How do you break it gently to three relatively young children, their relatively old grand parents and a died in the wool, set in his ways, obstinate, black Labrador, that, within a few months we (inc. dog) will be living, breathing and GOING TO SCHOOL in France?….You do it very gently…and slowly….and carefully…and gently!!
It worked…almost. First came the directors cut of the video, then came the verbal description, then out came everything we had nicked from the local tourist office, then came the questions. Not just simple questions such as which bedroom is mine, but slightly more complex issues, like:
When?
Why?
Where?
Why?
How?
Why? And of course why, why and why.
Of course the brood knew our plans but, were, to say the least, a little concerned with the simple issues of life such as making new friends, losing old friends, going to a new school, saying farewell to the old one and their biggest bugbear… television. Would they still be able to watch Coronation Street, Eastenders and A Question of Sport? “Dad, does PS2 work in France”, “Dad, will our DVDs and videos work on French television sets”, “Dad will we still be able to watch Cartoon Network, Sky One, The Sports Channel…………?”
From our parents it was a little more worry and concern. “What are you going to do there?” “How will you earn a living?” “Where is it again?” “How far away will you be?” “Where is it again?”
Well, bit by bit everyone started to discuss this international project with varying degrees of optimism….alright with less pessimism….alright with a little less pessimism.
As good list makers….we made lists, flog both cars and buy left hand drive something, flog televisions, paddling pools, oh and sell the house! The lists got shorter then we added more stuff…..as the list got shorter the things to sell got smaller…sell all the beany babies, sell old uniforms, sell the toys we find under the bed, sell the toys we find on the top of the wardrobe, sell the toys that have not been touched in three years, sell the kids and dog….joke!
I got involved in the currency negotiations, I needed immediate Francs for the deposit and then the dreaded Euro for all the other payments including the notaires fees, agency fees and the final payment on the house. For two or three days I became a Rogue Trader, checking all the spot and forward rates for the Franc and Euro; it was great fun and there were two or three great companies to help with my search for the best deal. Elaine and I had decided we would not speculate on the currency but know exactly what we would get for Her Majesty’s pound. Within a couple of days I had bought my Francs on the best spot market I could find on the internet and phone and bought forward several several several thousand Euros on the forward market for February 2001. The die was now cast.
My beautiful black super sexy Jag with cream luxury leather interior, a stereo that would have done justice to the Albert Hall, cruise control designed for a stealth fighter bomber and a telephone system that GCHQ would have been proud of, was the first to go. Gone but not forgotten. Elaine’s bus went next….her favourite people mover of all time…a Chrysler Voyager with all the trimmings, part exchanged (plus cash back) for a Jeep…which we all loved to bits, even though it had a tendency to over heat at the most inopportune moment, traffic lights, ferry crossings, school runs. We eventually called the RAC and the nice bloke on the bike solved the problem, he removed the thermostat and it ran like a dream.
Then came the car boot sales…if an item, any item stayed too long in one place it went to the sale. My mother in law sat on one of the sofas for a complete afternoon watching the racing and it did give me an idea, one I am afraid I didn’t have the guts to put into practice.
The boot sales were fantastic, the people, the camaraderie, the hot dogs and the early mornings, if you have to flog off the family heirlooms or a load of tat, then boot sales are the place to do it. The clothes that no longer fitted the kids or had suddenly gone out of fashion, most of which were bought in France were our top seller. A Decathalon sweatshirt or sports shorts were as valuable as some of the dodgy rolling tobacco brought into the country and onto the island for personal use by the container load. If you ever do visit the Isle of Light (as in have you got a light for my imported tobacco hand rolled ciggy) you will see what I mean.
We had our last Christmas in blighty and saw in the New Year surrounded by my wonderful brave family inc. Henry, boxes, newspaper adds, stuff that I considered un-saleable at the car boot, and our noisy almost real gas fire. It was, I have to admit, a time for looking back on our lives together and looking forward to a future we couldn’t imagine. For Sebastian and Ali it was a time for adventure and being grown up, for Libby I didn’t know how she really felt then and to this day still don’t.
January fluttered by like a butterfly, in a maelstrom of packing cases, car boot sales, faxes from the notaire, e-mails from OUR agent, and picking up our new car. Yes, goodbye to two very expensive, very flash automobiles and hello to one new left hand drive Renault Espace diesel, imported from Holland. The Jeep went a week later at a small but very welcome profit.
Sooner than we expected and faster than a gendarme going for his lunch, February arrived with rain, St Valentines, wind…(Henry was always to blame but I am not so sure) and the removal people. From the size of the guys involved they would have done justice to a New York SWAT squad, a very powerful rugby side or half a dozen wrestling tag teams. Although they were built like brick outhouses, they were polite with our goods and chattels and very gentle with Elaine or perhaps it was the other way around.
The brood and Henry were packed off to my parents for the two day packing and loading marathon….so Henry wouldn’t get upset and Elaine and I were alone for the first time in months. We had a fantastic afternoon together, away from everything, in the warmth and darkness……….of the local cinema watching George Clooney robbing a few casinos.
By the time Clooney had stolen (in glorious Technicolor Dolby digital surround sound) the GNP of some small African nation, our own private SWAT team had stuck everything into packing cases of varying shapes and sizes, leaving the bare necessities, a bed for us to sleep on, a kettle, teapot and teabags and enough cups to keep them lubricated for the loading the next day.
We sat on the carpet looking at bare walls, chaos, boxes, and all our worldly goods and listened to the silence intermittently broken by our almost real gas fire. It was a poignant moment, because, until then we had always had the kids or dog to distract us…now it was just an uncertain foreign French future and us.
