January 9th 2009
I think we are being accepted into the bosom of Bar sur Loup life. Hot on the heels of a lovely Christmas Eve afternoon spent at Adrian's and an impromptu invite to another village drinks party at new year, I have just been invited on a girls night in next week and a girls ski weekend. So for all my protestations about not needing any more friends, quite happy picking olives by myself blah blah blah, I am secretly pleased that a little social whirl is starting to form. Anyone who knows me would say that me not going out, or making social plans or organising little parties to celebrate, well nothing actually, must mean I'm either having a breakdown, broke or I've lost the will to live.
Went to a fashion party in Cannes last night. It sounds glamorous doesn't it, fashion party, Cannes, I mean, how could that not be fun? The reality was arriving 15 fashionable minutes late to find two screens showing archive footage of the catwalk collections to an empty hotel bar, being charged 10 euros for a miniscule flute of Champagne, which I drank by myself as there was no-one to mingle with and trying to look like I was a busy career woman in demand by emailing Iain, various pals and my friend's 13-year-old daughter so that I didn't look like Billy No Mates. I came home, took off my not-trying-too-hard-but-bloody-expensive Isabel Marant dress and ate a reheated chicken curry with my girls, before watching Celebrity Big Brother....(highlight - Ulrika and Verne's tune-free rendition of Diana and Lionel's duet Endless Love.)
Friday, January 9, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
on the town
January 5th 2009
As I'm now officially on a health kick - no more wine, slobbing about, finishing off the leftover chocs - and not going out again on a social for at least a month, thought you might like to share the highlights of my pre-Christmas bash in Soho with my best journo mates from way back in our Fleet Street days. We don't do it very often, you will see why when you read on...
* Rubbing shoulders (okay, breathing the same air) as Ralph Fiennes at Quo Vadis, who threw our table of giggly tabloid hacks a rather too long, lascivious look as he left,
* Two lecherous businessman mistaking us for a gang of high class escort girls and trying their hardest to get us to join their table
* Clare deciding you don't look a gift horse in the mouth and in her loudest most persuasive fashion, trying to get them to pay our £500 restaurant bill, or at least buy us a bottle of champagne. It wasn't for lack of trying but on this occasion her charm offensive, consisting of 'Oi Pete, get yer wallet out and we'll be over' and constant requests to the waiter to take it to their table instead of ours fell on deaf ears.* Having a loud row with the staff about paying the bill, whereupon said staff were accused of being patronising, aggressive and out of order for insisting that we do indeed, pay our bill in full
* Lurching off to Gerry's, that classy little Dean Street all night drinking club, and bumping into legendary pissed up Mirror man Don Mackay, who got us in and then proceeded to stick like glue and ruin any street cred for the rest of the night
* Clare waking her hubby Nick up in bed at 1.30am to put Don on so that Don could launch a drunken rant and verbally abuse Nick while we cackled with laughter in the background
* Keith Allen arriving and making a bee line for Clare's puppies that were amply displayed all evening and in hindsight, were the reason we attracted so much male attention
* Clare telling Keith Allen that he had sold out 'just like Bonnie Langford', which presumes that Bonnie Langford was once something more than a variety show and panto performer, and repeating that slanderous comment over and over to anyone within earshot, to Keith's horror
* Hanging out with Tony, the EastEnders paedo, Denise Welch, Spider from Corry and Kieron O'Brien from Survivors
* Clare telling my producer friend Jake that he looked just like Shane Richie
* Keith Allen dancing around to the bagpipes at 4am in Dean Street as Clare demanded 'so Kazza, where are we going next? We're not going home IT'S CHRISTMAS' before ringing Angela, so that she too could savour Keith dancing to bagpipes
* after forcing our cabbie to stop for fags at a garage, Clare trying to clamber into the wrong taxi parked in front of us, much to our driver's amusement.
As I'm now officially on a health kick - no more wine, slobbing about, finishing off the leftover chocs - and not going out again on a social for at least a month, thought you might like to share the highlights of my pre-Christmas bash in Soho with my best journo mates from way back in our Fleet Street days. We don't do it very often, you will see why when you read on...
