Size Matters

It seems that the average new-build house in the UK contains only 78 square metres of living (or floor) space. To many people in the UK, the size in metres will not mean much. They may know the size of their lounge because they had to buy 20 square metres (or yards) of carpet but overall, they will associate more with the number of rooms rather than the total size of the living space. To put the UK into perspective, a typical new-build in France will have 113 sqm, whilst in Denmark, it is 137 sqm. I suspect in the US, it will be 200+ !

It’s not the lack of building space which is causing this downsizing (Luxembourg comes in at a stately 104 sqm) it’s more likely to be the cost of the build and whilst many tens of thousands of UK first-time buyers struggle to get a mortgage, the housebuilders are making houses ever smaller in order to feed the appetite for affordable homes.

Just out of interest I looked at a couple of UK housebuilder sites and all the information was around, 2, 3 or 4 bedrooms. No mention of the size of the house or even whether it had a separate kitchen or dining room. I looked at a 4 bedroom house in the North and the cost was likely to be around £2,000 per square metre. Some examples in the south, where land costs are obviously higher, came in at approximately £3,000 per sqm, whilst in France, the costs are even higher at an average of £3,500 per sqm, ranging from £2,700 to £4,000 per sqm depending on the size of the property.

The difference in the costs of housing in France is likely to be due to the way they actually construct houses. No stud walls – everything is concrete, and semi-detached, and therefore cheaper houses are a rarity. Land prices are quite high, and although house prices in my area are higher than normal, it’s interesting to see that undeveloped building land down here comes in at £1,000 per sq metre. On that size of plot you then are faced with building costs of another £1,000 per sqm and this just gives you a shell. Typical fitting out costs (not furniture) come in at another £300-£500 per sqm making a total of £2,300-£2,500. Add the developer’s profit and you get the final price. Taking the typical build size of 113sqm and the lowest cost of £2,700 per sqm (including profit) you end up paying some £305k for a typical house in France, some £70k-£140k higher than the typical new build in the UK.

This is why house ownership is not such a ‘big thing’ in France (55% compared to the UK where it is 67% with a European average of 63%). Rental is still a preferred option by many on the continent with the vast majority of Germans and Dutch eschewing buying in favour of renting. Certainly in France where much of the building land is in the hands of ‘old French families’, many properties are built by landowners and then rented and certainly in rural areas, land is generally handed down to children to allow them to build their first dwelling. And then of course you have the Napoleonic inheritance laws which dictate that irrespective of a dying parent’s wishes, any property or land goes to their heirs, without exception. So, kids who cannot afford their first house, tend to live at home longer than their European peers knowing that one day, even though their parents have an unhealthy obsession with the local dog’s home, the mutts won’t get any property or money. It’ll all go to little Jean-Jacques or Madeline.

Fantasy Football

The football season has started, albeit only the lower divisions in the England and Scotland but the real stuff starts this weekend and normally this would be the time when I would sign up to a Fantasy Football competition but this year I’m going to give it a miss.

For those unfamiliar with Fantasy Football, the normal type of competition is where you are given a budget and you can buy and transfer players, with each player in your team scoring points depending on which position they play. Forwards get points for goals and assists whilst defenders get points for keeping clean sheets etc. It’s all very simple but it is also very competitive.

The problem comes when you have a particular player in your team and that player is then, in real life, playing against your favourite team. You want him to score a couple of goals but you want your favourite team to win. A 5-4 victory for your team with your fantasy player scoring 4 goals would be the ideal scenario, but it never works out that way. Inevitably your ‘fantasy’ player scores a couple of goals and the match finishes. You are downcast at your favourite team losing but are still somewhat pleased that you managed to pick up a few points. It’s like the old betting trick. For example if my team, Rangers were playing Celtic (aaagh – I can hardly bear to type the word), the theory is that I should place a bet on Celtic to win as if Rangers eventually win the game you don’t worry about losing your bet. And if Celtic win, you might be downcast at the loss to your fiercest rivals but at least you’ve won a few bob!

But getting back to Fantasy Football, a few years ago I was in a competition run by some people in Scotland, only one of whom I knew. It was nip and tuck for most of the season with only a few points between the top two or three players but I was coming up fast on the rails. Some of my ‘fantasy’ players had really started to perform towards the end of the season and the points were totting up each week to the extent that the top two members (who get cash prizes) started to voice their concerns in e-mails which would wing their way around the members on the Monday morning after all the results were known.

