November 30th 2008
Last night we decided to have our first open fire. God knows it's cold enough, after six months of mediterranean temperatures we are all struggling with the sudden cold snap. You can see snow on the caps of the mountain range behind the village and the new underfloor heating can't be used yet so we are all swaddled in layers. We did everything right, had the chimney swept, uncorked the wine and Iain started building a fire while I finished off some work upstairs. Half an hour later, the sound of coughing was followed by billowing black smoke curling up the stairs. Iain had put on a tree trunk sized log, which failed to catch fire and proceeded to fill the entire house with acrid black smoke. This happened to us in our old house in Hertfordshire, when we had my brothers-in-law Gary and Phil for dinner. Despite the fact it was freezing, we had to open every window and door and spent the whole evening trying to warm up again. He says there isn't enough draw on the fire to take the smoke up the chimney (never mind that people have been lighting fires in this house for 40 years.) Apparently it is my fault for asking if the builders could block up the opening underneath the fireplace so that it looks more pleasing to the eye. It was only a question and if they'd said no Karen, that will fill your house with black smoke next time you light a fire, I would have happily gone with the flow. I would rather have a working fireplace than one that looks a bit more symmetrical but cannot be used, but no use, it was falling on deaf ears, it is still my fault for posing the question, according to Iain.
This is where divine retribution stepped in. 'You haven't helped by putting a tree trunk on the fire,' I said, to which he said 'RIGHT, I'll take it off and YOU can make the fire instead.' So he picks up the burning ember, which weighs about 7 kilos, with a pair of tongs and runs so fast out of the house that he stubs his big toe on a stone wall before tossing the flaming ember over the terrace, along with his reading glasses which also fly off his head into the undergrowth. Did I laugh? What do you think? I built a smaller fire which was warm and toasty all evening (although it did smoke a bit,) we all went to bed looking like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins and the toe is now three times its usual size and a deeply fashionable purple.
I wasn't even supposed to be here, I should have been on plane to London on Thursday evening to interview Claire Richards, who used to sing in Steps (that's a manufactured pop band a la The Spice Girls but less successful for those of you who are interested.) But she was caught up in the anti-government demo at Bangkok airport and still can't get home from her honeymoon as the airport has been closed for days due to the presence of 170,000 protesters. More upsetting was the fact that I had arranged to have my very long, very out of condition hair cut and coloured before meeting some friends for a night out. So instead of being pampered and supping cocktails with my London buddies, I've spent two days ridding the house of three months worth of builders dust and rubble and watching The X Factor and I'm a Celebrity. Aah, the glamour of the Cote d'Azur.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
November 24th 2008
Yesterday I competed in the 10k Grasse run with 1800 other like minded lunatics on what felt like the coldest day of the year so far. Today I can't bend my knees or negotiate stairs. The race started in the centre of Grasse and looped up to Magagnosc and back down again, so uphill for 5k (horrid) and downhill for the last 5 (expecting easier but still horrid).
Now I knew I wasn't going to win (the fastest time was under 30 minutes) but anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a teeny weeny bit competitive. I try and beat myself on training runs, comparing times with my previous run, working out kilometres run to the nearest centimetre, resetting the milometer and doing the entire route by car so I know exactly how far I have run (I used to work for The Sun so I always add on half a k for good measure) and if I run in 35 mins and 55 seconds, I'll always round that down to 35 mins. You get the picture.
So why, in amongst a crowd of almost 2,000 runners was I pushing myself to overtake every other runner I could see, knowing full well that at 42, just finishing the course without having a seizure was a major achievement?
My friend Lucy is a very good runner and we made the mistake of talking strategy in the car on the way there. Other people are asking, what time are you trying for, so I am thinking, everyone else is really fast here, I'd better run like the wind and damn the consequences.
The highlights were the bands playing jazz, bongo drums and Maroon 5 along the course and seeing Issy and Livvy on the balcony of their friend Lily's house cheering me on. Even if I came last they wouldn't care. And of course, the finish line.
Lucy came in at just under 50 minutes and my time was 51.59m, so a result, even if I was confined to the sofa for the next 8 hours with throbbing calves the size of melons. I suggested stopping off for a late lunch after the race to save me cooking, to which Issy said: 'In your running gear? I don't think so.'
Yesterday I competed in the 10k Grasse run with 1800 other like minded lunatics on what felt like the coldest day of the year so far. Today I can't bend my knees or negotiate stairs. The race started in the centre of Grasse and looped up to Magagnosc and back down again, so uphill for 5k (horrid) and downhill for the last 5 (expecting easier but still horrid).