* Rubbing shoulders (okay, breathing the same air) as Ralph Fiennes at Quo Vadis, who threw our table of giggly tabloid hacks a rather too long, lascivious look as he left,
* Two lecherous businessman mistaking us for a gang of high class escort girls and trying their hardest to get us to join their table
* Clare deciding you don't look a gift horse in the mouth and in her loudest most persuasive fashion, trying to get them to pay our £500 restaurant bill, or at least buy us a bottle of champagne. It wasn't for lack of trying but on this occasion her charm offensive, consisting of 'Oi Pete, get yer wallet out and we'll be over' and constant requests to the waiter to take it to their table instead of ours fell on deaf ears.* Having a loud row with the staff about paying the bill, whereupon said staff were accused of being patronising, aggressive and out of order for insisting that we do indeed, pay our bill in full
* Lurching off to Gerry's, that classy little Dean Street all night drinking club, and bumping into legendary pissed up Mirror man Don Mackay, who got us in and then proceeded to stick like glue and ruin any street cred for the rest of the night
* Clare waking her hubby Nick up in bed at 1.30am to put Don on so that Don could launch a drunken rant and verbally abuse Nick while we cackled with laughter in the background
* Keith Allen arriving and making a bee line for Clare's puppies that were amply displayed all evening and in hindsight, were the reason we attracted so much male attention
* Clare telling Keith Allen that he had sold out 'just like Bonnie Langford', which presumes that Bonnie Langford was once something more than a variety show and panto performer, and repeating that slanderous comment over and over to anyone within earshot, to Keith's horror
* Hanging out with Tony, the EastEnders paedo, Denise Welch, Spider from Corry and Kieron O'Brien from Survivors
* Clare telling my producer friend Jake that he looked just like Shane Richie
* Keith Allen dancing around to the bagpipes at 4am in Dean Street as Clare demanded 'so Kazza, where are we going next? We're not going home IT'S CHRISTMAS' before ringing Angela, so that she too could savour Keith dancing to bagpipes
* after forcing our cabbie to stop for fags at a garage, Clare trying to clamber into the wrong taxi parked in front of us, much to our driver's amusement.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Noel, a breakdown and a celebrity wedding
January 4th 2009
Happy new year campers. Well, where to start, it's been so long. Firstly, the house. Finally, finally the ground floor is finished, windows are in, floor is laid, kitchen is in and life is good. The final stages weren't without problems (breaking down in my friend Wayne's borrowed truck on the way back from the window shop and being stranded in the middle of the highway as cars sped past me was a lowlight. Luckily four burly gardeners helped push me out of danger while Wayne came down to rescue me as Iain was oblivious at Nice airport, sitting in the executive lounge eating peanuts waiting for his flight to the UK). There were more handle issues, as the funky red kitchen arrived with big silver handles rather than integral handles, do I sound obsessed by handles? A compromise was reached and we got 1000 euros back for the mistake, thank you Santa! At last we have light and a house that doesn't resemble a derelict shack.
Our first Christmas here has been lovely, if a bit rushed as we dashed to London to do a rellies present swap and catch up with everyone just as the kitchen fitter was finishing, then returned home a day and a half before Christmas to straighten everything out, unpack, buy a turkey, you know the score. We were invited to Christmas Eve drinks at a neighbours and stood in warm winter sunshine on their terrace, sipping mulled wine and chatting til early evening. By Christmas morning, after late night last minute wrapping of pressies and munching of Santa's mince pies (Issy is still a BIG believer, have not yet worked out whether this is because she thinks she won't get anything if she lets on she has wised up) I was cream crackered but at least we had the prospect of Christmas lunch at our friends Norma and Tony's half an hour away. Which was lovely.
I really love Christmas but so often it's ruined by bad behaviour (not just talking the kids here) feeling duty bound, guilty or just running around like a crazy thing for two or three days on end and then collapsing in a stupor once it's all over wondering why you bother. This year was chilled, with lots of champagne, laughter, charades and good friends. The guilt factor being that I wasn't with my extended family but I did see them a few days before. . .
