The grand sort out - French side

For the first time in six years, I've had all my clothes together in one place. Mike's been telling me for ages that I've got too many, and now having them all here in front of me, I am reluctantly inclined to agree with him. There is a reason for it - apart from being westernly decadent. Having a split life has meant two lots of everything. We divided our belongings into two, prior to our move from London to Wiltshire and the house which we had built in France. Any items that didn't work in either space were given to someone, sold off or went to a charity. There were some we just didn't need in either place and others that we had to buy new for both places as the houses are very different in style and space and required a different approach. Clothes however were something else.

I attempted in 2007 to split things up between the British end and the French end. Favourite items demanded a different strategy. To duplicate, or not to duplicate that was the question. 'whether twas nobler in my mind to suffer the excesses of outrageous fortune' by doubling up, or simply to transport said favourite items at the appropriate time of year, bearing in mind that I had favourites in all the season. As it turned out, I did both.

Now of course, not only am I surrounded by clothes, but I've the duplicates to contend with as well. Suddenly the ridiculousness of my decisions is staring me in the face. Since Monday I have been sorting through clothes. We have limited storage space here, so 'colour coding 'has been key. Bit by bit I've reorganised and relinquished, and have so far delivered four bags of clothes to Emmaüs in Chinon, which is our local recycling depot. They take everything.

I felt really pleased with myself and yelled out to Mike  that I was on 'the last leg'. 
'Oh what's left to do ' he asked. 
'Tights and socks'. 
A loud groan followed. But at least he had the decency to admit it was worthy of one of his puns.

How can one week go so fast?

It's 8.30am here, so 7.30am in the UK. Brittany Ferries operate on British time, so you're in the UK time zone until you leave the boat. This time last week we'd been on the road in France for just over an hour. A week ago on Monday 10 April, the BOA house had been emptied. The next day it had been spring-cleaned. We'd taken the ferry that same night and in two hours time, we will have arrived in Cravant with our loaded car and begun the process of unpacking.

Where does a week go exactly? This one feels as if it's passed very quickly. Having a good time;  happy to be here; lots to do Yes - these things will have something to do with it. But even so, it's very difficult to fathom. Except when things haven't gone well or aren't quite right, in which case time seems to slow down and it seems to take for every for anything to happen. A cousin in South Africa has just won a golfing trophy at his club for the first time, which he's been trying to do for a few years. Bet his week has flown by since the day. He was soooo pleased.  Now his wife is away for a few days for work, so he's got work, house, their two sons to look after. oh and more golf probably. So I'd bet the few days Eleanor is away will fly by. How will those few days feel to her I wonder?

I remember the first time I read Lord of the Rings. This was ???? years ago. I had a day off and was at home initially. I picked the book up just with the intention of reading a chapter or two. Mike had left for work. I put the book down. Not only had I'd finished it in one session - it was now the afternoon. No sense of time at all. I'd been so engrossed I ended up not going anywhere except to our sofa - not even to make a cup of coffee.  Very strange business - time.

What a great book!

Have been catching up with some reading for our book club next week. Managed one book, when in fact they have three up for discussion. But with everything going on, and only one being downloadable to Kindle, that's the one we went for. And this time in English, rather than French. There hasn't been enough time to digest the French version. I finished the book a couple of days ago. Then Mike began and was instantly hooked. Loves it. 

So what's this gem that has so caught and held our attention.

The author is Henning Mankell, probably best known for his mystery novels and in particular, Inspector Kurt Wallander. A series on the Beeb that we have always managed to miss. The book we've been reading however is totally different. The Italian Shoes has not a single murder to be solved. The Guardian review refers to it as 'a standalone novel'. Don't want to say too much, but literally from the opening sentence to the final full stop, I just couldn't put it down. And that takes something for me to do. Although I appreciate the Kindle and use it regularly, it's not the same as the real thing. I so love the feel of a book and the act of turning the page. 

Anyhow The Italian Shoes is mesmerising and one of those novels where the landscape is as vital a character in the story as the humans. A story that is full of surprises, twists and turns. Sometimes very moving. 

Hardback, paperback or kindle version - give it a shot. 
And if you can resist it, don't read the links until you've finished the book. 
They will spoil the experience.

Boîte. . . sac . . . sac . . . boîte

Bonjour. . . from the other side of the channel. It's great to be here. The weather has been fantastic today, although lousy for the first few days. We've had all sorts of messages from local friends and the social whirl seems to have got going very quickly. 

The move was effortless. Not sure how many boxes we finally ended up with in storage - probably about twenty-five. That's after having had what we thought was a good clear-out with regular visits to the local charity shop. It's amazing the amount of stuff you collect and hoard. 

The car was loaded, but safely so. We still had to leave four of our own small storage boxes and one of my accordions with our friend John. We'll collect them when we're in the UK mid-June for a week.

Thinking about it we've been packing and unpacking for the last six years, if you include each time we've travelled to and from the UK. Unsurprisingly perhaps, it's a very pleasant feeling to be just in one place.  Except that now we've arrived, another sort-out is underway, although just bit by bit. 