Now I knew I wasn't going to win (the fastest time was under 30 minutes) but anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a teeny weeny bit competitive. I try and beat myself on training runs, comparing times with my previous run, working out kilometres run to the nearest centimetre, resetting the milometer and doing the entire route by car so I know exactly how far I have run (I used to work for The Sun so I always add on half a k for good measure) and if I run in 35 mins and 55 seconds, I'll always round that down to 35 mins. You get the picture.
So why, in amongst a crowd of almost 2,000 runners was I pushing myself to overtake every other runner I could see, knowing full well that at 42, just finishing the course without having a seizure was a major achievement?
My friend Lucy is a very good runner and we made the mistake of talking strategy in the car on the way there. Other people are asking, what time are you trying for, so I am thinking, everyone else is really fast here, I'd better run like the wind and damn the consequences.
The highlights were the bands playing jazz, bongo drums and Maroon 5 along the course and seeing Issy and Livvy on the balcony of their friend Lily's house cheering me on. Even if I came last they wouldn't care. And of course, the finish line.
Lucy came in at just under 50 minutes and my time was 51.59m, so a result, even if I was confined to the sofa for the next 8 hours with throbbing calves the size of melons. I suggested stopping off for a late lunch after the race to save me cooking, to which Issy said: 'In your running gear? I don't think so.'
Thursday, November 20, 2008
November 20th 2008
Was rudely awoken yesterday morning by blaring Barbra Streisand from across the balcony at the apartment as Issy and I sat outside eating breakfast. Then constant mobile phone ringing and loud chatting....people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, it will be stored as future ammunition should I need it. Sadly bad nighbours make you a bit petty don't they, usually I wouldn't even notice things like that.
My day got worse when at lunchtime we started getting ready to come home and I couldn't find my purse. I searched high and low turning the apartment upside down twice and clearing out the car, but no purse. Panicking now as all my cards, cash, receipts for work, in other words a large chunk of my life are in that purse. Issy was more concerned about missing out on an ice cream so I hunted down all the euro change I could find in the car so she didn't go without.
I should add at this point that the kids are immune to these kind of traumas as I have a habit of losing important stuff. I have driven off with my purse resting on the roof of the car four or five times now, and once destroyed two mobiles in three days, shutting the boot on the first one and then leaving its replacement, yes, you've guessed it, on the roof of my car!
Got home and spent an hour hunting everywhere, imagining huge bills being racked up by some opportunist purse finder. In desperation, I drove to the supermarket this morning, as that was the last place I remember seeing my purse when I paid for groceries two days ago. A longshot I thought,until the cashier smiled as I was mid way through my broken French, told me I had 'beaucoup de chance, meaning a lot of luck) and went to the safe to retrieve it. A very honest shopper had found it at the till and handed it in intact. I don't think I should be allowed out alone.
Was rudely awoken yesterday morning by blaring Barbra Streisand from across the balcony at the apartment as Issy and I sat outside eating breakfast. Then constant mobile phone ringing and loud chatting....people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, it will be stored as future ammunition should I need it. Sadly bad nighbours make you a bit petty don't they, usually I wouldn't even notice things like that.
My day got worse when at lunchtime we started getting ready to come home and I couldn't find my purse. I searched high and low turning the apartment upside down twice and clearing out the car, but no purse. Panicking now as all my cards, cash, receipts for work, in other words a large chunk of my life are in that purse. Issy was more concerned about missing out on an ice cream so I hunted down all the euro change I could find in the car so she didn't go without.
I should add at this point that the kids are immune to these kind of traumas as I have a habit of losing important stuff. I have driven off with my purse resting on the roof of the car four or five times now, and once destroyed two mobiles in three days, shutting the boot on the first one and then leaving its replacement, yes, you've guessed it, on the roof of my car!
Got home and spent an hour hunting everywhere, imagining huge bills being racked up by some opportunist purse finder. In desperation, I drove to the supermarket this morning, as that was the last place I remember seeing my purse when I paid for groceries two days ago. A longshot I thought,until the cashier smiled as I was mid way through my broken French, told me I had 'beaucoup de chance, meaning a lot of luck) and went to the safe to retrieve it. A very honest shopper had found it at the till and handed it in intact. I don't think I should be allowed out alone.
