It's the holidays, cue a time when you get nothing productive done and have whining voices in your ear saying I'm hungry, what are we doing today and when can we stop for lunch so this week my plan of action was take them out as much as possible and make them so tired they can barely speak, all in the name of fun.
So, we tripped off to St Tropez on Tuesday to stay with a friend who is house sitting in a villa overlooking the bay for six weeks. We chatted by the pool, drank un petit Chablis and put the world to rights while the kids played, all good. It is so hot at the moment, at 6.30 last night it was showing 34 degrees on the car, which is too, too much (but I know how rubbish the UK summer is right now so not moaning, really.)
Arrived back last night and spent this morning in Antibes at the market with a friend who knows it so well that I ended up spending a fortune at all the rigt stalls (but a Triumph bikini, sundress, silk shift and red leather handbag made it feel better and all for the price of a half price Tara Jarmon silk skirt in Rue d'Antibes) before heading to the beach. The boys suggested tombstoning off the rocks at Cap d'Antibes, a phrase which conjures up the local A&E to me, but the girls were keen so off they went, leaving us to swim and chat on the beach in perfect peace.
When we got a text at 7 asking if we could come and meet them, they couldn't wait to tell us how they bunked into the pool at the Eden Roc, only the most expensive hotel on the Riviera (preferred choice of Brad, Angelina, Quentin etc) and how they spent 45 minutes in the infinity pool undetected. Scarily, they had the whole trespassing thing off to a fine art. Every time they swam past a resident, one of them would say, my suite is lovely, how is yours? They talked about the chocolates left on the pillows each night and even worked out which room numbers they would use if quizzed by the lifeguard! Issy spent an hour tonight facebooking all her friends with the hotel link so they can check it out - most of them live in Brookmans Park in currently very rainy Herts so am sure they will be thrilled to get her message.
The day got even better when I saw that my first feature, on our lovely mate Mat Barker and his boat The Blue Peter, was the cover story of The French Paper's Life section, and then arrived home to open my mail - a cheque from the DSS for overpayment of my NI in the UK for the past 11 years, two copies of Grazia (thanks Jeanie), and a letter from my accountant saying that the taxman owes me. Don't feel so bad about the market now.
The only downside of the past two weeks has been getting stung by a jellyfish. As I swam I felt something attack my thigh, no kidding I thought it was a shark the pain was so intense. By the time I got back to the beach, my leg was throbbing and the next day, it had swelled to twice its usual size, was bright red, itchy and about 100 degrees. Ten days on, I have a massive scar and it is still itching like the pox. I braved the sea today but must have looked like a paranoid schizo as every time something glistened or moved by me I was a bag of nerves. Have noticed people really staring at it if I wear shorts or a bikini, it is quite interesting how differently you are perceived with such an obvious physical imperfection.
Anyway, tennis tomorrow, am planning to hold my head high after the aquasplash swimsuit debacle, I have no shame. Perhaps I should just slash my tennis skirt across the butt to prove that I do indeed have a sense of humour.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
A cheeky day out
Over the years, I have found myself in some truly embarrassing situations. Being offered a genital massage in a posh Cape Town spa was pretty memorable (if only for the fact that the South African therapist actually said gentle!) That story still haunts me on nights out with my old Fleet Street buddies. Then there was the time I vomited in my hand in the back of a black cab before politely asking the driver to stop so I could chuck it in the kerb and continue the journey home....there are too many more humiliations to mention but last week's expedition to Aquasplash in Antibes comes pretty close to topping them all.
The girls were enrolled at tennis stage for the week and the highlight was a trip to Aquasplash. They begged me to come and join them and also begged me not to wear a bikini that might a. give me a wedgie on the slides or worse b. come off completely on a slide. Add to this the fact that the tennis coaches were taking the kids along (we are talking tanned, fit, uber good-looking 20-something trainers, say no more) so cue much trying on the night before to find suitable swimwear that wasn't too mutton and would save my blushes on the slides.
I settled for a black one piece and headed off for an afternoon of fun. Managed to say hello to aforementioned coaches while my hair was still intact, which was a good start I felt. I can't remember if it was slide one or two but I felt a sharp pain in my butt as I came down where something sharp dug me. I shrugged it off and carried on doing the rounds in the wave pool and water chutes. We decided to stay a bit later than planned but went over to say goodbye when everyone else was leaving. Suddenly Livvy, who was standing behind me, nudged me hard and whispered: 'Mum, you've got a hole in your costume and it's right on your BUM!' Yeah, right, stop winding me up. Issy stepped back and gasped: 'Mum don't turn round or everyone will see!' This is presuming no-one had spotted it already as it probably happened within minutes of arriving.
I stood there rooted to the spot, rigid with embarrassment, saying goodbye to all the hotties and the kids, then chucked my towel on the only spare sun lounger and leapt onto it without turning around, quite a feat of gymnastic excellence.
