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That's it. The final day. I'm exhausted.
It's so tiring watching Jan pack boxes but I'll soldier on bravely. She is working so hard and doing such a good job that I'll postpone today's performance appraisal and the usual resultant corrective interview. All I've got left to do is tell her where to put all the boxes and how to pack the cars. That shouldn't take long!
We leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow, OK, 8.30 feels like the crack of dawn to me, to get the dogs to the vet for their final jabs and then wend our way to the first stop near Troyes.
Under normal circumstances we'd drive further but the restrictions imposed on pet movement into the UK means that we can't cross until 24 hours have passed after the dogs jabs and not more than 48 hours. What's all that about?
Stupid English rules are already getting to me and I haven't even got there yet. I guess there'll be lots to rant about in the coming months but I suspect that 'the rules' will be minor in comparison to the rubbish that French citizens have to put up with.
Anyway, to follow the story you will now need to click on this link.
Thanks for reading and see you again soon.
Having got up at the crack of dawn we're sitting here twiddling our thumbs waiting for the removal men and we start to get twitchy. We're not sure why.
Anyway, I decided to call their head office in England only to find that they won't actually arrive until tomorrow. Bum. That meant that we had to cancel a whole lot of stuff for Wednesday and reorganise.
Added to that Max has been very 'quiet' recently. We reckon that he knows that 'something's up', he's a fairly intuitive dog much more so that Min, and is worried about the move.
So he should be. The next move will be to Yarkshire but at least he will have ferrets to chase.
We made our last visit to the hairdresser yesterday. Alain, who cuts our hair, seemed to take extra care and gave us both a good cut.
Jan in particular is getting used to her mohican and has grown quite fond of it. I, on the other hand, favour what I can only describe as a flat top. A sort of French gangster look but without the body to go with it.
Between us we look a real pair of prats dandies and departed walking on air but not before lots of kisses and saying our fond farewells. I swear there was a tear or two in Jan's eye.
We have let this guy loose on our hair for over eight years now so it was a moment of hirsute sadness.
Note: Someone has complained and I have removed the two pictures that I originally posted in this post.
One thing we will definitely miss when we move back to England is the Saturday morning meet at Elie's bar in Sommieres.
Not only is it a very good market but we usually meet up with friends and chew the fat. Bryan and I had already decided that we were going to have a kebab so despite the fact that it was very cold and pissing down and most of the stalls had packed up and gone home a few of us hardy souls sat under the not so green outdoor heater and supped our vin chaud whilst sorting out the world's problems.
For once there was no problem getting a table because all the sensible people had decided to either give it a miss or go home early. In fact we were the only hardy souls sitting under the arches and, as a measure of thanks, Elie offered us all a drink on the house.
What he was actually saying was it's time to go folks and I want to pack your table and put it away so drink up and get lost. Still, who could resist the kind offer?
Wow, Jan has done a great job and the house (in Ripon) is nearly ready to move into. When we finally move from France, because we will have the two dogs with us, we have to be able to move right in and now we can. That's one more little hurdle jumped. The biggest problem is the size of the new house. It's much smaller than the monster that we're used to and that will take some adapting to. There's no getting away from the fact that you get a lot more home for your money in France.
The other little hurdle was getting the house connected to broadband. As opposed to France, where everything has to be done in writing, in triplicate, I ordered the service on-line and we were connected yesterday. I was kept informed all the way by email and everything worked to plan with no hiccups. The good folks of England need to stop complaining and realise how good things are here. Mind you, I suppose it was the complaining that got it this way. Interesting.
Competition also plays a huge part, something that I feel is sadly lacking in France. People pay way over the odds for all kinds of things in France, including food, but more about that later.
Writing about a chicken jalfrezi the other day gave me a yearning and last night I had the yearning fulfilled. But - back to the curry. There are three curry houses in Ripon which will all need checking out. The Balti House, 16 Kirkgate, Ripon, is a dry restaurant which means you can take your own booze, which we did. Instead of paying £15 for a bottle of wine we headed to Booths and bought a decent bottle for £4. Excellent.
The other nice surprise was the bill. We both stuffed ourselves for the grand sum of £25. Double excellent.
One thing that has become apparent, after several trips to Ripon, is the size and price of foodstuffs. Take for instance a baguette sized beef sandwich from Booths, the meat cut freshly from the joint and loads of it stuffed into the bread all for the princely sum of £2.95. It is so big, so full of meat that we have to share one. Triple excellent.
As I write I'm waiting for the plumber. Why do we always have to wait for a plumber? It has to be the best profession for those who want a blue collar job. There are never enough good ones around.
My daughter Cara once told me that she was thinking of a plumbing career specialising as a female only plumbing service. I have to say that I encouraged her but eventually she developed a successful, desk bound, career in a very large software house.