Monday, November 17, 2008
November 17th 2008
I was in the middle of an important email for work last week when Iain yelled Rosine is here. That’s my lovely Italian neighbour. She said, in heavily Italian accented French, I’m here to show you how to collect olives and with that she marched me off down the garden. I have the best intentions but if it was left to me, they’d shrivel up and die so thank God for Rosine. We have eight trees, one of which has the most amazing ripe black olives on it. She reminds me of the old villagers in that advert for Olivio. She is shorter than me (about five foot) and well into her 70s but wasted no time foraging through the branches and in an hour, between us we collected 8 kilos of olives. Then she set up a makeshift olive table to sort good from bad, weighed them with a set of amazingly archaic scales and finally we left them soaking in a basin of water. She told me ‘beaucoup du sel et un bonbonniere pour demain’ but I don’t even know what a bonbonniere is so I have to knock for her at 3pm so she can take me to the shop in Grasse to buy one. Then she is coming back to help me soak the olives in the right amount of salted water with a bouquet of laurel and rosemary from the garden. She has restored my faith in neighbourly relations, even if it did cost me a much needed magazine commission. She was waiting at her gate for me so she could show me where to buy the bonbonniere and I spent the next hour practising my French as she chattered away. It truly is the best way to learn. She gave me a jar of her own olives harvested from last year...delicious, hope mine are as good. Spent the weekend in Mandelieu, the weather was amazing, me and the girls were in bikinis on the beach, which is bizarre but fab for mid November. My lovely Dutch neighbour Rudolph told me that the Parisien problem may soon be over...she is searching for another apartment as she finds it too noisy. Hang out the flags. Lastly, I had my experiences of ex-pat life published in the Sunday Times yesterday. As a writer I’m used to seeing my name in print and it was a small piece but a huge buzz, as for the first time I’m writing about our personal experiences rather than someone elses.
Thanks for all your comments.
I was in the middle of an important email for work last week when Iain yelled Rosine is here. That’s my lovely Italian neighbour. She said, in heavily Italian accented French, I’m here to show you how to collect olives and with that she marched me off down the garden. I have the best intentions but if it was left to me, they’d shrivel up and die so thank God for Rosine. We have eight trees, one of which has the most amazing ripe black olives on it. She reminds me of the old villagers in that advert for Olivio. She is shorter than me (about five foot) and well into her 70s but wasted no time foraging through the branches and in an hour, between us we collected 8 kilos of olives. Then she set up a makeshift olive table to sort good from bad, weighed them with a set of amazingly archaic scales and finally we left them soaking in a basin of water. She told me ‘beaucoup du sel et un bonbonniere pour demain’ but I don’t even know what a bonbonniere is so I have to knock for her at 3pm so she can take me to the shop in Grasse to buy one. Then she is coming back to help me soak the olives in the right amount of salted water with a bouquet of laurel and rosemary from the garden. She has restored my faith in neighbourly relations, even if it did cost me a much needed magazine commission. She was waiting at her gate for me so she could show me where to buy the bonbonniere and I spent the next hour practising my French as she chattered away. It truly is the best way to learn. She gave me a jar of her own olives harvested from last year...delicious, hope mine are as good. Spent the weekend in Mandelieu, the weather was amazing, me and the girls were in bikinis on the beach, which is bizarre but fab for mid November. My lovely Dutch neighbour Rudolph told me that the Parisien problem may soon be over...she is searching for another apartment as she finds it too noisy. Hang out the flags. Lastly, I had my experiences of ex-pat life published in the Sunday Times yesterday. As a writer I’m used to seeing my name in print and it was a small piece but a huge buzz, as for the first time I’m writing about our personal experiences rather than someone elses.
Thanks for all your comments.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
November 13th 2008
Aren’t men funny creatures? Why can’t they just tell the truth? Case in point: last night Iain says he and Brian, our lovely bro-in-law who is staying at the moment to work on the house, are popping over to a friend’s empty apartment half an hour away by the coast to measure up for some work that needs doing. They’ve been working all day here and I thought, ahh how conscientious to be bothered to show up after such a long day. Suspicions were aroused when they both came downstairs reeking of aftershave, freshly showered and spruced up, Brian with his hair gelled, in a white linen shirt (you wear white at your peril here at the mo) jeans and loafers and Iain looking no less dressed up than if we were heading out for supper.
Me: What time will you be back?
Him: Dunno, later.
Me: Are you coming straight back or going for a drink after? (I didn’t mind, honest)
Him: Weeellllll, we are popping out for a pint to watch Mike (our plasterer) practise with his band.
Me: Hmmm where is he playing?
Him: Well he’s only practising in the downstairs room at Sullivans (a lively little open-all-hours pub in Mandelieu which specialises in Guinness)
Me: So if he is only practising, why does he need an audience?
Him: We are going along to give him moral support (which has to be the best excuse I’ve heard for going for a beer possibly ever.)