It was 32 degrees, so hot you could have fried an egg on my chest, but I couldn't go back in the water as the hole was actually a gaping great crevice right on the crack of my arse! The shame! I lay there thinking, please God let no-one have noticed, just as Stefan, the girl's very hunky coach, came back with a little boy who had lost one shoe. He was hunting around me looking for the other shoe and very probably wondering why I didn't get up to help like any normal parent would. I stayed, buttocks clenched, on my lounger, praying he would leave without rooting around too close to me! Why is it that whenever you want to look cool, something awful happens to drop you right in it?
Moving on, my neighbours here have been gifting me some lovely home produce. I was walking the dogs when I stopped for a chat with Michel, who lives down the road. He is married to the former headmistress of the village school Issy goes to and now he is retired, he is always working in his garden. He invited me to look at his new dry stone terrace and vegetable patch where he grows artichokes, aubergines, peppers, tomatoes, green beans and strawberries to name just a few. He grows everything organically and makes his own compost. I left with two beautiful flowering courgettes and a coeur du boeuf tomato the size of a grapefruit, which smelled divine. I ate the tomato for lunch - it tasted as good as it smelt - but didn't do the courgettes justice, slicing them into a madras curry instead of cooking them the way Michel advised, steamed and then drizzled with lemon and olive oil. Still, they tasted good.
Tonight I was walking the lasy few metres after an 8k run when I saw Rosine next door. I told her how good our olives are as she helped me harvest them last autumn and she invited me in to taste her home made vin d'oranger, made with the oranges I gave her from our garden. It was amazing, very sweet and tasty, but maybe not the drink you should be enjoying straight after a 45 minute run in the hills. We chatted for ages and then her husband Agostino fetched a bottle from the shed and insisted I take it home, chill it in the fridge and enjoy it as an apero, which I will but perhaps after a pint of water first.
The girls were enrolled at tennis stage for the week and the highlight was a trip to Aquasplash. They begged me to come and join them and also begged me not to wear a bikini that might a. give me a wedgie on the slides or worse b. come off completely on a slide. Add to this the fact that the tennis coaches were taking the kids along (we are talking tanned, fit, uber good-looking 20-something trainers, say no more) so cue much trying on the night before to find suitable swimwear that wasn't too mutton and would save my blushes on the slides.
I settled for a black one piece and headed off for an afternoon of fun. Managed to say hello to aforementioned coaches while my hair was still intact, which was a good start I felt. I can't remember if it was slide one or two but I felt a sharp pain in my butt as I came down where something sharp dug me. I shrugged it off and carried on doing the rounds in the wave pool and water chutes. We decided to stay a bit later than planned but went over to say goodbye when everyone else was leaving. Suddenly Livvy, who was standing behind me, nudged me hard and whispered: 'Mum, you've got a hole in your costume and it's right on your BUM!' Yeah, right, stop winding me up. Issy stepped back and gasped: 'Mum don't turn round or everyone will see!' This is presuming no-one had spotted it already as it probably happened within minutes of arriving.
I stood there rooted to the spot, rigid with embarrassment, saying goodbye to all the hotties and the kids, then chucked my towel on the only spare sun lounger and leapt onto it without turning around, quite a feat of gymnastic excellence.
It was 32 degrees, so hot you could have fried an egg on my chest, but I couldn't go back in the water as the hole was actually a gaping great crevice right on the crack of my arse! The shame! I lay there thinking, please God let no-one have noticed, just as Stefan, the girl's very hunky coach, came back with a little boy who had lost one shoe. He was hunting around me looking for the other shoe and very probably wondering why I didn't get up to help like any normal parent would. I stayed, buttocks clenched, on my lounger, praying he would leave without rooting around too close to me! Why is it that whenever you want to look cool, something awful happens to drop you right in it?
Moving on, my neighbours here have been gifting me some lovely home produce. I was walking the dogs when I stopped for a chat with Michel, who lives down the road. He is married to the former headmistress of the village school Issy goes to and now he is retired, he is always working in his garden. He invited me to look at his new dry stone terrace and vegetable patch where he grows artichokes, aubergines, peppers, tomatoes, green beans and strawberries to name just a few. He grows everything organically and makes his own compost. I left with two beautiful flowering courgettes and a coeur du boeuf tomato the size of a grapefruit, which smelled divine. I ate the tomato for lunch - it tasted as good as it smelt - but didn't do the courgettes justice, slicing them into a madras curry instead of cooking them the way Michel advised, steamed and then drizzled with lemon and olive oil. Still, they tasted good.
Tonight I was walking the lasy few metres after an 8k run when I saw Rosine next door. I told her how good our olives are as she helped me harvest them last autumn and she invited me in to taste her home made vin d'oranger, made with the oranges I gave her from our garden. It was amazing, very sweet and tasty, but maybe not the drink you should be enjoying straight after a 45 minute run in the hills. We chatted for ages and then her husband Agostino fetched a bottle from the shed and insisted I take it home, chill it in the fridge and enjoy it as an apero, which I will but perhaps after a pint of water first.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
It's a man's world
I have come to the conclusion that the dogs are taking over my life. Whenever I go out, I have a guilt attack about not taking them with me, but when I do take them, they are a hazard. They jump around the car and Oscar has developed a worrying tendency of squeezing his chubby body under the driver's seat to nestle into my feet right by the accelerator. The first time he did it I nearly drove off the edge of the hillside as I thought it was a big hairy rat!