So what did the leader do? The rat transferred in most of my players (each member can have the same players as another member) which meant that he couldn’t possibly be beaten. Well – I went berserk. This was not fair play and e-mails bounced around the internet for weeks afterwards. I tried to get him disbarred but there was nothing in the rules to stop what he did. He might have won the money but he lost his credibility – creep!

The competition which had run for several years and was a great source of internet banter did not take place the following season and all because of that creep. I hope he spent his £25 wisely!

Last year Tan invited me to join his football competition and after a slow start I managed to climb to 2^nd or 3^rd place which had the older members asking who this upstart was. But, as with my reasons in the ‘fantasy league’ I will not be re-joining this year. The awful situation of wanting a team you like to lose heavily simply because form says they’ll lose and that is your prediction just places a dampener on the whole weekend.

Last year I knew Newcastle would lose most of their games and I predicted (in the competition) that they would but the other part of me wanted them to win so they wouldn’t be relegated. And so on a Saturday night I was torn between shouting encouragement for the ‘Magpies’ but knowing that if they did win, I wouldn’t score any points. It was all too emotionally draining.

I’m having a rest this year. Sorry guys. And as this is a football post, I just had to print my favourite football picture of all time.

Old Rockers Never Die - They Just Grow Old And Drink Rosé

I awakened on Sunday severely hung over from Saturday’s dinner party at our place but the most worrying thing was not waking up with a thudding head and a throat as parched as the terraces outside and a promise to myself never to smoke another cigarette, but the nagging thought that we had something important to do that day. And then J screeched – ‘it’s Nick’s 50^th today’. Oh god – the very last thing I wanted to do was socialise – again! And so I hung around in my denim shorts and smelly t-shirt just waiting for J to agree that we needed to give our bodies a rest when she appeared in the lounge, all smart and smelling nice. I guessed we were going.

The fact that the cricket was coming to a conclusion, the US golf was on the telly as was the Charity Cup Final between Man Utd and Chelsea, it all had absolutely nothing to do with my lack of inertia or enthusiasm to move my butt, but rather than risk a very costly divorce I dragged myself into the shower and tried to make myself presentable.

Off we went. Nick and Wendy’s place is just across the valley about 10 minutes in the car and it was clear that we were very late. People had already sat down to a delicious looking lunch. I approached Nick and wished him a happy 50^th but he said it was his 49^th – Wendy had made a little joke on the invitation which I had missed completely! Thank goodness I hadn’t bought him a ‘Happy Birthday Now You’re 50’ card.

I didn’t know a single person which is quite unusual in the ‘redneck’ world of the ex-pats and I so introduced myself and then headed straight for the end of the table which had the bottles of Rosé. I ended up sitting beside a guy who clearly liked the sound of his own voice, so as soon as there was a vacant seat at the other end of the table, I made my excuses and moved. It was either the Rosé and complete mind-numbing boredom or sober sanity – I chose the latter which is quite unlike me.

After about 20 minuts on water, my resolve weakened and I had just raided Nick’s fridge for another bottle of Rosé when another, quite interesting couple appeared – even later than us. She was dressed like a 60’s hippy with flowery, calf-length trousers, a tight-fitting white blouse and a floppy hat (made me think of that Jeff Beck classic – ‘going down a bumpy hillside - in your hippy hat). She had a certain elegance about her and after introducing herself (unfortunately I didn’t hear her name) she went off for a swim and her partner sat down across from me. He had an interesting look about him and almost as soon as he sat down we started talking. Thereafter, there was about 2 hours of fascinating chat about the fact that ‘Danny’ had been born in Buenos Aires, had moved to LA, then Spain, London, Italy and finally France. He had been a singer and keyboards player with a heavy metal group called ‘UFO’ plus several others such as Tarzen and Heavy Metal Kids and regaled me with stories of ‘life on the road as a rock star’. We chatted about songs, song-writing and all the groups we knew – Humble Pie, Cream, The Moody Blues and Jethro Tull – he actually knew them – I’d only ever seen them! I even owned up to having seen Abba and the Carpenters live in Glasgow but that didn’t put him off! We agreed to keep in contact and if we do (people always say they’ll keep in touch at parties), I’ll probably have to grow my hair now and start smoking dope!

