Yuri Geller, the nervous chicken and Viva Espana

Tuesday 6 March 2018

Sun and showers 15 degrees

As a brief follow up to my previous post, neither the American nor Mr C made a real offer and neither are now replying to my emails or phone calls.  How often does this happen, you may wonder.  A lot is the reply.  However, and to my great joy and surprise, I got a call from some 'real' people, with cash in the bank and knowing exactly what they want.  Class A clients and ones to get excited about.

I made a teeny bad start by telling them the wrong exit number to leave the autoroute but, finally, we got together and the sun came out and we rolled off to see the first house.  It was not one which they had chosen but they had come a long way and if they didnt like their choice, it was a good idea to get another iron in the fire.  Unfortunately, the minute we got out of my car, I could tell they didnt like it.  Although, for France, the house is in great condition, it is not in UK perfect condition.  'Hmmm' said the lady; doing the nervous chicken movement.  What is this, you ask?  Stand at the entrance to a room, dont actually put your feet into it, and crane your neck around the door.  We were not there very long and the sun had already started to drop behind the horizon.  I suggested an apéro.  They relaxed considerably, we had a long chat, and tomorrow was another day.

The house they had chosen is in a high valley and surrounded by rolling hills and, in theory, wonderful views of the Pyrénées.  How often do the mountains appear and thrill my buyers, I hear you ask?  Never.  I have yet, in 14 years of real estate, to sell a house with wonderful views, when you can actually see the dratted things.  As per usual, they were hiding behind a heat haze.  The people were enchanted by the house and then left to view with other agents.  I said if they were really serious about it and DEFINITELY going to offer, I would come back with them on Sunday.  They said yes and I left and felt rather excited.

On Sunday it was another three hours but, later on that day, they offered and I got them and the owner signed up hasta pronto and all papers off to the notaire within a day.  Just as well, because another agent had someone interested and ready to offer.  My buyers didnt say a lot about the other houses they had seen, other than one of them was so bad, they would need counselling to get the images out of their heads.  Poor, S, she had taken them right down into the mountains.  She must have done nearly 200k with them.  

Another case has been grinding on since last Summer.  The owner lives in the USA and is very advanced in years and also in fragile health and if he dies before we complete, it will be an administrative nightmare.  The notaires never ring one another up but rely on email and waiting about a week before replying.  The buyer is very frustrated.  First off, he was promised a loan by a French bank who then said, actually.... no, after four months so he then had to get a loan back in the country where he lives and Christmas and New Year got in the way and, for a country which is supposed to be very efficient and well organised, it has taken a LONG time and now he has decided to buy via a company so that is another baton in the proverbial wheel.  I am sick of it.  I just want to get paid and file this one.

And, speaking of administrative treacle....

When we came to France, we thought that it was difficult to get things done but France has nothing on Spain.  OH has been cracking on with great speed on the renovation of our house and so I relented and agreed that we could have a little weekend break.  He works better with the thought of time off to motivate him.  Yes, I know we had six weeks off over Christmas and he has been doing the renovation for the last 18 months, but the end is finally in sight.  So we rolled off to Asturias and to Gijon, which is a city on the sea and most enjoyable.

It was on the journey over that he realised that he hadnt sent his brother a birthday card.  It became my job to obtain said card and a stamp.  There was a huge post office opposite the hotel so I 'popped' in for a stamp.  

The marble steps led to a door which wouldnt open til I had taken a ticket - the sort you take when waiting for an appointment.  Having obtained entrance into the vast marble hall, I was confronted by a semi-circular room with double height ceiling and eight booths, only three of which were occupied.  A number bonged and it corresponded to my ticket.  I approached the booth and asked for a 'timbre pour Inglaterra'.  This caused great consternation and I was sent to another booth.  'Un sello pour Inglaterra?  Un solo?'.  'Si'.  The woman got out a book of stamps and found that the stamps for the Uk were only sold in groups of four and I would have to pay 5.40 euros.  'Un sello' I insisted 'un solo, y no quatro.  No me necessita quatro'.  The woman frowned in such a way as to show she was greatly painted at what I was doing to her language.  She sent me to another booth.  The man took one of the stamps out of the packet and sold it to me.  The women tutted.  'Revuelta'  I shouted happily, thinking it meant I would be back but actually is a scrambled egg dish.