As if dealing with our two dogs isn't enough, I now have the pleasure of all the various waifs and strays in our neighbourhood coming to visit. It can only mean one thing - Tallulah's season is about to begin which is when our house and garden turns into the village's canine red light district. They scramble down the steep bank through the pine trees from the road and wander around our garden, peeing everywhere and searching out Tallulah, who loves the attention, the old slapper, while Oscar runs circles round them yapping like a demented lunatic and trying to start a fight because now he has been neutered, he can't have her and he is determined that no other dog will either.
This week I woke up to find a Jack Russell in my bedroom, the following day an alsatian was wandering on the terrace and for the last two days, Alchy, the huge rottweiler/boxer cross who lives down the road has been staking us out so Iain's first job when he gets off that bike is to put up a proper fence.
Much as we have had fun this last week while Iain has been away, with Bastille Day fireworks at Juan-les-Pins which were fantastic, and a lovely lunch and day on the beach at Vegaluna in Cannes, I have come to the conclusion that I wouldn't make a very good single parent. I picked up a flat pack TV unit last Friday and told the girls I was intending to assemble it when we got home with Iain's tool kit. When they had picked themselves up off the floor from laughing, they both offered to help me. Sadly, we couldn't even lift the box out of the car as it weighs 52 kilos so we have been driving around all week with the back seats folded down and a huge great box in the back, with the girls and dogs crushed in beside it. Job number two for Iain, he will be thrilled we have missed him so much!
As if dealing with our two dogs isn't enough, I now have the pleasure of all the various waifs and strays in our neighbourhood coming to visit. It can only mean one thing - Tallulah's season is about to begin which is when our house and garden turns into the village's canine red light district. They scramble down the steep bank through the pine trees from the road and wander around our garden, peeing everywhere and searching out Tallulah, who loves the attention, the old slapper, while Oscar runs circles round them yapping like a demented lunatic and trying to start a fight because now he has been neutered, he can't have her and he is determined that no other dog will either.
This week I woke up to find a Jack Russell in my bedroom, the following day an alsatian was wandering on the terrace and for the last two days, Alchy, the huge rottweiler/boxer cross who lives down the road has been staking us out so Iain's first job when he gets off that bike is to put up a proper fence.
Much as we have had fun this last week while Iain has been away, with Bastille Day fireworks at Juan-les-Pins which were fantastic, and a lovely lunch and day on the beach at Vegaluna in Cannes, I have come to the conclusion that I wouldn't make a very good single parent. I picked up a flat pack TV unit last Friday and told the girls I was intending to assemble it when we got home with Iain's tool kit. When they had picked themselves up off the floor from laughing, they both offered to help me. Sadly, we couldn't even lift the box out of the car as it weighs 52 kilos so we have been driving around all week with the back seats folded down and a huge great box in the back, with the girls and dogs crushed in beside it. Job number two for Iain, he will be thrilled we have missed him so much!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Olives a-plenty
Two weeks ago, my Italian neighbour Rosine spotted me as Issy and I walked to school. She rattled off to me in Italo-French for about five minutes and as we left, Issy said, Mum did you understand any of that? I heard the word olives but that was all I could decipher, so Issy explained that she was saying that the olives she helped me pick in our garden last autumn should now be ready to eat. It has taken me two weeks to get down to the shed to dig out the bonbonniere containing all our olives in a salted water and bay leaf solution and when I opened the lid to see a white crusty coating on top, I feared the worst, after all they have been in there since November.
I took a scoop out and we all tried one and they are delicious! The best thing is I have enough to last us all summer. It was lovely to serve up olives from our garden that night drizzled with a little garlic and lemon juice from the lemon tree. There is a Barbara Good in me just struggling to get out and grow everything from scratch but the reality is, it's very time consuming to be self sufficient. We have olives, lemons, oranges, plums, figs, and rosemary growing here so I think that will have to tick the home farm box.
We went up to Pre du Lac last weekend to watch the Tour de France go by, it's the first time in many years they have taken a route through this particular area and everyone was out to cheer them on. The speeds were fantastic and it was a blaze of colour as two packs - the advance pack of four and the rest - sped past but in about 45 seconds it was all over.
Iain is motorbiking through France, Italy and Austria this week and by happy coincidence, the girls are at tennis camp this week so the house is quiet, tidy and an oasis of zen-like calm, which is a rare occurence indeed.