Anyway, one strange feature of the otherwise lovely house that we are currently living in is that one of the upstairs toilets has been plumbed with hot water.
I know a good plumber here and based on what I have seen him investigate so far, it isn't going to be easy to change it over but I know he'll come up with a solution.
With Jan in Ripon unpacking boxes and me on my ownsome in France looking after the dogs, you'd think I'd starve. Not so mes braves. I haven't actually yet cooked anything cos I'm not sure how to operate the cooker (all you've got to do is turn a knob you idiot - Ed) but what's wonderful is I eat what I want, when I want.
Last night for dinner, much to Jan's disgust on the phone, I had a piece of cheese and a fruit. I just wasn't hungry. Today however it was out for lunch with a friend, the first hot food since Tuesday. A low fat, low calorie, pot au feu, which was virtually tasteless. With a plate of boiled to death meat, veg and potatoes I'll lose a lot of weight. Excellent.
The bar at the market in Sommieres beckons tomorrow so I'll have a kebab (eat your heart out Peter H). That's my kind of hot food. Even more excellent.
I've said it before, but I do like Nîmes. I just love the old quarter, the Maison Carré which has been beautifully cleaned, the arène and the shops.
We popped in this morning to get some goodies at the indoor market which reminded us how good the market actually is. At one point Jan asked a butcher for some veal escalopes which he cut perfectly and then beat out nice and thin. A true artisan.
Jan had already mentioned that she fancied a coffee so as we were heading to the coffee bars in the Cupole I noticed a chocolatier advertising all things chocolate. Deroy is a posh looking chocolate shop/bar and as we had recently both had excellent hot chocolate at Segafreddo in the Geant shopping mall, a hot chocolate sounded good. We sat and ordered two chocolates and a pain au chocolat for Jan.
'Sorry sir, we don't have hot chocolate or pain au chocolat,' said the nice lady behind the counter.
Somewhat perplexed I told her not to worry we'd have two grande crèmes and cake instead. 'Certainly sir,' she said and a short while later brought us two expressos.
Even after all this time I still shake my head in wonderment at customer service in France.
I went to get my prescription renewed this morning and, because she gives me one that lasts for three months (there's a joke there somewhere), I realised that I wouldn't see my doctor again before we leave for England.
Dr N has been very good to me and I feel she has taken good care of me.
Our experiences of the health service in France are second to none.
Thank you Marianne.
We both commented on how quiet it was during our outing on Saturday. Throughout the thirty minute journey we probably saw six cars. It was eerily quiet.
The French, like most, take New Year's Day as a holiday and, from our brief perspective given that it was normally market day, they seem to take it more seriously than any other holiday.
The only thing moving was a wee brown dog that seemed to be trotting along with purpose.
Today, 16th December is the feast of St Alice.
Like you, I had no idea that there is/was a St Alice.
St Alex - I know there's one of them.
All this information and all of it free! You lucky people.
With a trip coming up later this week, we cleaned out the car this morning. I love a clean car and I love cleaning it, and I want Jan to share that feeling so we both got involved. The upside of this is that she might get to like it so much that I never have to clean it again. You can only live in hope.
Not only do I feel better, but I'm sure the car drives more quickly and more smoothly. ( I know someone you should talk to - Ed) Anyway, the weather isn't looking too bright for the journey at the moment and as it's hardly a life or death trip then we will attempt it and stop if it gets too hairy.
We were driving into Nimes this morning and on the outskirts we stopped at some lights. This is where there's usually a lot of begging or cleaning windscreens (same thing).
Anyway, standing by the side of the road, not begging, was the scruffiest tramp you have ever seen. He was wearing several layers of absolutely filthy clothes and had obviously not washed for a very long time. He was the king of tramps. He was a tramp's tramp. This tramp outshone any other tramp I have ever seen. I was sitting there worrying about him being cold and filthy when he did something that made me crease up with laughter. Standing there, he started to brush down the front of his clothes as if they had crumbs on them.
Bloody hell, crumbs were the least of his problems. It was oh so funny. I don't usually give money to vagrants but he deserved some money just for making me laugh so much, but before I could react the lights changed and we had to move. Next time my son, next time! Excellent.
It's Sunday, and I'm bored.
Whilst it's sunny outside there's a north wind blowing and it's very, very cold. So cold that your hands quickly start to become numb which makes outside work a tad difficult.
We're in a sort of limbo living here, there are jobs to do, and things are planned, but we intend to complete a lot of the jobs next year just before we travel to England for the last time, leaving the house in good shape for our very kind hosts.
I'm pretty much up-to-date with my admin and I've read all the news. Still, there's some football on television this afternoon so it's not that bleak.