The card was easier to find in a shop called Tiger which is Danish and just stuffed full of unnecessary plastic objects which you never knew you just had to have.  Two cards for a euro.  My normal strategy is to buy the most bizarre card possible.  I chose one with a yellow fox saying 'baaamm!!' and wrote and addressed it and stuck on the stamp.  Alas, the massive post office had no post box in sight, so it was back up the marble steps.  I threw caution to the winds and ran in with another client on his ticket.  The man who had sold me the ticket looked surprised to see me again.  I showed him my envelope and he weighed it.  I was momentarily traumatised.  What if it were too heavy?  How on earth would they manage to sell me a stamp to make up the difference.  Fortunately it was under 20 grams.

The man studied the envelope  SHEE FEH ELD?  He bellowed?  Sheffield, I affirmed.  INGLATERRA.  Si!!  He shrugged and shoved it in a box. Will it ever arrive in the North?  A suivre....

We had a rest and then OH went out to 'discover' good bars whilst I enjoyed a deep bath and lots of bubbles.  I then had to go out and find him.  This often takes a long time because he is dyslexic and I have no sense of direction.  It can take up to an hour for us to find a place he can spell and one I can find.  I got to the appointed bar and lurked outside.  Couples were walking past and the rain was lashing down.  OH rang and said he was in a bar where the owner was being hypnotised and the hypnotist was also bending spoons like Yuri Geller and could I come there instead.  He couldnt tell me where it was and rang off.  I tried to ring back and got number unobtainable.  He rang back 

'what is wrong with your phone?  I cant get through'

'I accidentally put it on emergency mode so it wouldnt ring when the guy was being hypnotised, and now I cant switch it off.  Come to this bar, I will ask the lady where it is'.  Mad cackling and the line went dead.  I went into the bar and ordered a G and T.  The phone rang again.  'Get a taxi' I bellowed over the din ' tell them the Taj Mahal'.  The gin was very nice and I had just about finished it when OH turned up.  He was hoarse.  He had a gin too and then we went out to refind the bar with the Yuri Geller hypnotist.  He had absolutely no idea where it was but suddenly, it appeared and we went in.

It was heaving and a party was in full swing and we were there til three am during which time we agreed to go and see the owners in Minorca and no one frowned at our terrible Spanish and we drank a lot of wine.  I am not quite sure how we got back to the hotel but I suspect, many brain cells died that night.  My Samsung told me that I had done 26000 steps which is nearly 18 kms.

The next day we took it easier and strolled around the prom and found a wonderful seafood restaurant serving chipirones (baby squid) which were absolutely to die for.  My shins were killing me.  Felt I needed to go home and sit down for a week.

Cette opération demande une élévation....

Sunday 18 February 2018

Sunny periods with rain 11 degrees

Yesterday started at 3 am when I woke up and thought it was morning, but of a later variety. An hour later, I finally nodded off again and then woke at eight and photographed my new haul of buttons. Some real beauties, from Japanese style flat daisy flowers to dark blue wedges to paler blue baskets filled with bobbled flowers. I would show you pictures if my computer allowed but it is sulking and I have just had to read a chapter of my book while it deigned to open up a page. As I am in bed, it is refusing to access the internet. At least the company tech guy has managed to get my Word Processing programme to work. When I try to open a document, it has taken to telling me that 'cette opération demande une élévation'. I have no idea what this means, but if there are any elevations upcoming, I am in the line ahead of this dratted machine. The printer is also refusing to connect to the network and I have left the cable in the UK so we are waiting for another one to turn up. How frustrating is technology.

Yesterday, still in the pursuit of new property, I started ringing up the houses which I had found for sale online. The first one belonged to a name I recognised as a lady I had worked with in the past. This was encouraging as it is far harder to say no to someone you know. I got a man on the line and he was extremely hard of hearing. I did get an appointment for Monday. I will have to take Strepsils in advance. The next three people weren't in and two people told me to sod off. Ah, the joys of immobilier.