With two months of school holidays stretching ahead, I thought I would plan some good stuff for the girls to keep them occupied. You would think with a pool in the garden and fantastic, guaranteed sunshine that that might be enough but they are more likely to play on their nintendo DS or watch daytime TV than swim or hang out in the garden. Whenever I suggest the beach, I get, 'Noooo the beach is so BORING unless we're with our friends.' So Iain and I spent two hours putting up the tent for them to camp out in. I thought the novelty might last a week, not so. They stayed in the house until 10.30pm when I ordered them to take down sleeping bags and they seemed reluctant to leave. They took power cables, a lamp and a laptop to watch a movie on - and were back in the house at 7am cooking breakfast of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on toast. So much for the great outdoors.
The next day we did the Picasso museum at Antibes. It's housed in the amazing Grimaldi chateau where Picasso spent two months working, with phenomenal views across the sea. So we have also ticked the culture box too.
It is Bastille Day tomorrow and the fireworks are incredible all around France so we are heading down to Cannes to watch the display tomorrow evening. There is always something going on here, the same is true of London too but it seems so much easier to get everywhere here. A traffic jam lasts 20 minutes if you are really unlucky and then it's all over.
I took a scoop out and we all tried one and they are delicious! The best thing is I have enough to last us all summer. It was lovely to serve up olives from our garden that night drizzled with a little garlic and lemon juice from the lemon tree. There is a Barbara Good in me just struggling to get out and grow everything from scratch but the reality is, it's very time consuming to be self sufficient. We have olives, lemons, oranges, plums, figs, and rosemary growing here so I think that will have to tick the home farm box.
We went up to Pre du Lac last weekend to watch the Tour de France go by, it's the first time in many years they have taken a route through this particular area and everyone was out to cheer them on. The speeds were fantastic and it was a blaze of colour as two packs - the advance pack of four and the rest - sped past but in about 45 seconds it was all over.
Iain is motorbiking through France, Italy and Austria this week and by happy coincidence, the girls are at tennis camp this week so the house is quiet, tidy and an oasis of zen-like calm, which is a rare occurence indeed.
With two months of school holidays stretching ahead, I thought I would plan some good stuff for the girls to keep them occupied. You would think with a pool in the garden and fantastic, guaranteed sunshine that that might be enough but they are more likely to play on their nintendo DS or watch daytime TV than swim or hang out in the garden. Whenever I suggest the beach, I get, 'Noooo the beach is so BORING unless we're with our friends.' So Iain and I spent two hours putting up the tent for them to camp out in. I thought the novelty might last a week, not so. They stayed in the house until 10.30pm when I ordered them to take down sleeping bags and they seemed reluctant to leave. They took power cables, a lamp and a laptop to watch a movie on - and were back in the house at 7am cooking breakfast of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on toast. So much for the great outdoors.
The next day we did the Picasso museum at Antibes. It's housed in the amazing Grimaldi chateau where Picasso spent two months working, with phenomenal views across the sea. So we have also ticked the culture box too.
It is Bastille Day tomorrow and the fireworks are incredible all around France so we are heading down to Cannes to watch the display tomorrow evening. There is always something going on here, the same is true of London too but it seems so much easier to get everywhere here. A traffic jam lasts 20 minutes if you are really unlucky and then it's all over.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Life's a beach
First of all, a photo of me and my best schoolfriend Jackie, who came to stay last weekend with her boyfriend Chris and son Louie. We had a fab weekend, catching up, eating and drinking and laughing. We've been friends for 30 years now and I love her!
I must admit, before we moved here, I used to dream of spending the odd weekday on the beach in early summer, away from the madding weekend and holiday crowds. It's that naughty I-should-be-working-but-I'm-playing-truant feeling that makes it all the more enjoyable. I know my friends back home have this image of me shooting down to the coast at every available opportunity to soak up the rays while they sweat and toil in London. With the girls both off school yesterday and my mum here for a week from the UK, I thought we should put the plan into action.
We arrived at Theoule, still my fave beach within easy reach, to find there were no parking spaces left so I stopped to offload the girls, mum and all the beach stuff (minus the bucket and spade and fishing nets) before trawling around for half an hour in 90 degrees looking for a space. By the time I walked to the beach, sweating and desperate for a swim, Livvy had stormed off in a huff after a massive shouting match on the beach with Issy, mum was threatening to go to Ibiza next time and Issy had a face like thunder. All caused by the girls sharing a parasol - Issy's idea of sharing was to set it up on the rocks four feet away from her sister so that she could hog the lot. Then the clincher - 'I wanted to phone you to bring my bucket and spade with you?' 'Well why didn't you take them out of the car when we unloaded?' 'Because I didn't want to carry them, I wanted you to carry them.'
Two minutes after I sit down comes the cry 'I'm starving, when are we going for lunch?' Well, just as soon as I have had a chance to sit down, catch my breath and enjoy 20 minutes sunshine perhaps. I get out last week's Grazia that my ma-in-law sweetly sends me only to hear 'Mum, you've read that magazine already, why can't we just go now, we're all STARVING!' No-one pipes up differently, so we pack up again and trot to the beach bar for lunch. Moodiness and hunger seem to go hand in hand in our house and thankfully the girls are in a better mood and even talking to each other after lunch so we head back to the beach whereupon I realise that we have to replace the parking ticket because the limit is 90 minutes in that part of town.
