My Life in the P-O – Twenty Years On: Episode 7
Episode 1 :Twenty Years On
Episode 2 :Twenty Years On
Episode 3 :Twenty Years On4
Episode 4 :Twenty Years On
Episode 5 :Twenty Years On
Episode 6 :Twenty Years On
Are you sitting comfortably? Good, because today I would like to have a rant about the bins. What a load of rubbish!
When we first moved here more than 20 years ago, we had bins at the end of our drive which were shared with the close neighbours. We moaned constantly about them of course…like you do. Had to carry bin bags to the end of the drive, they were badly positioned, they filled up too quickly, the bin men woke us up when they emptied the bin noisely…but when they took them away and installed bigger, communal bins at the end of the road for EVERYBODY, we very quickly forgot that end-of-drive bins had been our mortal ennemy for years, and spoke of them with longing, with affection. How dare they replace these much-loved, useful, strategically placed and well thought out bins for these ugly, UFO style refuge collectors.
And then they started popping up all over the Vallespir, often placed on pavements outside some poor bugger’s house or on a patch of grass which also serves as a local doggy loo in Céret centre and that really gave us something on which to focus our wrath!
We are lucky to have my 85 year old mother-in-law living at the end of our road. (I would put an emoji here but I don’t have a suitable one). She is on her own, very independant, but should she have to get into her car to drive to the end of our very narrow road (we live on a piste cyclable) to empty her bin? No! Of course not. If you’re thinking here that we should empty her bins for her at the same time as our own, you are absolutely right, but we find it difficult enough to remember to stop the car when we pass the bin and have been known to leave bags in the boot for days.
Oh, and one more thing before you lose the will to live…if you’re little like me, or a weakling (also like me) it’s quite difficult to put enough weight on the bar at the bottom with your foot to open the bin. Oh, oh yes, and another thing, the holes are sometimes too small for big bags…. I think it’s time for a cup of tea and some blood pressure medication!
And exciting news! We have a puppy. He is sooooooo gorgeous, cuddly, soft….and very very naughty. We have no idea of his past but everything is new for him, smells, sights and sounds and we think he must have been in a cage all of his short life. He is everything a good dog shouldn’t be. (Or do I mean nothing a good dog should be?) He pees on the floor before going outside and looking innocent, he jumps up at visitors, he steals our slippers, he runs after cars and bikes so we have to keep him on his lead when we go out….but we are already so in love with him that none of it matters.
We’re not even sure what he is – judge for yourselves – and we don’t care. Poppet’s nose has been put a little bit out of joint so she’s getting lots of extra cuddles. At 13 she is an elderly lady and very disaproving of his shenanigans, but she easily puts him in his place. So meet Bobby.
Last week we went to Toulouse to spend some time with our lovely cousins.
Virbrant and dynamic centre, loads of shops and a fabulous hotel, but the highlight had to be the raclette. Part dinner, part ritual, part delicious excuse to melt an unreasonable amount of cheese over potatoes, charcuterie, mushrooms and anything else that bravely volunteers, a raclette is gloriously molten, looks slightly chaotic and tastes delicious. It’s a social event disguised as a meal. Friends gather around a table, and patiently watch their little pans of cheese hubble, bubble and melt, with plenty of wine and chat in between.
Just before my trip to Toulouse, I decided to see if I could turn the haystack into a vaguely sophisticated style. My hairdresser at Dessange in Perpignan was doubtful He was right. He turned me into a princess for about 20 mins but by the time I reached the carpark I had already turned back into a frog. It didn’t help being on the back of Olivier’s motorbike.
By the time we got home, Olivier, who is French by birth but British, even Yorkshire by his tea drinking habits, hardly took his helmet off before sitting down for his cup of tea and ginger snap!
And finally, as you know, I’m full of useless info. Here’s a useful French expression for you. ‘Quand on parle du loup, on en voit la queue.’ Literally meaning ‘When you speak of the wolf, you see its tail’, the English equivalent is ‘speak of the devil!’
The saying dates back to the late Middle Ages, when wolves were common and feared across rural France. People believed that mentioning a dangerous creature might attract it, so the joke was that if you talked about the wolf, you might suddenly glimpse its tail.
Today the phrase is usually shortened to ‘Quand on parle du loup! ‘, and the rest is implied but the playful image of the wolf’s tail still lingers in the full proverb.
Join me next week for another ramble? Hope so. Xx
D
Dear Kate
Your ski story reminded me. We were originally from Aberdeen, so skied regularly in winter. Then moved to northern England chasing jobs.
Bought our second home here with the idea of Christmas time skiing. Went once.
Then realised we were too old to safely continue. Heh ho. Still here 37 years later though.
Thank you for the entertaining tales.