That's 37 centimes sagely spent...

Last Sunday was the annual village brocante - car boot sale. The village is blocked off to all evil through-traffic, and every street is packed with stands selling the entire contents of peoples' attics and manky old cupboards, and all their children’s cherished hoardings.

Does anyone else find this slightly embarrassing?  I mean, it’s OK at an anonymous Field Brocante, but to gaze lengthily at the personal belongings of neighbours and village acquaintances and then Reject them muttering ‘Heavens...since five this morning?  Well ... bye then!’

Of course brocantes are always more fun if you have an objective... our general aim is Something that brings a chortle, but this year George’s additional goal was a French Monopoly set.  Evidently not played much in this village...

We found several million jigsaw puzzles and plastic men-in-cars, though, and a Poker Kit that I was tempted by. (Not sure why, as Beat Thy Neighbour has remained the zenith of my card-playing skills).  Unless Cunning was included in kit form too... 

Suddenly I spied a red, Chinese-dragon-covered parasol – quirky, decorative and jolly handy in these final days of stifling sunshine. Acceptable price of two euros.  And what a delight when the threatening drizzle became a drenching downpour, and my parasol turned out to be made not of paper but of… something… rainproof!

How proudly I twirled my beautiful brolly twixt stalls being frenziedly covered in plastic. How we Chortled when we got home and discovered the beautiful blue bit was actually Paint once lain in… 

I scooped up a handful of French paperbacks by an author I didn't know but who sounded detectively interesting.  You learn really useful phrases from such reading – ‘His body lay sprawled in the bath, brain splattered across the tiles…’, or ‘What! - That guy's still hanging around the neighbourhood?’ Doubled my party banter…

After a goodly time wandering, we were contemplating the bar or the refreshment table on the square when we walked into It! Hanging from the fence behind a stall of bottle tops and postcards was a black thing of finest netting. Topped by a black coolie hat from which dangled wisps of material, interlaced tassles and beads – all, blackest black - the Thing seemed to be shaped into a long tube – what could it be?

A lengthy Lobster Pot, I mooted boldly… or something you might get Changed Inside on a beach? (wearing the coolie hat); Mourning Dress, perhaps – elegantly concealing all expression of grief; how about an avant-garde Party Outfit?

None of these – it was of course a moustiquaire! (Not, as I kept calling it, a mousqetaire).

"It's a Mosquito Net for your bed,” the stallholder explained, “Or some people put them over an armchair or a settee - just attach the top to the ceiling”.

                

Fabulous! It’s bound to repel spiders too! Or why not, at the height of the insect season, just walk around inside it to the shops, for infallible personal protection?  You can also pull it from one end to the other of your picnic table - fly-free feasts!  How have we coped without this wonder!

The stallholder seemed surprised when we said we wanted it, but beamingly detached it from the fence with care, then found us a particularly lovely Hermès carrier bag to bear it home in. 

Styles available are manifold -the two shown above can but offer a basic hint - but here, modelled by a glamorous person we found lurking, is The Most Wonderful!

Everybody needs...

They’re all moving! In this time of financial crisis and House Market plummets, everybody else in our little clutch of outer-village dwellings is moving away. What are they not telling us?

In fact, old Philippe died fairly decisively… the man opposite changed his job… next door but one wants to be near her grandchildren… and two doors down – well, it’s just too sordid to talk about (any more)…

People don’t seem to move as often in France as in the UK, maybe because it’s such a faff. When you leave, you empty the house completely – curtains and rails, handy picture hooks, light fittings with bulbs (although they did leave us a solitary 40w on a scary bit of wire).

George and I landed in this unrecognisably bleak shell one freezing December night straight from final solicitor’s signings to find also that gas, electricity and water were switched off. With our furniture arriving next day, we got wine, water, candles and edibles from the village shops (mercifully open till 7pm), toasted our little cave and shared a sleeping bag, wearing every jumper we’d packed into the one case.

Next morning, our great big van arrived at seven thirty, having demolished a string of Christmas lights negotiating the village. (Perhaps nobody would know it was us…). There followed a frenzy of organising gas, electricity and water – the wherewithal for tea being paramount if we wanted our stuff unpacking...

With daylight we found not only our two cellars, but keys thereto, and the nice man from the water company patiently explained where the stop tap was. (Had we been able to see it the night before, we could apparently have unleashed that utility right away). Once we did unleash it, the water from the kitchen tap went into overdrive-flow and wouldn’t stop – switched on or not.

We then had visits from gas and electricity; French utilities insist on coming to inspect new customers for unfortunate tendencies and out-of-date equipment (which they find), then they tell you to get hold of a private contractor because they wouldn’t touch that apparatus with a barge pole.

In spite of all this, though, most seem to approach moving house with a gallic shrug; presumably they’re resigned to spending several months unscrewing everything because they know the place they’re going will also be devoid of content. Unless you count twenty years-worth of empty wine bottles, rusty garden implements and a gestapo greatcoat that we unearthed later.

Our current neighbours are exuberantly friendly and I’m sure we’ll miss them, but it’ll be exciting to see who’ll take their place. Our estate agent noted with hilarity that English people always ask "what are the neighbours like?" What’s so funny?