The girls reluctantly agree to go and do it together when I offer them 5 euros as a bribe but take off in such a rush that they forget to take the car keys with them. I ring Livvy's mobile, which I can hear going off in her bag beside me so wait for Issy to reappear red-faced and sweating 10 minutes later to grab the keys and sprint back. Ticket replaced, no parking fine imposed and girls back, I settle down for a relaxing nap in the sunshine but there are now black clouds rolling in and the first big fat spots of rain start to fall. So we pack up again, laden with mats, parasol, towels and beach bags and stagger back to the car to drive home. Next time, I am going on my own.
On a happy note, Issy got an amazing school report, full of bravos, and a line from her teacher talking about the magnificent progress she has made in the last year in French. And Livvy has been told she will move up to Troisieme in September at Fenelon, along with all her friends. There was a very real risk that she might not move up but redouble the year again - something that is very common in France - because she is still struggling with the language but her head of International was so impressed with her marks in English that she has let her move up. So it's extra French lessons through the summer hols each weekend to show her teachers that she really is trying. Much harder as a 14 year-old than a 10 year-old to master the language but she has worked hard this year and I have noticed she is much more motivated than she was in England.
We arrived at Theoule, still my fave beach within easy reach, to find there were no parking spaces left so I stopped to offload the girls, mum and all the beach stuff (minus the bucket and spade and fishing nets) before trawling around for half an hour in 90 degrees looking for a space. By the time I walked to the beach, sweating and desperate for a swim, Livvy had stormed off in a huff after a massive shouting match on the beach with Issy, mum was threatening to go to Ibiza next time and Issy had a face like thunder. All caused by the girls sharing a parasol - Issy's idea of sharing was to set it up on the rocks four feet away from her sister so that she could hog the lot. Then the clincher - 'I wanted to phone you to bring my bucket and spade with you?' 'Well why didn't you take them out of the car when we unloaded?' 'Because I didn't want to carry them, I wanted you to carry them.'
Two minutes after I sit down comes the cry 'I'm starving, when are we going for lunch?' Well, just as soon as I have had a chance to sit down, catch my breath and enjoy 20 minutes sunshine perhaps. I get out last week's Grazia that my ma-in-law sweetly sends me only to hear 'Mum, you've read that magazine already, why can't we just go now, we're all STARVING!' No-one pipes up differently, so we pack up again and trot to the beach bar for lunch. Moodiness and hunger seem to go hand in hand in our house and thankfully the girls are in a better mood and even talking to each other after lunch so we head back to the beach whereupon I realise that we have to replace the parking ticket because the limit is 90 minutes in that part of town.
The girls reluctantly agree to go and do it together when I offer them 5 euros as a bribe but take off in such a rush that they forget to take the car keys with them. I ring Livvy's mobile, which I can hear going off in her bag beside me so wait for Issy to reappear red-faced and sweating 10 minutes later to grab the keys and sprint back. Ticket replaced, no parking fine imposed and girls back, I settle down for a relaxing nap in the sunshine but there are now black clouds rolling in and the first big fat spots of rain start to fall. So we pack up again, laden with mats, parasol, towels and beach bags and stagger back to the car to drive home. Next time, I am going on my own.
On a happy note, Issy got an amazing school report, full of bravos, and a line from her teacher talking about the magnificent progress she has made in the last year in French. And Livvy has been told she will move up to Troisieme in September at Fenelon, along with all her friends. There was a very real risk that she might not move up but redouble the year again - something that is very common in France - because she is still struggling with the language but her head of International was so impressed with her marks in English that she has let her move up. So it's extra French lessons through the summer hols each weekend to show her teachers that she really is trying. Much harder as a 14 year-old than a 10 year-old to master the language but she has worked hard this year and I have noticed she is much more motivated than she was in England.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Time for a moan
Well it couldn't last could it? Have finally taken off my rose tinted spectacles and realised that shit happens, no matter where you live. Will try to keep moaning to a minimum but am feeling quite murderous at the moment.
It was to good to be true that the Parisian pest at Grand Duc would stay quiet for long....last weekend she flew at a couple who had just arrived to rent our apartment. They hadn't even entered the domaine to start their holiday yet she was screaming abuse at them and threatening them there would be hell to pay if she heard their baby cry.
She is mentally unhinged so I have lodged a formal complaint with the management company and her landlord. She is the most anti-social beast, she chats loudly on her mobile on the balcony at all times of the day and night and plays Barbra Streisand and - even worse - sings along to it, yet I have never said a word. Gloves are off. But the couple, understandably, were upset.
