So we were the proud owners of a gorgeous home in a wonderful town in southwest France.
All our furniture was in place, the brood had made camp in their allotted bedrooms and Elaine and I went exploring our new home. The living area of the house had been very tastefully decorated with a mix of Anglo-French décor and we felt we could live with that for a while, upstairs was a different matter.
One of the bedrooms had huge pink rose wallpaper everywhere…walls, cupboards, doors and ceiling…sunglasses (and a large glass of wine, well that was my excuse) were needed to look in there….so we didn’t very often.
The hall and landing were painted in a deep red. We could have re-enacted The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Pulp Fiction and you would not have noticed the blood stains…that is our first job, announced the Gruppenfueher, we will paint it all a “nice” shade of cream she announced. To cover that red we would need to paint it a “nice” shade of cream at least three times I thought as we trudged around the place making, you guessed it, more lists.
The next day the painting started in earnest with “nice” cream paint flying in all directions trying but noticeably failing to cover the backdrop to Custer’s Last Booth, sorry, Stand. The kids all joined in the project with abandon…well what they actually said was “they wanted to abandon the project”, but I ignored their pleas for clemency and bribed them with lunch at a local brasserie.
That afternoon they asked to be released from slavery and go out into our small medieval town…we agreed.
Elaine and I had spent many hours discussing schooling for the children and had decided that we would register Libby with the local école primaire (primary school) and the elder two for college, ready for them to start school after Easter for the summer term. By the third week the kids were climbing the walls with boredom and we were climbing the walls with them.
A delegation of three young children approached me one evening and put forward the motion that they start school as soon as possible, the motion was unanimously accepted with alacrity.
The next day I wandered over the road to our pretty local primary school hoping to arrange an appointment with the principal, to be told that if I could bring my child over straight away we could get everything sorted out immediately. Elaine quickly scrubbed away a layer of paint from her face and hands and changed into something more appropriate for the meeting. Paint splattered dungarees are just not right for meeting headmistresses. The head of the school came out to meet the three of us. She was young smiling and wearing a “Good Morning Vietnam” t- shirt. Why couldn’t my school heads have been so pleasant?
She explained how it all worked, chatted a little with Libby whose French was negligible, and announced that she could start the next morning!
We were all completely shell-shocked by the informality, efficiency, speed and the t-shirt. French bureaucracy can be a nightmare, but other than Fagin the Notaire this was the first of numerous pleasant experiences dealing with French civil servants. In all the years we have lived here, we have had one disappointing experience, but even that was quickly sorted out at our second attempt.
The next morning, a Friday, a very nervous Libby tightly holding her mum’s hand walked over the road for her first day at her new school. Half an hour later the other two walked up with Elaine and I to the college to see if we could arrange an appointment with the head. Exactly the same thing occurred.
We were ushered into the Directors study, asked various questions, given a brief tour of the school, and within the hour told they could both start on Monday morning. As we were completing the paperwork the head suddenly announced he was terribly sorry but that there was a problem with Alex starting the following Monday. He got up from behind his desk and disappeared out of his office. We kept form filling hoping he wasn’t going to the Notaire for advice, but five minutes later he walked back in smiling and waving more paperwork about.
“It is unfortunate” he said gravely “that the class Alexandra will be joining are all going on a school trip, for three days next week”. “But, there is a spare place if she would like to join them”.
And that is why Ali’s first three days at her new school were spent skiing in the Pyrenees.
Lucky for some, the closest Elaine and I got to powder that year was Polyfilla. It must be said, that I thought Ali was very brave joining her new classmates for the first time at 6.30 in the morning on a coach. She loved the skiing and is now the best in the family, but, on that trip, was very lonely and homesick once she got off the slopes. At one point I had to stop Elaine getting the car out and driving down to the mountains to bring her home.
The children took to French school life, like canards to water, quickly making some great friends, learning the language and the swear words (they had little choice if they wanted to converse with these new pals) and receiving lots of praise from their professors, not of course for their street language.
Talking about the street, Libby loved going out investigating her environment and meeting the local artisans and shopkeepers, she didn’t know their names but regaled us with tales of these people.
Slipper man delivered the local paper (La Depeche) just as she headed out to primary school, on his scooter in his carpet slippers. After a couple of days she used to wave to him on his delivery and from that point to now, every time he passes our house he toot toots the horn to wish us good morning….whatever time it is.
He wears his slippers for all morning delivery activities then puts on green Wellington boots to do his day job as a gardener, then on go the slippers for his afternoon aperitifs. He is very proud of his attire and buys a new pair of fluffy footwear every year after much deliberation at our Sunday market. Within a couple of weeks I was introduced to Slipper man and we have become great friends….he still doesn’t understand the rules of rugby nor any other sport for that matter and Elaine and he argue over what should be hacked to pieces for the winter and what should stand tall and proud surviving our frosty winter month(s). He and I only argue occasionally and that is usually over whether Pastis or Ricard is the true aperitif, as we carry out impromptu marathon tasting tests.
So you have now met one of the locals, next on Libby’s agenda was Smelly man. She came home one afternoon announcing with gusto that she had bumped into Smelly man. We were aghast at her cheek, but were reliably informed that everyone around here called him smelly man…and she was right, they did and he was. Stories abound about him, most of which are unprintable or libellous…. so we won’t delve too deeply but if you are ever in our neck of the woods enjoying a cool beer or cup of coffee at one of the local cafes and are suddenly assailed my powerful wafts of unpalatable odours…you have just met smelly man.
