area and he put us in touch with a new architect who, quite conveniently was good friends with the people in the planning department in the village. He drew up some new plans, reduced the height of the house and luckily for us, actually extended the internal space, almost doubling it. The new plans were approved and we recalled Antonio to restart work. Six months had passed but fortunately that delay had allowed me to top up my funds which had been dwindling - the Mayor had unknowingly done me a huge  favour by stopping the build. After that, progress was really quick and we moved in, in November 2006.

We are delighted with our home. There have been no major problems, indeed very few problems at all. 2 years on we haven’t had to recall Antonio to fix anything. Any problems have been cosmetic like doors moving on their hinges etc, which I have been able to fix. Now we sit here on chilly Provence evenings, looking at Antonio’s work which everybody comments on as being of the highest quality. We were very lucky indeed to be asked to, and to accept the invitation to our friend’s housewarming. Had we not gone that night who knows what would have happened?

If anybody wishes to see what a house construction looks like from the first trench, the pictures can be viewed at the following web address.

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/tom.cupples/NewHouse