After I got home I looked ‘Danny’ up on the internet cause I’d never heard of UFO but apparently they were quite big. See him ‘perform’ below in the URL in Tarzen (Danny Peyronel - lead vocals). It wasn’t quite as difficult a lunch as I thought it was going to be. After a bad start it improved dramatically thanks to Danny.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8ZcyE0WW0c

Abigail’s Party

Any of you seen this 70’s play of a really cringeworthy dinner party? It’s so embarrassing that it’s difficult to watch – a bit like I found The Office with Ricky Gervais. Anyway, let me get it clear that I would not categorise J in the mould of Alison Steadman who played the overbearing, hoity-toity hostess of the dinner party – well maybe a little bit - and I certainly would not align myself with her perpetually nagged husband. Well – maybe a lot actually!

But back to Saturday night. I’ve had so many messages, texts, e-mails desperate to know how ‘feeding the Frenchies’ went that I thought I’d give a blow by blow account of the action and in order to do this I have to take myself back and float in the ether watching the whole thing unfold, including my numerous faux-pas.

It all started with me laying the table for 6 people until J ‘informed’ me that there would be 8 people present. Ok – I merely adjusted the table plan which meant using 2 sets of crap cutlery cause our canteen (why do they call it a canteen of cutlery?) only has place settings for 6. I never asked who the other two were – mine’s was not to reason why – JUST DO IT !

The terrace looked like a Gordon Ramsay restaurant with potted plants, candles and soft lighting but unfortunately I forgot to remove Shadow’s food and water bowls which somewhat spoiled the look, especially as the bluebottles and wasps were swarming over a piece of rancid meat. Never mind.

People arrived right on time just as I finished my second glass of wine and second cigarette (I need to get myself in the right frame of mind for these things) and it all started off swimmingly. There was Jacques and Madeline, a French couple who both worked for IBM and therefore have something in common with J and myself, plus another Frenchie, Jean (as in John). Then there was Helen who is a UK based writer and business consultant, the Reverend Anne and J and myself. Oh – and I nearly forgot the Floridian Miranda or Mirabelle or somebody – she said ‘call me Mimi’, so I did. It was easier to remember.

Now Helen is quite reserved (or do I mean polite?) as are Jacques, Madeline and Jean and come to think of it J which left me and Mimi (a perfectly formed size zero I would say) and the Reverend Anne to keep the fun going. But more of that later, first the nosh.

The starter was a red and yellow pepper tart and I have to say my lovely wife did a masterful job with it (there I’ve said something nice about her) although if I hadn’t rescued it from the cats the night before we might have been having salt and vinegar crisps and pickled onions. Anyway, the tart survived (no – not J !) and everybody said how nice it was.

The main course was a whole poached salmon which had been marinated in honey and ginger and apart from the bones (which only I seemed to get) was unanimously declared delicious although I have to say that I prefer my potato salad to have potatoes smaller than the chipping variety. Small is beautiful dear if you’re reading this.

Dessert was a new line in chocolate mousse – one you pour instead of spooning. Our guests were gracious in their support. Needless to say I declined the mousse and instead went for the Bird’s Blancmange although I’m not too keen on the banana flavoured one. I jest – J also made a creamy, wobbly thing with mixed berries. Very good darling although the lactose intolerant Mimi (I said lactose not laxative) wasn’t able to eat it and fed me her portion instead.

So that’s the food – ah no – there was cheese at some point in the evening but by the time the cheese came round I was intoxicated with the two beautiful women who sat on each side of me (not two on each side – one on each side making two in total). There was the Reverend Anne who, readers of my blog will know, I’ve invited several times to play a round, and in her response she reminds me of that Dick Emery character who says, ‘oh – you are awful’. Of course the French guests were appalled at my behavior (‘Vot – you vont to play around wiv Anne’) until I explained that it was golf I was talking about (which really confused the Frenchies) and from then on it all went downhill.

The rather expensive white wine I’d bought was declared ‘wonderful’ by one of the Frenchies until I opened the 3^rd bottle – it was corked. I opened the 4^th bottle – also corked. I couldn’t believe it. Normally one bottle out of 50 you buy is corked but two out of four – incroyable!

Then as I was talking intently to Mimi who was on my other side, my chair splintered, split and crashed to the ground with me on it. Cool as ever but covered in the mixed berries which I hadn’t quite put into my mouth as I disappeared from sight, I regained my composure and took another seat from the lounge and carried on as if nothing had happened. The guests were too polite to say anything but I did notice a few of them surreptitiously checking their chairs.

And that’s about all I can remember. I vaguely recall the guests leaving (except Helen who was staying over) but I do remember waking up with the most awful hangover in the morning thinking there was something important happening that day. Oh yes – we had a fiftieth birthday party! It never stops!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXd2DzXCZ1Q&feature=related

Yes ! She’s Retreated.