We arrived mid-morning Weds 10 April. Thursday we went to Chinon for the weekly market, which is still really in winter mode. Fresh asparagus and strawberries are starting to appear. Then to one of our anglo-french groups for conversation and lunch. In the evening we went to the cinema - fabulous Hungarian film Just the Wind which won the Jury Grand Prize at the 2012 Berlin Film Festival. Based on actual events that happened in 2008/9, although the characters in the film are fictional. Saturday we met a friend for coffee in the morning, got change of address sorted out with our bank. In the evening we went round to a neighbour who is a wine producer - Patrick Lambert - for an apèro dinatoire with the family. Lovely evening. Today Sunday has been a beautiful day. We've been doing more sorting and gardening; paperwork. All the essentials. It's going to take a while.

Move Day!

Well today's the day.

' All our bags are packed, we're ready to go,
We're not quite standing outside our door
We're pleased to wake you up, to say goodbye
The dawn has already broken,
there's no taxi waiting or blowing his horn
We're so excited we could die'
(hackneyed lyrics based on John Denver's - Leaving on a Jet Plane)


The house here in BOA looks like a dump with bags and boxes everywhere.
So the plan is that the removal people arrive some time before 9.30am. Then we clear the place.
We're staying with local friends overnight. Then up again early tomorrow as people are coming in to
give the place a spring clean. Then that really is it, although we don't leave BOA until later for the overnight crossing. So the idea is I think to go into Bath, then come back here. Grab dinner somewhere and take off around 7.30pm.

Must admit the thought of being in one place, albeit temporarily, without the six weekly routine of packing and unpacking, rather appeals. 

So blogs away. Bye for the moment.

Normal and regular service will be resumed from Wednesday 10 April, from France.

Bises  à tous

Adding a ps. I'm not being disaparaging about the original song. Just my awful adaptation.

Bag,box. . .Box,bag 2

The youngest son of our next door neighbour in France, Lenny (after Lenny Kravitz) has his birthday in February. Just before we came back this last time to the UK, we gave him a copy of Bob the Builder, in English. Matteo, the older brother who is ten has been learning English at our village school for a few years. Lenny is just starting, so the two have been reading Bob the Builder together.

We had an email from their mother Isabelle a couple of days ago. Lenny has fallen in love with his Bob the Builder book and insists on sleeping with it. If told ' no you can't', Lenny starts wailing. He has a unique wail, which steadily winds-up until finally at full throttle, Lenny achieves air raid siren quality.  But it doesn't last long. The family have a neat way of dealing with him. Lenny is very ticklish and has learnt that it's impossible to wail effectively and laugh at the same time.

I have a book that was given to me when I was more or less the same age as Lenny is now, by my Aunt Hester, who like the rest of the family lived in Henley. She was for a long time, the local and much-loved school teacher. Her gift to me was The Wind in the Willows or in French, Le Vent dans les Saules.  I don't know what Aunt Hester would have made of my primary school English teacher, the formidable Mrs Chester. I can see her clearly in my mind's eye - sturdily built, 5'5" (1m65) and shrinking, very short wavy white hair and probably in her late 60s. Mrs Chester had asked us each to bring in a favourite classic novel and to find a short passage from it so that if she called our name, we could read out loud to the rest of the class. I took along The Wind in the Willows and was immediately informed that this book was not a classic. Guess who didn't get to read!

Regardless of whether The Wind in the Willows is or isn't a classic, I always loved the story and continue to read it once a year as it gets close to Christmas. There are wonderful moments in it, funny, scary, poignant and joyful.

I'm clearly attached to it and probably will remain so.  
But not enough to want to sleep with it.

Bag,Box. . .Box, Bag 1

An adventure in itself - packing. The perfect op for a sort-out and interesting discoveries.  
The 'lost world' of the airing cupboard has revealed one pair of knickers and three odd socks. Odd in the sense that they've lost their partners, rather than them being bizaare.

I'm wondering if 'Odd sock' syndrome is the true indicator of our decadent western life style. It's certainly an enduring problem. When did it begin exactly, this overly abundant, luxuriant supply of socks, that has lead to the callous indifference towards the individual? One sock goes astray leaving the other condemned to life, unloved, in the dark of the airing cupboard - sometimes for years.

'Odd sock' syndrome was something that annoyed my uncle. He was one of those brilliantly brained, ( in his case, a rocket scientist who worked for the British government) not mad, but certainly a charismatic individual, who I adored and who could be perplexed by the intricacies of domestic life.

He'd be somewhere or other during the week and returned home at the weekends. Every time we visited, the house seemed to have become an extension of his lab. I think my aunt found solace in the W.I.  However on one occasion, things went too far.  They lived in a five storey house in Henley- a nice expensive property by the river. My aunt finally lost it, when she returned from a shopping excursion to find my uncle had cut large holes in each of the floors, so that he could do a velocity experiment for his latest 'drop test' theory!  

Despite his wizardry with things scientific, my uncle could never understand how a pair of socks could be put into the washing machine and at the end of the cycle, only one came out. This was researched in some detail, with the holes in the floor doubling up for a 'washing socks' experiment, which also involved two washing machines being placed in the drive, with their cables neatly threaded back through the letter box into the house where they were plugged in and turned on.  Unlike his rockets the sock experiment was a disaster.

In the end for his peace of mind, my own and everyone else's, I gave him a sock holder for the washing machine, in the shape of two feet - left and right. Each sock was poked through a hole which held it in place while being pummeled, rinsed and spun. Between them, the feet could take five pairs of socks. Never a sock was lost in that household ever again.
A remarkably cheap solution in comparison to the repair costs for the floors.