Onto the celebrity wedding....Amanda Holden's to be exact, at Babington House near Bath. Guests included Mick Hucknall, F1 drivers David Coulthard and Jensen Button (too good looking for his own good), Piers Morgan ( my ex-boss at the Sun) and various actors from Coronation Street, Cutting It, Noddy Holder and little ole me! The bride looked fabulous and showed off her silver Ugg boots underneath the dress, as it was FREEZING, everyone danced and despite my plus one guest Sarah telling best man David Coulthard that his speech went on a bit and trying to change the music at the reception, it all went swimmingly. Interesting to be on othe other side for once as a guest and not a reporter.
New year is a time for retrospection as well as looking forward and these are my thoughts ....
* That I really miss my friends and family in the UK, guess that will never change
* That I don't miss the UK AT ALL, I couldn't wait to get on the plane back to Nice
* How lucky that we have already met so many people here, and while some will stay acquaintances, a few are already shaping up to be really good friends, the kind you can drink too much with, loosen your tongue and not worry about what you said the following day.
Well, I was supposed to be ironing and catching up on chores tonight as my lovely brother Justin and his family have just gone home after five days here with us. We partied with a houseful of friends to Barry M's Copacabana on New Year's Eve, the kids even danced with their parents (We think we're quite cool but they don't) then we skied our socks off and rounded it off in Monte Carlo today. The house is eerily quiet now they have left, saying goodbye is always the worst part as I never know when I'm next going to see them all.
Happy new year campers. Well, where to start, it's been so long. Firstly, the house. Finally, finally the ground floor is finished, windows are in, floor is laid, kitchen is in and life is good. The final stages weren't without problems (breaking down in my friend Wayne's borrowed truck on the way back from the window shop and being stranded in the middle of the highway as cars sped past me was a lowlight. Luckily four burly gardeners helped push me out of danger while Wayne came down to rescue me as Iain was oblivious at Nice airport, sitting in the executive lounge eating peanuts waiting for his flight to the UK). There were more handle issues, as the funky red kitchen arrived with big silver handles rather than integral handles, do I sound obsessed by handles? A compromise was reached and we got 1000 euros back for the mistake, thank you Santa! At last we have light and a house that doesn't resemble a derelict shack.
Our first Christmas here has been lovely, if a bit rushed as we dashed to London to do a rellies present swap and catch up with everyone just as the kitchen fitter was finishing, then returned home a day and a half before Christmas to straighten everything out, unpack, buy a turkey, you know the score. We were invited to Christmas Eve drinks at a neighbours and stood in warm winter sunshine on their terrace, sipping mulled wine and chatting til early evening. By Christmas morning, after late night last minute wrapping of pressies and munching of Santa's mince pies (Issy is still a BIG believer, have not yet worked out whether this is because she thinks she won't get anything if she lets on she has wised up) I was cream crackered but at least we had the prospect of Christmas lunch at our friends Norma and Tony's half an hour away. Which was lovely.
I really love Christmas but so often it's ruined by bad behaviour (not just talking the kids here) feeling duty bound, guilty or just running around like a crazy thing for two or three days on end and then collapsing in a stupor once it's all over wondering why you bother. This year was chilled, with lots of champagne, laughter, charades and good friends. The guilt factor being that I wasn't with my extended family but I did see them a few days before. . .
Onto the celebrity wedding....Amanda Holden's to be exact, at Babington House near Bath. Guests included Mick Hucknall, F1 drivers David Coulthard and Jensen Button (too good looking for his own good), Piers Morgan ( my ex-boss at the Sun) and various actors from Coronation Street, Cutting It, Noddy Holder and little ole me! The bride looked fabulous and showed off her silver Ugg boots underneath the dress, as it was FREEZING, everyone danced and despite my plus one guest Sarah telling best man David Coulthard that his speech went on a bit and trying to change the music at the reception, it all went swimmingly. Interesting to be on othe other side for once as a guest and not a reporter.
New year is a time for retrospection as well as looking forward and these are my thoughts ....