OH decided we needed to whack some suspects ie take off the hot and warm list the people who had contacted the agency for property but were not replying to emails or phone calls. I get an email from a client who has been toying with the idea of making an offer since last year. 'Let's whack him !' said OH who is convinced this guy is far more of a suspect than a prospect. No, we were not whacking him. I wrote back and told him I have someone else who is coming next week and will definitely offer. He got back and said to let him know what happened. Why can't I ever get people desperate to buy. I then get a call from the French man (very tall) of a week ago. The one who had spent 40 minutes telling me why he didnt like the first house I showed him. He started telling me about why he was not, definitely not, in no circumstances about to offer on the second house. The one his wife really liked. He ended up by saying the price was far too high. 'So, what if it was lower ? Make an offer and we will see what the owner says'. An offer is a starting point ; we have something to talk about and if someone is in negotiation on a house, they usually stop thinking about other houses. 'I'm not making an offer !' bellowed Mr C over the roar of the trafic where he was parked 'it is up to him to say what is his lowest price !!'. He then disappeared. OH was of the opinion that if I rang the owner and asked for his lowest price, the owner would say it was my job to negotiate and not his. I rang back and gave him a suggested offer. The owner is very, very keen to sell but is a bit prickly. Any offer needs to be written and I need to find out what part of the purchase funds comes from a loan. Mr C had said it was a little loan. How little is little ? Mr C didnt ring me back and I suddenly realised it was nearly 1 pm and I needed to don the motley and head out into the gloom.

I had found the mill property on a site which carries private ads and it looked promising, with a separate house and a river which was strong enough to make electricity. The owner had told me to go from LC down the A10 for 1,5 kms and then turn right on a bend by a pavillion with white gates. I had the address and thought OK I dont need her to come out to the Mairie. Unfortunately I went one stop too far on the autoroute – in that French way, my GPS refused to acknowledge the existence of the town and the name of the town only appears on the overhead panels when you are heading east. I was heading west. It took 40 minutes and I got to LC and stopped in front of the Mairie and examined the instructions. Head for HV on the A10. I headed for HV, which turned out to be where I had just come from. The road was the A23. I fiddled with the GPS and it took me over some roads which were like tiny bands of sheet metal, sheen-bright and snaking. Eight kms later, I emerged onto the A10 and I was nearly back in HV. I rang the lady. She gave me more directions and I eventually found her, standing on the side of the road, 5 kms from HV with not a pavillion in sight. 'I knew you werent paying attention when I gave you instructions' she said ' you made a gros erreur'. 'I have been following your instructions for the last 40 minutes since I left the autoroute !!' I exclaimed. She got in and we went down a narrow road to the mill. The location was idyllic.

The house, built in 1760 was typical of this area with whitewashed walls, crisply painted dark red shutters and a pleasing regular distribution of windows around the centrally placed front door. Inside was another matter. Where the ceilings and beams had been painted white, the rooms were welcoming 'Le bonheur est dans le pré !' claimed the mantlepiece. Le bonheur was not in the duster or hoover. It was extremely dirty throughout. The son and his girlfriend were living free there and the mother had decamped. Upstairs, the wood had not been painted. It was very gloomy. Then onto the outbuildings – two vast barns one of which contained the turbine which would make electricity. The owner assured me that it functioned but the machinery looked very rusty and the bands were limp. Into another room and there was a serious amount of machinery. It was being taken away by a couple who had decided to become choclatiers and were thrilled to have found such authentic early 20^th century chocolate working machines. These, also, were seriously dirty and rusty. There would be shed loads of work to do to render them fit to render any item comestible. I took lots of photos and the sun came out. This is the sort of property which people really like the sound of and want to visit, but are then discouraged by the enormity of the barns. The second house 'to renovate' was full of rubble. A bright new roof perched like a toupée on top of the ancient stones.

We did the contract and I went for a hot chocolate in HV. Last weekend's American had written and said would the mill owners accept an offer of …. It was under 20% of the asking price. The real answer was 'what the xxxx are you playing at ?'. I said he needed to make sure his brother wanted to come in on the sale and any offer would need to be written. He said he would think about it some more.

Back home and another 140 kms of fuel burned. OH made hake with stir fry potatoes accompanied by a crisp white. Early to bed as I couldnt stay awake.