I mean, of course, J. She’s off (and please don’t laugh), to a monastery for three nights of solitude, soul seeking, meditation and whatever else a ‘retreat’ offers. Let me explain.

Just off the coast of Cannes lie the Îsles de Lérin, comprising two islands, the Île Sainte-Marguerite and the Île Saint-Honorat. Visitors flying into Nice airport may have noticed the two islands just before the plane lands. You cannot miss the crystal clear, bright blue-green shallow water between the two small bits of land which is usually filled with sleek yachts seeking an anchorage just off Cannes.

The Île Saint-Honorat has had a monastery since 410AD and it’s to there that J and her pal, Lynn, are going – some old relics visiting an old relic I hear you say! Being a ‘retreat’, for the most part each day is one of soul-searching and solitude but as J cannot stand being on her own, even in times of self-reflection and self-imposed silence, she’s taking her pal with her.

Of course, whilst they will be subject to the ‘silent order’ of the monks (it’s a working monastery), I’ll be luxuriating in my own ‘silent order’ at home – the kids are in Eire – it’ll be wonderful.

All sorts of jokes having been uttered by me since I found out that J (and Lynn) were going off to Saint-Honorat. ‘You’ll have to leave your dirty habits at the front door’. ‘The monks will be impressed by your knickers – they’ve got a saint’s name on them – St Michael’. ‘J will be at holy communion several times a day – it’s the only place she’ll get her daily intake of wine’. Ha ha !

And then, of course, there’ll be the discussion as J and Lynn appear at the front door of the monastery:

Thud, Thud – (the door has big knockers apparently - so Lynn should feel at home!)

Yes – who is calling at the Lord’s door?

It’s me and Lynn – we’re here to try and keep our mouths shut for 3 days and nights.

Ah you must be our retreat guests – a Mrs Hellon-Evans-Cupples and a Mrs Pattinson?

Yup – that’s us Father, now where’s our suite?

Actually, I’m the Abbot and I’m sorry but there are no suites in the Lord’s house. You have been allocated single cells in the basement beside the interior well and the septic tank. I’m afraid our retreat guests usually prefer the cells with stone beds, no interior light and a basic toilet facilty.

Oh – Thomas has told me about that – there must be a ‘retreat’ near Maidenhead Police station. He’s always going on about the stone bed, no light and metal toilet with no seat.

And of course Mrs Hellon-Evans, there’s no paper provided.

Oh – and I was hoping you could get me the Daily Mail delivered to my room each day.

No – I meant there’s no paper for the toilet. Oh never mind. Let me help you with your cases. I must say Mrs Hellon, you’re case is rather heavy.

Yeah – it’s all me make-up and stuff like that.

I just hope that there’s no chocolate or alcohol in here Mrs Hellon. The Lord does not like guests in his house partaking of pleasures. We’re all here to suffer under the Lord’s guidance. And may I remind you that dinner is communal and we expect our guests to be naked except for the habit we provide. No make-up. No hair or other bodily adornments.

You mean I’ll have to take my belly-button piercing out before I come down to dinner?

I’m afraid you will Mrs H.

And my toe ring?

That as well Mrs H.

About dinner Reverend? Can we pre-order and Lynn and I want to share the bill for the wine so can you make sure the wine waiter knows that.

I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension Mrs.H. Dinner is whatever our monks have gathered from the fields during the day. The Lord’s gracious offerings. And I’m afraid we only serve water from the well.

What you mean - there’ll be no Rag Puddins or Sausage Curry? Chips or mushy peas? And no Blossom Hill chardonnay?

I’m afraid not. We pride ourselves on self-sufficiency. We do everything for ourselves.

Ah yes – Thomas is always complaining about having to do that.

So getting back to the rules Mrs H – dinner is at 6pm and then lights out is at 7pm. We expect total silence between 7pm and breakfast which is at 5.30am. Breakfast will consist of an apple left outside your cell door.

Wot – no Full English with black pudding and hash browns?

No – I’m sorry. Just an apple. The only sustenance the Lord gave to Adam and Eve.

Would you just Adam and Eve it – ha ha - that’s a joke Abbot. So when’s the next boat then – the next boat into Cannes so Lynn and I can go and do a bit of karaoke?

I’m afraid there isn’t one Mrs H. You’re now here in our silent order for the next 6 months.

How come – I know there’s at least one boat a day back to Cannes.

I’m afraid somebody has fully booked every place on the boat for the next 6 months. I’m told he sounded like he had a Scottish accent!

http://www.travellinghistorian.com/ironmask.html