* That I really miss my friends and family in the UK, guess that will never change
* That I don't miss the UK AT ALL, I couldn't wait to get on the plane back to Nice
* How lucky that we have already met so many people here, and while some will stay acquaintances, a few are already shaping up to be really good friends, the kind you can drink too much with, loosen your tongue and not worry about what you said the following day.
Well, I was supposed to be ironing and catching up on chores tonight as my lovely brother Justin and his family have just gone home after five days here with us. We partied with a houseful of friends to Barry M's Copacabana on New Year's Eve, the kids even danced with their parents (We think we're quite cool but they don't) then we skied our socks off and rounded it off in Monte Carlo today. The house is eerily quiet now they have left, saying goodbye is always the worst part as I never know when I'm next going to see them all.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Windows
December 2nd 2008
There are things about living here that I really love....the mediterranean climate, the snowcapped mountains, the food, the relaxed way of life, the wine (obviously) but doing up a house in France? Forget it unless you fancy an early grave and a headful of grey hair. Today we went to pick up our new windows from a shop called La Peyre. If there were prizes for the shoddiest treatment of customers, rudeness and general 'couldn't give a *%$ attitude', La Peyre would win hands down.
Arriving back at the house with the windows and frames, we discover that one of the frames is missing, we have a box full of someone else's order and the handles that we asked to be flush with the unit are great big chunky clunky handles (sorry if this sounds petty but these things matter to me.) To add insult to injury, because our chief builder wasn't there to collect them and pay the balance, we lost the 400 euros discount that we got through him ordering them for us (even though his team were at our house waiting to fit them.) My initial instinct was to drive them back to the shop and demand our money back, but that means living in a dungeon with boarded up windows and no natural light for another two months. So we are biting the bullet, driving back there again, for the fourth time in a week tomorrow, to pick up the frame, and living with the aformentioned handles.
The builders broke a floor tile trying to fit them as they arrived with no instructions and Iain said he nearly burst into tears earlier with the stress. I am taking the path of least resistance and consoling myself with the fact that nobody died and I will never have to go through this again because I will be carried out of this house in a box. Hopefully not sooner but later.
My only consolation? I have found a fab hairdresser who still managed to make me laugh as he cut and coloured my hair while all hell was breaking loose downstairs.
There are things about living here that I really love....the mediterranean climate, the snowcapped mountains, the food, the relaxed way of life, the wine (obviously) but doing up a house in France? Forget it unless you fancy an early grave and a headful of grey hair. Today we went to pick up our new windows from a shop called La Peyre. If there were prizes for the shoddiest treatment of customers, rudeness and general 'couldn't give a *%$ attitude', La Peyre would win hands down.
Arriving back at the house with the windows and frames, we discover that one of the frames is missing, we have a box full of someone else's order and the handles that we asked to be flush with the unit are great big chunky clunky handles (sorry if this sounds petty but these things matter to me.) To add insult to injury, because our chief builder wasn't there to collect them and pay the balance, we lost the 400 euros discount that we got through him ordering them for us (even though his team were at our house waiting to fit them.) My initial instinct was to drive them back to the shop and demand our money back, but that means living in a dungeon with boarded up windows and no natural light for another two months. So we are biting the bullet, driving back there again, for the fourth time in a week tomorrow, to pick up the frame, and living with the aformentioned handles.
The builders broke a floor tile trying to fit them as they arrived with no instructions and Iain said he nearly burst into tears earlier with the stress. I am taking the path of least resistance and consoling myself with the fact that nobody died and I will never have to go through this again because I will be carried out of this house in a box. Hopefully not sooner but later.
My only consolation? I have found a fab hairdresser who still managed to make me laugh as he cut and coloured my hair while all hell was breaking loose downstairs.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Some pictures
Some of you have asked to see pictures....Tallulah and Oscar keeping still for once and below, Livvy and Issy the night we first saw Oscar....
This is our village, I know I'm biased but it really is one if the prettiest I have ever seen....
And finally, our house, it's a bit of a jungle in the garden but we love it!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
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.
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.
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.'
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