The next bit I don't understand. The woman client rang us late on Saturday night to say she was disgusted by the state of the apartment and they wanted to leave and have a refund. Er, doesn't quite work like that. Iain went over to placate them on Sunday and said the woman is a manic depressive with OCD, she said it was a health hazard for her baby to stay there any longer! She has taken pictures of our coffee pot, the corners of the room and the shower cubicle citing filth and dirt.
I would be laughing it it weren't for the fact that they have now buggered off with our keys, all our linen and travel cot to stay somewhere else, still demanding a refund or they will plaster the internet with pictures of our uninhabitable apartment. Just makes me even more determined to get that unspeakable cow next door out, even if I have to take a petition around. There's no way they would be doing this if she hadn't ruined their holiday within 30 seconds of arrival.
So, moving onto reasons for living (or not) in France. Shall we start with the bad news and move onto the good news?
Reasons NOT to live in France:
1. In a word, SFR. This mobile phone company (in fact, pretty much all mobile companies) treat you like a convicted felon. I waited a year before signing up for a French mobile and wish I hadn't bothered. The guy at the shop in Grasse sold me a BlackBerry Storm. It wasn't what I wanted but it was the only BlackBerry he had in stock. Should have heard the warning bells then. Three weeks down the line it stopped delivering emails. I went back to be told with an indifferent shrug that the software wasn't good, so did I want to go home and call the British helpline or download the new software with a print off from the shop in French? Well, not really but there was no other option so I did. Spent all afternoon trying the duff number (it didn't work) then in desperation, I somehow worked out the printed instructions and bingo, it started working again.
Fast forward two more weeks and texts suddenly stopped coming through. Back to Grasse encore une fois and my mate the friendly SFR bi-lingual shop assistant looked SO pleased to see me. Explained the situation, he looked very bored and kept saying I could always pay another 99 euros and take another model. Hello? Even in nightmare red tapesville UK, if your phone isn't working they at least try to sort it out without charging you for a new phone. He then said I should have brought it back in the first week if I wasn't happy. The fact that that was two weeks before it went wrong seemed to pass him by. By this point I was steaming, so he just walked off to serve someone else, leaving me with a more helpful but totally French speaking assistant who would have swapped it quite happily if he was on his own. Under much duress, happy pants finally got out a jiffy bag with a huge sigh and said he would send it to be fixed but it would have to go back to the manufacturers at least twice before they will replace it.
My friend has an iPhone and she said hers has come back from repair and now it won't charge. Have reached the conclusion that the French serveice industry doesn't really exist and as for the customer always being right, don't even go there.
Reasons for living in France:
1. Havent yet heard about bent, freeloading French politicians claiming extortionate expenses for moats, mortgages that have already been paid off (the French are a nation of renters not buyers) and porn movies from Blockbusters. The worst they seem to do is have the odd mistress but there is no law against that.
2. The train journey from Grasse to Monte-Carlo. When there are no wild cat strikes, it is scenic, fairly clean, on time (I've only taken a train four times since I arrived, all in the last two days, so I might moan about it sometime soon.) It was lovely ear-marking all the places I still want to visit - Cap d'Ail, Beaulieu, St Jean Cap Ferrat - when I get the time.
3. Arriving in Monaco, a twee toytown invented to make mass excess feel quite normal, where you are just as likely to see a Bentley, Ferrari or Lamborghini as a Mini Cooper (my personal fave, I still miss my cream and black one now lovingly cared for by Melanie.) What's not to like about a place where you can never ever feel under or over dressed? It's a bit like Geneva - quite clean and clinical - but with much better people watching and more kitsch factor.
4. The Monte-Carlo TV Festival, possibly the last place on earth where journalists are made to feel a bit special rather than like something the cat brought in. The free three course lunch every day with copious quantities of wine, Badoit, coffee etc obviously tipped the balance.
5. Meeting my second famous Brad of the last three weeks - that would be Brad Walsh rather than Brad Pitt, a lovely bloke who has never changed over the years and who entertained me with stories of all the famous A listers staying at his hotel. He has spent most of his stay here calling his mates at home in Watford to tell them who he is off to dinner with each night.
6. Being able to stop off en route to the train station at the Fairmont Plaza for a glass of pink Champagne on the roof terrace overlooking the Med. St Pancras' Champagne bar is lovely but it will never compete with that.
It was to good to be true that the Parisian pest at Grand Duc would stay quiet for long....last weekend she flew at a couple who had just arrived to rent our apartment. They hadn't even entered the domaine to start their holiday yet she was screaming abuse at them and threatening them there would be hell to pay if she heard their baby cry.
She is mentally unhinged so I have lodged a formal complaint with the management company and her landlord. She is the most anti-social beast, she chats loudly on her mobile on the balcony at all times of the day and night and plays Barbra Streisand and - even worse - sings along to it, yet I have never said a word. Gloves are off. But the couple, understandably, were upset.
The next bit I don't understand. The woman client rang us late on Saturday night to say she was disgusted by the state of the apartment and they wanted to leave and have a refund. Er, doesn't quite work like that. Iain went over to placate them on Sunday and said the woman is a manic depressive with OCD, she said it was a health hazard for her baby to stay there any longer! She has taken pictures of our coffee pot, the corners of the room and the shower cubicle citing filth and dirt.