Ten minutes after they left, the girls and I are hunkered down on the sofa watching The Dog Whisperer when we all hear a loud scratching sound and high pitched squeaking coming from upstairs. My first thought is it’s a rat. One of the reasons we got rid of our walnut tree next to the house is because at night when you heard crunching and shone a torch up to watch the cute red squirrels having a midnight feast, what you actually saw was a big fat rat with a fleshy tail tucking in right above your head. Livvy said, I’ll go and have a look and the worst thing is, I let her! She was too scared to go upstairs and what kind of a parent am I to let her even if I do have a pathological fear of all things mouse-y and ratty. So I went up gingerly, throwing open doors one at a time like Cagney and Lacey and found Spike, our Abyssinian cat locked in Brian’s bedroom. Oh the relief.
Aren’t men funny creatures? Why can’t they just tell the truth? Case in point: last night Iain says he and Brian, our lovely bro-in-law who is staying at the moment to work on the house, are popping over to a friend’s empty apartment half an hour away by the coast to measure up for some work that needs doing. They’ve been working all day here and I thought, ahh how conscientious to be bothered to show up after such a long day. Suspicions were aroused when they both came downstairs reeking of aftershave, freshly showered and spruced up, Brian with his hair gelled, in a white linen shirt (you wear white at your peril here at the mo) jeans and loafers and Iain looking no less dressed up than if we were heading out for supper.
Me: What time will you be back?
Him: Dunno, later.
Me: Are you coming straight back or going for a drink after? (I didn’t mind, honest)
Him: Weeellllll, we are popping out for a pint to watch Mike (our plasterer) practise with his band.
Me: Hmmm where is he playing?
Him: Well he’s only practising in the downstairs room at Sullivans (a lively little open-all-hours pub in Mandelieu which specialises in Guinness)
Me: So if he is only practising, why does he need an audience?
Him: We are going along to give him moral support (which has to be the best excuse I’ve heard for going for a beer possibly ever.)
Ten minutes after they left, the girls and I are hunkered down on the sofa watching The Dog Whisperer when we all hear a loud scratching sound and high pitched squeaking coming from upstairs. My first thought is it’s a rat. One of the reasons we got rid of our walnut tree next to the house is because at night when you heard crunching and shone a torch up to watch the cute red squirrels having a midnight feast, what you actually saw was a big fat rat with a fleshy tail tucking in right above your head. Livvy said, I’ll go and have a look and the worst thing is, I let her! She was too scared to go upstairs and what kind of a parent am I to let her even if I do have a pathological fear of all things mouse-y and ratty. So I went up gingerly, throwing open doors one at a time like Cagney and Lacey and found Spike, our Abyssinian cat locked in Brian’s bedroom. Oh the relief.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
November 12th 2008
I have followers! To all your guys who are following and the ones who posted comments, thank you thank you thank you. I was moaning to my bro-in-law Gaz (or Saltydawg) the other night about how no-one is reading my blog and he said he'd poke me (is that the right term) on his blog and here you all are. Think one of the problems is that haven't actually told anyone I'm doing this, always going to be a problem if you want people to read it!
Anyway, Dougnut-ella comes from Donatella because my awful neighbour in Mandelieu is a poor man's version of Ms Versace, but with bad surgery and long bleached blonde hair which would look great if she was 25 but not so good on a woman knocking on the door of 60. Spent the weekend there and she was nowhere to be seen but I'm sure I haven't heard the last of her yet.
One of my journo friends in the UK emailed me to say how she is really into dressing up and wearing make up at the moment. Since I arrived here five months ago, I've probably worn high heels twice (given that I have a collection to rival Imelda Marcos, that's not good value for money) and have given up on the little make up I used to wear altogether. The heels don't work on a drive that resembles a black run, and living in a rural village in the hills of France, you look dressed up in jeans and a T shirt. It's quite liberating but I sometimes miss going off to an interview dolled up in my latest purchases.
Took the girls to the Armistice Day Parade in the village yesterday. It was very humbling, old men and women from the village wearing their medals, barely able to shuffle aong but standing proud of their contribution to the freedom we all take for granted. All the children carried red white and blue balloons to the cemetery, which sits on a cliff edge overlooking the valley. A saxophonist played, everyone sang the French national anthem The Marseillaise and then the Mayor read out the names of all those who died in the First and Second World Wars. He must have read out 30 names, just from our tiny village. The balloons were released, carrying messages of peace from the children and I'm not ashamed to admit I had a huge lump in my throat.