Beeping, booming and cru-cru joy

Friday 16 February 2018

Still catching up on week's events

One of 2016's fun Christmas presents was an electronic key finder.  I had put it away and it had effectively been lost for 14 months but it suddenly turned up in a drawer.  I am always losing my phone.  The packaging promised that if you just say 'keys' or clap your hands, a beeper would sound and it would be a tranche de gateau to find your missing item.  It was wrapped in the sort of impenetrable hard plastic which makes the scissor blades skate sideways.  'Phone' I said, loudly.  The key finder started emitting a rather loud beep.  I pressed various buttons.  It carried on beeping.  I clapped my hands and said 'Phone' and it still didnt stop.  So I hid it in a ruck sack in the hallway and forgot about it.

Later on, when we were watching yet another episode of the Onedin Line, a broom fell over in the kitchen and a distant beeping started up in the hallway.   OH looked around.  I pretended not to hear.  Eventually it stopped.  Elisabeth was toying with the affections of both the posh toff guy and the dastardly Daniel Foggarty.  I crept up to bed and waited for OH to start banging about as he turned things off.  Sure enough, the beeping started again.  He didnt say anything but I could hear his brain whirring.....

This went on for a week before he isolated the sound.  Surprisingly, he didnt put it in the bin but has left it in the rucksack.  He shouts 'creep past it' to me as I head up the stairs.  Off course, this sets it off.  He just shouts 'shut up' at it.  And it does.

During our sejourn in the UK, quite a few properties had either withdrawn or been sold and the need for new stock is becoming imperative.  The phone rings on Tuesday morning and it is a lady responding to one of my adverts.  She talks at me for 20 minutes and I slot her into a morning appointment, as she will also talk a lot at me whilst I am at the house and I need to allocate time for this.  Wednesday morning and I am at the parking in front of the church, as organised.  No sign of the lady.  All the bars are shut so no possibility of coffee.  Look in yellow pages and find the name and a lady answers.  She sounds sort of the same but not as compus mentis.  Is she having a bad day today?  She says her daughter has been waiting for me since 9 am.  It is now 10.15 and we had a 10 am appointment.  She tells me her address and I drive into a very long driveway with high curved concrete walls.  There is no where to turn around.  A lady of a 'certain age' is waving at me from an upstairs balcony and I am just about to go up the steps when a voice stops me in my tracks.

'What are you doing here!  I have been waiting for you at the church'.  It is a whirlwind of a woman with thick, brindled, round-framed glasses and a forceful manner.  'Follow me', she shouted, running off.  I got back into the car and had trouble reversing out of the driveway.  The daughter came running back and, with a lot of arm waving, managed to extract me from the car wrecking curves.  'It is this house', she bellowed, waving her arms at a very ordinary looking 1960's jobbie.

She cranked up the garage door and we went inside and out of the rain.  She stood an inch away and carried on at full volume.  There was a heck of an echo in the garage and I tried to back off.  She got me by the elbow.  There were a lot of rooms and they were all empty and there was an echo in all of them.  A pain started to develop between my eyes.  Finally, we got out and went to the mother's house, which was much more sellable but unfortunately not for sale, did the sales contract and she gave me a chocolate.  She was still addressing me like I was an auditorium full of people.

'Are you a teacher?'   YES, L'HISTOIRE!!!  She boomed.

Home for a quick omelette and salad.  Must get rid of the 'life-buoy' which has appeared at midriff level.

The afternoon appointment was for the house which my Brits of last week had requested a viewing and then it transpired was totally unsuitable.  The poor dog was still outside and it was raining.  He was thrilled to have a visitor and we entered by the garage.  The seller makes sculptures in 'inox'.  A magnificent five feet tall model of an Infanta was guarding the entrance to the stairs.  I had extracted most of the information from the rival agents' details and the man had really good photos so we just did the sales contract and back home in under an hour..

Thursday dawned clear and cold and then the sun came out and it was a wonderful, blissful, warm Spring day with 18 degrees.  There is a sound which lifts the spirit like no other and there it was; the raucous, joyful cru cruing of cranes.  They milled in a great, chaotic multitude over our house before a small v split off and took direction.  Within a couple of minutes, the main band had organised itself into an arc and set off behind them.  

Winter is officially over and Spring is on the wing above our heads.  Felt thankful and emotional.  What a wonder is Nature.

Deep South

Friday 16 February 2018

18 degrees. Blissful warm day

Monday I was out with a client from the US. He had bought a pied à terre in town last year and now was back over from the Deep South of his country to the deep South West of mine and he was thinking of getting somewhere spacious with great views, and not isolated.