I would be laughing it it weren't for the fact that they have now buggered off with our keys, all our linen and travel cot to stay somewhere else, still demanding a refund or they will plaster the internet with pictures of our uninhabitable apartment. Just makes me even more determined to get that unspeakable cow next door out, even if I have to take a petition around. There's no way they would be doing this if she hadn't ruined their holiday within 30 seconds of arrival.
So, moving onto reasons for living (or not) in France. Shall we start with the bad news and move onto the good news?
Reasons NOT to live in France:
1. In a word, SFR. This mobile phone company (in fact, pretty much all mobile companies) treat you like a convicted felon. I waited a year before signing up for a French mobile and wish I hadn't bothered. The guy at the shop in Grasse sold me a BlackBerry Storm. It wasn't what I wanted but it was the only BlackBerry he had in stock. Should have heard the warning bells then. Three weeks down the line it stopped delivering emails. I went back to be told with an indifferent shrug that the software wasn't good, so did I want to go home and call the British helpline or download the new software with a print off from the shop in French? Well, not really but there was no other option so I did. Spent all afternoon trying the duff number (it didn't work) then in desperation, I somehow worked out the printed instructions and bingo, it started working again.
Fast forward two more weeks and texts suddenly stopped coming through. Back to Grasse encore une fois and my mate the friendly SFR bi-lingual shop assistant looked SO pleased to see me. Explained the situation, he looked very bored and kept saying I could always pay another 99 euros and take another model. Hello? Even in nightmare red tapesville UK, if your phone isn't working they at least try to sort it out without charging you for a new phone. He then said I should have brought it back in the first week if I wasn't happy. The fact that that was two weeks before it went wrong seemed to pass him by. By this point I was steaming, so he just walked off to serve someone else, leaving me with a more helpful but totally French speaking assistant who would have swapped it quite happily if he was on his own. Under much duress, happy pants finally got out a jiffy bag with a huge sigh and said he would send it to be fixed but it would have to go back to the manufacturers at least twice before they will replace it.
My friend has an iPhone and she said hers has come back from repair and now it won't charge. Have reached the conclusion that the French serveice industry doesn't really exist and as for the customer always being right, don't even go there.
Reasons for living in France:
1. Havent yet heard about bent, freeloading French politicians claiming extortionate expenses for moats, mortgages that have already been paid off (the French are a nation of renters not buyers) and porn movies from Blockbusters. The worst they seem to do is have the odd mistress but there is no law against that.
2. The train journey from Grasse to Monte-Carlo. When there are no wild cat strikes, it is scenic, fairly clean, on time (I've only taken a train four times since I arrived, all in the last two days, so I might moan about it sometime soon.) It was lovely ear-marking all the places I still want to visit - Cap d'Ail, Beaulieu, St Jean Cap Ferrat - when I get the time.
3. Arriving in Monaco, a twee toytown invented to make mass excess feel quite normal, where you are just as likely to see a Bentley, Ferrari or Lamborghini as a Mini Cooper (my personal fave, I still miss my cream and black one now lovingly cared for by Melanie.) What's not to like about a place where you can never ever feel under or over dressed? It's a bit like Geneva - quite clean and clinical - but with much better people watching and more kitsch factor.
4. The Monte-Carlo TV Festival, possibly the last place on earth where journalists are made to feel a bit special rather than like something the cat brought in. The free three course lunch every day with copious quantities of wine, Badoit, coffee etc obviously tipped the balance.
5. Meeting my second famous Brad of the last three weeks - that would be Brad Walsh rather than Brad Pitt, a lovely bloke who has never changed over the years and who entertained me with stories of all the famous A listers staying at his hotel. He has spent most of his stay here calling his mates at home in Watford to tell them who he is off to dinner with each night.
6. Being able to stop off en route to the train station at the Fairmont Plaza for a glass of pink Champagne on the roof terrace overlooking the Med. St Pancras' Champagne bar is lovely but it will never compete with that.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Here a year
This time last year, we were packing up our lives in the UK to head to France for a new life. Hard to believe that on Tuesday, it's a year since we arrived. I still vividly remember pulling up on the lane by our house at dawn and climbing over the fence with the cats precariously balanced in their travel cage so we could get them into some shade and fresh air after a hot 14 hour drive through France.
Such a lot has happened in 12 months. Issy is virtually fluent in French while Iain still only knows the basics, the ground floor of our house is completely unrecognisable while the upstairs is still utter chaos and we have had our ups and downs settling in. Suddenly we have a teenager who has more of a social life than I do (hard to believe, I know,) borrows my clothes and shoes on the quiet and sees me as a never ending well of cash advances and a handy cabbie for the many parties and sleepovers she plans each weekend! It certainly hasn't been plain sailing - there have been tough times, disappointments and frustrations along the way but I have never doubted that we did the right thing at the right time.