This afternoon, we are picking olives in the garden. We have eight trees and my Italian neighbour Rosine (who is the pole opposite of the other heathen) has told me they are ready and not to leave it too late. Apparently I need a net to catch them all when we shake the trees and a bonbonniere to soak them in water and salt before they can be eaten. There is a local mill where you can swap your olives for the equivalent amount of locally produced olive oil, which sounds like a great idea as we will never get through them all ourselves.
I have followers! To all your guys who are following and the ones who posted comments, thank you thank you thank you. I was moaning to my bro-in-law Gaz (or Saltydawg) the other night about how no-one is reading my blog and he said he'd poke me (is that the right term) on his blog and here you all are. Think one of the problems is that haven't actually told anyone I'm doing this, always going to be a problem if you want people to read it!
Anyway, Dougnut-ella comes from Donatella because my awful neighbour in Mandelieu is a poor man's version of Ms Versace, but with bad surgery and long bleached blonde hair which would look great if she was 25 but not so good on a woman knocking on the door of 60. Spent the weekend there and she was nowhere to be seen but I'm sure I haven't heard the last of her yet.
One of my journo friends in the UK emailed me to say how she is really into dressing up and wearing make up at the moment. Since I arrived here five months ago, I've probably worn high heels twice (given that I have a collection to rival Imelda Marcos, that's not good value for money) and have given up on the little make up I used to wear altogether. The heels don't work on a drive that resembles a black run, and living in a rural village in the hills of France, you look dressed up in jeans and a T shirt. It's quite liberating but I sometimes miss going off to an interview dolled up in my latest purchases.
Took the girls to the Armistice Day Parade in the village yesterday. It was very humbling, old men and women from the village wearing their medals, barely able to shuffle aong but standing proud of their contribution to the freedom we all take for granted. All the children carried red white and blue balloons to the cemetery, which sits on a cliff edge overlooking the valley. A saxophonist played, everyone sang the French national anthem The Marseillaise and then the Mayor read out the names of all those who died in the First and Second World Wars. He must have read out 30 names, just from our tiny village. The balloons were released, carrying messages of peace from the children and I'm not ashamed to admit I had a huge lump in my throat.
This afternoon, we are picking olives in the garden. We have eight trees and my Italian neighbour Rosine (who is the pole opposite of the other heathen) has told me they are ready and not to leave it too late. Apparently I need a net to catch them all when we shake the trees and a bonbonniere to soak them in water and salt before they can be eaten. There is a local mill where you can swap your olives for the equivalent amount of locally produced olive oil, which sounds like a great idea as we will never get through them all ourselves.
Monday, November 10, 2008
November 10th 2008
Doughnut-ella next door came rushing out of the apartment and spent ten minutes screaming at me on the landing about what a bad neighbour I am, how noisy we are and rude etc etc etc. Standing next to me waving finger in my face...telling me she is going to call the police about me!She is mental, I told her so, also told her everybody in the block hates her, (well I know of at least three people who do) that I won't ever speak to her again until she can talk in a rational manner and finished off with DROP DEAD as I slammed the door in her face! The girls were doubled up with laughter behind the front door and I didn;t know whether to laugh or cry.
As we left she was on her balcony shouting into her mobile at the Garde de poste! Instead of stock cubes next time I'm asking Sarah to bring me a large bottle of ketamine!
Tomorrow is Armistice Day and it is a bank holiday in France. What a great idea, if there ever was a good reason for a bank holiday, this is it. In the village, they have a church service followed by a procession to the graveyard where all the local children release balloons in memory of the dead. Issy is keen to do it so we are going to go along, and as we haven't found anywhere to buy poppies here, it's one way of marking the day. It has made her ask questions about the past that she would never have done normally.
Doughnut-ella next door came rushing out of the apartment and spent ten minutes screaming at me on the landing about what a bad neighbour I am, how noisy we are and rude etc etc etc. Standing next to me waving finger in my face...telling me she is going to call the police about me!She is mental, I told her so, also told her everybody in the block hates her, (well I know of at least three people who do) that I won't ever speak to her again until she can talk in a rational manner and finished off with DROP DEAD as I slammed the door in her face! The girls were doubled up with laughter behind the front door and I didn;t know whether to laugh or cry.
As we left she was on her balcony shouting into her mobile at the Garde de poste! Instead of stock cubes next time I'm asking Sarah to bring me a large bottle of ketamine!
Tomorrow is Armistice Day and it is a bank holiday in France. What a great idea, if there ever was a good reason for a bank holiday, this is it. In the village, they have a church service followed by a procession to the graveyard where all the local children release balloons in memory of the dead. Issy is keen to do it so we are going to go along, and as we haven't found anywhere to buy poppies here, it's one way of marking the day. It has made her ask questions about the past that she would never have done normally.
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