The day dawned grey with the promise of rain on the horizon. I rang the bell and jigged about on the doorstep. A cold wind was chasing some dead leaves along the road. A pair of long legs came down the stairs. Suede shoes with thick rubber soles. It started to rain. Hands were fiddling with a large set of keys and the door opened to reveal a tall man in his early 70's with an Arthur Daley hat and a moustache. We got into my car and we headed off into the gloom. He had a voice like syrup poured over waffle ; deep and rich and hypnotic.

The GPS was playing ball and took us straight to the house instead of into a field which is happened last time I tried to find this house. The man got out and looked around and pushed back his hat and said, 'aha'. It was not clear what this meant. We looked around each room and he said 'aha, ok'. The house, whilst having a 19^th century exterior, is very modern inside. The heat from the underfloor system gave a gentle, uniform warmth which was delightful. 'You know', said the man ' it is VERY modern. I like things to be …... ' he paused for the words 'older...... you know what I mean ?' (Had he not looked at all the photos I had sent him ??) We left and headed south into the mountains.

We talked of Trump and Democrats and Republicans ; of children and of Ruanda and the Côte d'Ivoire and of renters and the difficulty of getting them to leave. He says there are no bailiffs, so you have to go and give notice yourself. His renter had not paid for months, and also had taken to storing his urine in large wine jars in the hallway. In the Deep South, pulling a gun on someone is viewed as a mere misdemeanor and carries a verbal warning. So when a renter doesnt want to leave and pulls a gun on him, he calls the cops and they are just not interested. The renter eventually left and disappeared. I suggest he looks for him on Facebook. People live and die on there.

We get to the village and the mountains are hustling in, their green pine-spiked flanks freshly covered with snow. I suggest a quick sandwich and we go to a boulangerie and take our sandwiches to a bar with windows over looking the river. It is in full spate and there is a thrash of broken branches caught on a dead tree trunk. He tells me about the genocide in Ruanda and how he had met and married a lady to get her out of the country. They go to the Côte d'Ivoire and settle down and think they will start a family. It transpires that the lady cannot have children and is HIV positive. Not being able to have children is a terrible thing in Africa and he says it is acceptable to take a second wife. His first wife says she is good for this and the second wife has twins. I ask do you all live together and there are two options. Either, yes, you can live together or alternatively you set the second wife up on a plot of land and she lives there with your children. The first wife is not, as it transpires, good with this. Now he is in the US with the children and is appalled by Trump, and wants to get out.

We go to the second house, an idyllic mill on a stream. The owners are very, very keen to sell and I always prewarn them to tone down their enthusiasm in case it looks like desperation. We are there two hours. The sun makes a brief appearance and the water sparkles as it rushes under the Roman bridge. My client says he is seriously interested.

I get home at 6 pm after having left at 10 am. OH is still painting the kitchen. It is turning a paler shade of yellow. My English clients from the weekend have emailed to say they have bought in the back of beyond. Am stunned. All that talk of wanting to be in a lively village with easy access to the sea and the mountains. They have obviously been seduced by a fabulous house at a knock down price. There are always reasons why fab houses are being sold for peanuts but no one discovers them until the day they try to sell. Oh big buggerations !! Have to tell the bad news to the lady whose house I was convinced that they were going to offer on.

There is some pizza in the fridge and we watch the Onedin Line. With 91 episodes, it should keep us going all year.

When speeding is going slow......

Sunday 11 February 2018

6 degrees with sunny periods

Because it is Sunday I awoke at 5 am.  Very dark and no bird song.  It is a menace, this waking up early thing.  Margaret Thatcher ran the country whilst sleeping only four hours a night and waking at 5 am.  How is that possible?  Perhaps there was an engine under her hard hat hair do.  Theresa May looks like she needs a few lie-ins.  Her under eye bags are turning into suitcases.

Running on from Friday's visits, yesterday morning was round 2 with the English clients.  The small hotel carpark was nearly empty and they were running late.  I had placed them with an English couple who have just started a B and B and need the business.  They had had an excellent evening meal and then gone down to the local bar with the owners.  'Bit of a late night' said the lady.  

