Our House is Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth

Author:Susan Cutsforth [Cutsforth, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Memoir, Travel Writing
ISBN: 9781922129123
Publisher: Melbourne Books
Published: 2012-12-15T05:00:00+00:00

The End of the First Week

The roofers indicated that they wouldn’t come to work on the roof on Friday. As they left on Thursday a huge storm was predicted, so it was fortunate that at the end of each working day the enormous tarpaulin was put back in place. Luckily, the storm didn’t eventuate. As they left I thanked them profusely, ‘Merci beaucoup,’ and Stuart understood that their reply communicated, ‘It is all part of the service.’ We were actually glad they wouldn’t be on site the next day as we had the team from Piscine Ambiance scheduled to work all day on the pool. As Christian didn’t appear on Thursday to mow more grass and spray the weeds, we were thankful not to have three teams of artisans working on our property at once. It all seemed somewhat extreme and nouveau riche.

I finally found time to catch up on sleep and go to bed early on Thursday evening to luxuriate in a long read. By the time I woke on Friday, it had been nearly twelve hours of much-needed rest. Could we only have been here a week?

I had just had my petit déjeuner and written a single sentence in my notebook when the first Piscince Ambiance van arrived, ahead of schedule. I went to greet them and managed to convey where the electricity was outside and the water supply in the decrepit old cow shed. Julian turned on the tap and filthy brown water gushed out. I was not sure where the water for filling the pool would come from, but at least this source was just to mix the concrete today. He then indicated that the hose was broken and not long enough to reach the pool. Another item to add to the perpetual bricolage list. I decided it was time to wake Stuart with a cup of tea and let him know that the team had arrived and that I had sorted it to the best of my ability (in a basic few words accompanied, as usual, by many gestures). Stuart had a hasty petit déjeuner before dashing off to the bank to sort extra money on our French cash card. I could never quite fully grasp how it worked, but the balance seemed to always be in a state of flux depending on what you had spent and at what time of the day. Both he and Anne-Marie had tried to explain it to me, but all I heard were Anne-Marie’s words telling me, ‘I know it looks like you are in debit, but, really, the balance will automatically correct itself from your account.’ Just like with all things financial, I tended to glaze over and know that our money was in good hands with Stuart’s considerable financial acumen. He raced back in with fresh artisan bread from the boulangerie, which we hastily ate with luscious sweet abricot confiture that I had bought from the Martel markets. Stuart then dashed back out to the bricolage,

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