Lately we have also got a bit more balance back in our lives after a pretty manic few months. The plan was to take life a little easier down here, enjoy the weather, the beautiful surroundings and explore the Riviera and its environs. Instead, life became even more crazy and full on than it was in the UK and after 20 odd years on that treadmill, it was time for a rethink.
It's funny, I think the perceived wisdom is that our life here is all about drinking rose, lying by the pool in the sunshine and wondering which village restaurant to try next. The truth is the shopping still needs to be done, so does the cleaning and then there is the little matter of work but today I actually ticked the 'rose by the pool' box all afternoon and it was rather lovely!
Yesterday I went racing in the Voile d'Antibes regatta with Mat and Milly on board their beautiful yacht The Blue Peter. The forecast storms never materialised but the wind was up and it was questionable whether the race would take place. We got the go ahead and I can't describe how exciting it was to be counting down to the start along with all the other classic yachts in Antibes harbour. We got off to a great start and the boat was flying. Mat's mates were all crewing and they are serious sailors so everyone was doing their bit as they had had a disappointing couple of days at the start of the regatta. For much of the time, I was clinging onto the boat and sliding from one side of the deck to the other trying to keep out of the way as they tacked and guided the yacht into the best position. Mat kept asking 'Are you ok, are you scared Karen?' but I can honestly say fear wasn't happening, it was just very very exciting, even when the waves washed over us, soaking us all to the skin. We were cruising at 13 knots and on course for a possible win when the coastguard sounded his horn and cancelled the race.
We were gutted, especially as we were not far off the finish but unbeknownst to us, two boats had been damaged in collisions due to the high winds, which were getting stronger, and one yacht was completely written off so it was just too dangerous to continue. The mood on board was jubilant nevertheless and we hit the owners marquee for a celebration drink. My white Abercrombie shorts will never be the same again and I was rocking the bag lady look, wandering around Antibes looking dishevelled with my hair matted with salt and sea water (one shop owner gave me a very strange look when I popped into his trendy boutique to try on a T shirt - luckily for him, I bought it!) but the adrenaline rush was amazing and it's a day I won't forget.
I might have embraced France wholeheartedly over the last year but The Apprentice final has just started so a bientot......
Such a lot has happened in 12 months. Issy is virtually fluent in French while Iain still only knows the basics, the ground floor of our house is completely unrecognisable while the upstairs is still utter chaos and we have had our ups and downs settling in. Suddenly we have a teenager who has more of a social life than I do (hard to believe, I know,) borrows my clothes and shoes on the quiet and sees me as a never ending well of cash advances and a handy cabbie for the many parties and sleepovers she plans each weekend! It certainly hasn't been plain sailing - there have been tough times, disappointments and frustrations along the way but I have never doubted that we did the right thing at the right time.
Lately we have also got a bit more balance back in our lives after a pretty manic few months. The plan was to take life a little easier down here, enjoy the weather, the beautiful surroundings and explore the Riviera and its environs. Instead, life became even more crazy and full on than it was in the UK and after 20 odd years on that treadmill, it was time for a rethink.
It's funny, I think the perceived wisdom is that our life here is all about drinking rose, lying by the pool in the sunshine and wondering which village restaurant to try next. The truth is the shopping still needs to be done, so does the cleaning and then there is the little matter of work but today I actually ticked the 'rose by the pool' box all afternoon and it was rather lovely!
Yesterday I went racing in the Voile d'Antibes regatta with Mat and Milly on board their beautiful yacht The Blue Peter. The forecast storms never materialised but the wind was up and it was questionable whether the race would take place. We got the go ahead and I can't describe how exciting it was to be counting down to the start along with all the other classic yachts in Antibes harbour. We got off to a great start and the boat was flying. Mat's mates were all crewing and they are serious sailors so everyone was doing their bit as they had had a disappointing couple of days at the start of the regatta. For much of the time, I was clinging onto the boat and sliding from one side of the deck to the other trying to keep out of the way as they tacked and guided the yacht into the best position. Mat kept asking 'Are you ok, are you scared Karen?' but I can honestly say fear wasn't happening, it was just very very exciting, even when the waves washed over us, soaking us all to the skin. We were cruising at 13 knots and on course for a possible win when the coastguard sounded his horn and cancelled the race.
We were gutted, especially as we were not far off the finish but unbeknownst to us, two boats had been damaged in collisions due to the high winds, which were getting stronger, and one yacht was completely written off so it was just too dangerous to continue. The mood on board was jubilant nevertheless and we hit the owners marquee for a celebration drink. My white Abercrombie shorts will never be the same again and I was rocking the bag lady look, wandering around Antibes looking dishevelled with my hair matted with salt and sea water (one shop owner gave me a very strange look when I popped into his trendy boutique to try on a T shirt - luckily for him, I bought it!) but the adrenaline rush was amazing and it's a day I won't forget.
I might have embraced France wholeheartedly over the last year but The Apprentice final has just started so a bientot......
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