They were heading back to the airport and the house we were seeing was mid way, so they followed me in their hire car.  When I say follow, I mean that occasionally we were in the same post code.  I empathise with people who are cautious drivers but, 45 kms an hour, seriously?  It took a very, very long time to go not very far at all.  I kept on losing them as a flow of irritated French drivers overtook and flashed their lights and waved their arms.  I picked up a guy who drove an inch from my back bumper for 5 kms on a road where you cant overtake.  The house we were going to see was 58 kms away and the motor way was the only option so we took the next junction and really burned rubber at 95 kms an hour.  Most people go about 130.  The Pyrénées were magnificent with their crisp snow napped peaks.  Finally we arrived.

'You were motoring a bit' said the man.  The lady said they drove slowly because the last time they had been stopped for speeding.  I was stunned into silence.  OH thinks I drive like a slug.  If he had been driving, they would still be in the other Département.  I explained that it is possible, and indeed desirable, to go over 45 kms an hour on a route départementale.  The man said 'what is in the barn?'. I got them through the front door before he could start wrenching open the door.

The visit went well but they were still thinking of the second house of yesterday.  The late night out had opened their eyes to the social possibilities of living in our little town.  The lady said 'what do you think of this house' and the man said 'I dont know'.  He went off to climb up to the viewing platform which I had advised not to go on as the decking was green.  We stood at the end of the garden and watched him hanging into the rails as his feet skidded about.  The lady decided that the house was very masculine.  We agreed that that was fixable.  The man came back and we looked at the ugly concrete parking area.  'We could gravel it' he suggested.  There is a significant incline.  I imagined the chips sliding down into the ditch in front of the house.

The lady thanked the owner but the man got in the car and went without saying goodbye.  I was embarrassed.  Owner is very keen to sell and it is a lovely house.  I do wish someone would come along and love it too.  A former boulangerie, the old baking room has the original oven and he has just put in a beautiful kitchen.  I think of my Ikea kitchen and stroke the pink granite worktops....  If only.

Back home briefly and a bowl of noodles and an orange.  OH is painting the kitchen ceiling and the house is in a terrible mess.

To another town, half an hour away in a westerly direction and I find a car full of very jolly French people.  They are looking for a gite and house to live in.  We get to the first house and the car disgorges the lady, who I like immediately, a teenager with a shiny steel smile and a polite handshake, tattie (auntie) and a stupendously tall man. He could hook cranes with a rake.  

We get into the first house and they all follow me round (thank heavens because it is a rabbit warren) and then the man runs around the outside of the building and discovers that the back roof of the house is in fibrociment.  I am a shortie and hadnt seen this and the owners hadnt told me (ahem).  Fibrociment is a material which is used as roofing tiles and is an asbestos/cement sandwich.  Fine if the asbestos is in good nick.  A fortune to have taken away the day it starts to deteriorate.  The man spends 40 minutes telling me why he doesnt like the house.  He rings a friend to find out how much it would be to have the fibrociment taken away.

Finally, I get them back into their car and we go and see the second property and they really like this one (no fibrociment).  Many more bathrooms plus a heated pool.  A major rabbit warren.  We are there 1.5 hours and they ask for me to send the diagnostic reports.  The lady starts talking about how she would organise things for running the business.  Tattie uses the loo and makes a smell.  The teenager climbs a tree.  I want to go home.  It is 5.30 and I started at 9 and I have done nearly 200 kms.

Back home and it is still a terrible mess and we have the end of the seafood risotto.  OH wants to talk about holidays and I fall asleep on the sofa.

Woken by a German seller who had gone silent a week ago and whom I have been ringing and emailing.  He doesnt understand the document which the notaire has sent him to sign.  He then says something which makes cold chills run up and down my spine.  He thinks he is just selling the house and not all the land with it.  He signed the reservation contract back in August.  We had gone through the contract in great detail.  He has been very ill and I think he is confused and so, after about 40 minutes of going round in circles, I say I will get the notaire to email him and set everything out very clearly.  OH gives me wine and puts on the rugby.  'He cant pull out and neither can the buyers' he says.  

Is that a broom cupboard I see before me?

Sunday 11 February 2018
6 degrees with sunny spells

A surprising flush of clients this week.  Often February is dead, estate agency wise, but not this year.  And not last year either.