If there's one thing I hate, more than anything, it's unnecessary rudeness and wasting my time. I had a big run in with my bank recently, because we are in the house of a friend and have no utility bill in our name, to get them to change our address. I eventually managed it with a signed affidavit from our previous mayor.
In anticipation of a similar problem with our local Prefecture, when trying to change the address on my carte grise (car log book - because the insurance company wouldn't issue a new certificate without it), I asked the mayor of the village we currently live in to do the same. He very kindly obliged.
Armed with all my bits of paper, I wasted money and a full morning, travelling to Nimes and back, in order to get the address changed.
The Prefecture is situated in an old part of town and it's difficult to park but I found a space. The next hurdle was going to be waiting in line but I couldn't believe how quickly I got served. That's where my jubilation and good luck ended.
The sour faced woman behind the desk threw the mayor's letter to one side and said 'that's not acceptable.' No explanation or help, just total disdain. No amount of discussion from me made the slightest difference.
On the way out, spitting blood and ready to seriously injure someone, I managed to calm myself sufficiently to ask someone what documentation would be acceptable. I was told that I needed a letter from the person who owns the house, a copy of his passport, proof that he owns the house and some form of confirmation that ties me to the address.
Despite spending a lot of time searching, there was no mention of this on the Prefecture website. What a bunch of wankers! All I wanted to do is change the bloody address for the car.
It appears that the individual in this country is not trusted by 'officialdom.' 'Officialdom' sets up such tight rules and regulations based on the assumption that everyone is trying to screw them. They trust no one. It would have been so much easier to not do anything and keep shtum. It just doesn't pay to be honest here. It's no wonder that the French like to revolt.
Rant over.
This was either a huge wind-up or it appears that the majority of people are slightly more intelligent than the very wealthy Eric Cantona who, it appears, did nothing at all.
As most of you probably know the Control Technique (MOT) for a car is done every two years here in France (yes, we're in FRANCE Jean). The centre that I use in Quissac normally writes to me and warns me that it's due, which is a good system and one on which I have relied over the years.
Well this year they didn't, and I didn't find out that I had a problem until I was having the Golf serviced and the mechanic pointed out that it had expired.
'It can't have,' I said.
'Oh yes it has,' he said. And he was right.
So I was getting the CT done yesterday in Quissac and I mentioned to the tester that they hadn't written to me as normal. 'Oh, we had a problem with the software,' he said.
More like you were trying to save money I said (to myself.)
Still, he passed the car so he's not all bad.
Whilst I was sitting there it dawned on me that I had no idea when the Jeep was due so I asked him to check. 'Oh that's expired as well,' he said.
So I'm back there again this afternoon. The moral of the story is, there is no such thing as efficient French bureaucracy, but then you already knew that didn't you? It's back to making notes in the diary!
In the normal course of events I'd have a whinge about the exceptionally cold, wet, windy and miserable Autumn we're having but taking a look around the rest of Europe, it looks like it might not be so bad here after all. Today it's 10C and sunny. Better be thankful for small mercies.
I can't speak highly enough of the medical system here in France. I took Jan to the 'Centre for Medical Imagery' this morning for a scan on some potential plumbing issues and whilst she's in there they establish that she's got a stone in her gall bladder.
I love the system where you go to an independent specialist unit for different things. We both go regularly for blood tests and from time to time for X-rays and ultrasound. You make your appointment at the specific establishment, there's little waiting and you get your results very, very quickly. In the case of X-rays you leave with the X-ray and a letter to your doctor describing the findings. So efficient.
Anyway, whilst she's doing this I popped into Lidl to establish what my current needs were. They're just starting to get their Xmas stuff in. Marrons glacé for 4.49, panforte at 2.29 and, something to keep my mum happy, taralli biscuits (below), something that I've never seen outside of Italy and which I know will keep me in her good books for at least 10 minutes.
For me they are completely tasteless and should definitely stay in Italy but I know that they remind her of her dim and distant youth so that's OK. Loads of brownie points for this one.
In the land of haute cuisine you'd think that I'd be shovelling some beautiful French delicacy into my fat face at every opportunity. Not so mes braves, because the thing that I crave each Saturday morning, beyond everything else, is a kebab from the land of kebabs or, more to the point, 'the kebab shop' in the Place du Marche in Sommieres.
What a sublime delicacy, salad, tomato, onions (very healthy - Ed) and lamb with two shots of both 'white sauce' and harissa. Just hot enough to make your mouth tingle and as you finish that last mouthful, wiping left over sauce from around your mouth, you have to say, 'shit, that was good, I can't wait until next week.' Or words to that effect.
I bet your mouth is watering.