Admittedly, you have to try and glean true meanings behind the inevitable “lovely”, "salt of the earth" (or baffled “Pfouff” in France), but pleasant neighbours are a huge bonus. Even Unpleasant, you’ll have to communicate with them sometime, if only to borrow an emergency plaster or to extricate your cat from their dog…

Oh lord, the pets! Now how are they all going to get on?...

The Call of the Pompier!

HARK! Who comes there down our chimney, this festive tide?

Well - he doesn’t quite come down the chimney… But I bet he could if he wanted! And he does bear gifts and glad tidings and plenty of Christmas Cheer... He’s the POMPIER on his annual calendar round! (Firefighter in England-our-old-country).

This year it was Caporal Legrand (or Bernard as he introduced himself) who called with the 2009 Pompiers Calendar. Their visit is always a delight. They come in the early evening, take a glass of wine and stay for a jolly chat. Bernard even invited us to his home for aperitifs!

Our first calendar-call seven years ago was, admittedly, slightly tricky; we’d only been in the country for three days and didn’t immediately grasp his Fund-Raising purpose. It took the poor man quite some time to get money out of us for his kind offer of a calendar.

Pompiers deal with fires, road accidents, medical emergencies, escaped llamas… in fact traumas of every ilk. They also attend commemorative events, and spread the Joy of Community.

Astonishingly, 85% of Pompiers in France are volunteers. (Well, it astonished me, but I hadn’t realised that in other European countries they’re mostly volunteers - the UK seems unusual in being largely professional). Here, they often have full-time jobs but are constantly on call.

During our first year in France, the village Chef Pompier came away immediately from his masonry to do something about the seven trillion bees we’d just found upstairs. How exasperating for him! Yet after bee-banishing, he even gave us his mobile number in case we needed to contact him urgently again! I wanted to marry him.

And I’m not alone… there is a huge feeling of warmth, respect and trust towards Pompiers. Some people even choose to phone them instead of the Medical Emergency number when they’re having a cardiac arrest or the odd arm has been broken... A friend explained that for her, it's an inbred response from childhood – Pompiers are like Supermen – they can solve anything.

This year’s calendar is fabulous as always: packed with colourful, exciting photographs of these amazing men and women coping in all sorts of dire emergencies, saving people, shrugging it all off with a smile. And there are photos of the local force posing shyly with helmets and handy digging or chopping implements. Inspirational people - always looking happy, always ready to make it better!

(Of course, I could have been one if I hadn't just reached the upper age limit)

What's to become of us?

Ages since I babbled about the local elections here, and now we have a new Mayor and completely new team. It didn't even get to the Second Round.


Of course, nothing could extract from me which candidates George and I were sticking up for, but I suspect those in charge might guess - we were the only ones to lick our envelopes and so drench them in dribble.

How were we to know they didn't have glue? Apparently the idea is simply to fold them shut with voting papers hidden inside, then the clerk shoves them rapidly inside the box. In our cases, he was particularly keen to let go.

One of the new administration's major headaches must be the sudden disappearance of the village butcher. Myriad rumours, but most likely reason is unpleasantness between him and his boss. Even more disturbing, however, are rumours of the imminent disappearance of the baker! Bread is of paramount importance in France - a mere week's holiday for the baker results in agonised gnashing of teeth and renting of garments.

I wonder how desperate they'd have to be to eat George's recent Hot Cross Bun efforts. Which, despite puzzling consistency of the Cross, are very flavoursome (make sure teeth are firmly glued).

I Wanna Be ELECTED!!

George and I are ensconced in concentrated study of our Candidate Lists for the Local Elections. As it's our first time voting in France, we feel it deserves particular effort.

One of the Village Elders contacted us (twice) just before the New Year deadline to urge us to get onto the Electoral Register. This could be because he thought we'd be on his side. Nevertheless it was kind of him to take the trouble, so we joined the ranks of voters. And we're PROUD!

France goes about its elections in unusual ways... our village has less than 1000 inhabitants and we have received two "Lists" of candidates. Each List equals a "Team", consisting of a Head Person (the current Mayor is Head of one Team), and fourteen other members.

What we do on voting day tomorrow, is go to the Mayor's Office brandishing several thousand Proofs of Identity, Eligibility and Worthiness, and pick up a copy of each List which will be decoratively displayed on a table. (I won't even mention the simultaneous District Elections - it's just too fiddly).

We then plunge into a dark and curtained cupboard, and are not allowed to come out until we have finished voting correctly. We do this not by putting a friendly cross next to our favourite(s), but by scoring in heavy black ink through everyone else. It seems very impolite - they all look so... deserving!

When we received the first List - beaming Team photo, reminders of previous achievements and impressive reports of future plans, I was hugely enthused. Then we received the second List - equally appealing photo, reports and plans. How to decide? Specially as we don't know them all - it's one thing not to vote for a person you don't know, but scratching them out is somehow quite venomous.

Apparently we can mix and match from each Team to choose our own Supergroup of anything up to, but no more than, fifteen finalists. What's more, you can even add a name - why not your own? And I'm sure this eventual melange will be able to work harmoniously and productively together, no matter what they've said about each other during the campaign.

Counting is done at the place of voting, and results will be known tomorrow evening. Then we find out who's going through to the crucial Round Two, next Sunday - MORE decisions!

Being Politically Active is such a responsibility.