First out of the blocks are an English couple who have mined to extinction the possibilities of the Dordogne and are now down in the deep south-west.  The area agent rings me up.  'Sell them something!' she exhorts.  They have seen an awful lot of property with her and if I find them a property, she will be in for a cut of fees.  

The meeting is in front of a small hotel in town.  I used to meet people in front of the big hotel but often they would go inside or be on the opposite side or think it was a shop.  No, it is an actual Casino.  No such problems with the small hotel and they are there but need the loo.  The trick is to look purposeful.  I march them past reception and into the loos and hide behind a pillar.  A waiter comes along and I edge carefully around so he cant see me.

Off to the first house, their declared favourite.  It all goes well until we get inside and I can see their faces dropping.  No matter how many photos people see, there is nothing like putting your feet inside a property.  I keep losing them - one minute I am leading and throwing open doors and shutters and then..... where on earth have they gone?  The man is not easily leadable and keeps saying 'what is in here,' and disappearing into cupboards and lofts and cellars.  'Is this the broom cupboard?' he enquires, holding the door open on a small room filled with mops, buckets, dusters and brooms  

They go outside to look at the pool again and I lock up and they have completely vanished.  I discover the man had come back in when I was upstairs and he is now locked in the garage.  I let him out and find his wife down the end of the road.  This is going to be hard work.  I get them back into the car and off to the second property.

'What did you feel about that house?' I ask as we are bowling along.  The man grips the side of the seat.  He feels he should have a steering wheel in front of him.  'We never talk about houses on the same day as we see them', he informs me.  'It is one of our things'.  Great....

We get to the second house and the lady leaps out of the car and says 'oh I like this one'.  We were there for over an hour and I only lose them twice and they are smiling as I take them back to the hotel and arrange to see them first thing. 'What do you think of the house?' says the lady to the man 'oh, I dont know' he replied.

A quick coffee and then it is time to meet a Scottish couple who are dressing as trawlermen.  It is really not that wet and cold here in Winter.  We head off into the light drizzle and attract the attention of passing motorists.  They have asked to see a tiny bijou of a town house with patio and pool.  The owner is present and has her chihuahua under one arm.  Barbara (name changed) is always immaculately turned out.  Today, she was wearing a natty ensemble of a cinnamon coloured fine knit top and a multicoloured panelled skirt and boots.  And jewellery.  Her default style is more is more.  She looked at the Scots and the Scots took in her finery.  'Come in' she breathed ' and welcome'.  As usual, the house was spotless and the Scots were impressed and spent a good half hour before heading off somewhere by Lourdes.  

I had a hot chocolate in the Casino and watched people on the slot machines.  The rain hammered on the cast iron and glass ceiling and seagulls shot over, in full voice.  Back home to more seafood risotto.  OH has made enough to feed a multitude.  He had spent entire day putting up one small heater in the bathroom.  Apparently the walls are hard to drill......

As cold as the grave

Thursday 8 February 2018

3 degrees cloudy.  Feels bitterly cold.

Back to France and have left my diary back in the UK and also my boredom.  There is never nothing to do here.

It is market day and my first day driving since mid December.  It is bliss being behind the wheel and free again.  I pop into town and the market is in full flow, the traders wrapped up like babushki.  Their breath snakes into the air and the roasted chicken stall is attracting more than the usual number of optimistic dogs and cats.  I go and see the boulangere whose son committed suicide a couple of weeks ago, and give her a big hug.  What to say 'c'est la vie', she says, wrapping my baguette.  But it isnt, is it....

I then have coffee with the other lady whose son also committed suicide a couple of weeks ago.  She is in denial.  Her bridge dropped out and she thinks one of her dogs have eaten it.  There will be no quick fix as her dentist has also just died of cancer.  She has now been to four funerals in ten days.  The priest commented 'not you again'....

It is then time to go and do something which I have put off doing on the phone.  One of my sales is coming up to completion.  The owner works full time and has just lost her mother.  The buyers are obsessive compulsive cleaners.  They keep ringing me up and asking if the seller has cleaned up and emptied her house.  I broach the subject gingerly.  Alas, not gingerly enough.  She folds her arms and her eyes come out on stalks.  'What makes them think my house wont be clean?  That is such a horrible thing to say!!!  If they want to be difficult, I can be much more difficult than they can'.  She is also an estate agent but has been doing it less than a year.  At the start she was all smug because she had sold lots of houses.  This is a tough job.  It looks as if the gloss has worn off, big style.  I try and smooth things over.  'I lost my dog too', she adds.  I leave and think oh crap and I really hope they clean out the loft as the buyers will go nuts and are insisting on going round on the morning of the completion.

A quick quiche and then it is time to go and remind myself of what two huge gite complexes look like, ahead of Saturday's visits.  They are as cold as the grave.  Blast myself with the heater in the car.  Then onto see my German clients who, finally after seven months, have managed to get their loan approved.  We are also coming up to completion on this sale.  They are hovering in the driveway and there is another lady with them - the mother in law.  Her nose is very red.  I usher them inside where it is moderately less freezing.  They are ecstatic and the MIL is also very happy.

Back home and ring up lots of houses to get some appointments in the diary next week.  My seller who is an agent is in a building in the centre of town and people just walk in through the door and ask for their properties to be put on sale.  I have to go out and hunt them down.  Find a selection of houses and flats in my town under 200k and some wonderful ones further afield.  Leave a lot of messages.

OH makes seafood risotto which is divine.  After about an hour, I start feeling as if all parts of my body have returned to normal temperature.  Must wear more clothes tomorrow.  And my boots.  And thick socks.

The mill, the Finn, the vipers and the American

Thursday 1 February 2018
6 degrees with bone chilling wind

Once upon a time there was a little mill.  A mill stream gurgled beneath its foundations.  Flowers frothed over the ancient, lichen-spattered walls.  Fish played in the ripples of the mill pond.  It was a place of tranquility.  Over the centuries the roof had caved in and the mortar crumbled and the stones lay where they fell.  An American came, with his french girlfriend and, because he was a mason, and because the place and the stones spoke to him, he rebuilt it by hand.  The girlfriend went and was replaced by the Finn who was his wife.  A magnetic woman with deep red hair and a seductive smile.  A curvaceous women with many shoes and a love of the night time and people who party.  The mill was their secret place which they shared with special friends.  The American fell ill, suddenly, and died and although the Finn continued to love the mill, her life was far away to the north and the old stones spoke of the past and not the future and she realised that she needed to pass onto other places and leave the mill to a new owner.

I spoke to the Finn on Skype and went to take photos and measure up.  It was an idyllic location but, didnt I recognise the new owners of the house next door - the house over whose land the mill owners were obliged to pass in order to enter?  Indeed.  They came over and said they were interested in buying and could they have a look.  This seemed like an excellent idea until they offered a sum which was about 40% of the one I had in my head.  I told them, regretfully, that the owner was VERY unlikely to accept that offer.  They frowned and went back to their house and I saw the woman watching me as I went back to my car.  I felt uneasy.

The mill attracted so many visit requests that I took to grouping them together on a Saturday.  The neighbours took to staring, balefully, over the rampant honeysuckle.  Then the son took to revving his motor bike.  'Cà n'est pas sympa' commented the visitor.  It wasnt.

The son took to ringing me up after each set of Saturday visits and telling me that the owner would never get the amount she was asking, and she should accept his offer.  The following Saturday, when I was closing up, the man from next door came over.  He informed me that they wished their son to buy the house and they would do everything necessary to stop me selling the house and whomsoever bought, if they bought, they would make their lives hell.  The woman came out and started shouting.  I was more shocked at the transition from the woman I had known when I had had their former house on sale, who had always been very pleasant, and this shrieking banshee.  The man finished off by saying that I would find out how 'con' he could be and that he was a 'gros con'.  He also informed me that they had just signed a reservation contract on the idyllic mill pond - a particular feature of the mill - and that they would be putting up a boundary fence.

I called the Finn on Skype and she said she would get her friend who was high up in the Mayoral structure of our departement to look into if they had the right to do this.  Further conversations showed it was probably a shared wall with the mill.  The Finn said she would be over in the Summer and they had better not try it on or she would get her biker friends over from Texas.  And they would kick ass.  She said she would also look to get a restraining order issued, and have it delivered to the neighbours at their places of work.  I admired her strategy.  We were thwarted by the French administrative system and none of the other neighbours knew where they worked.  It did transpire that they had sold the previous house because of violent fallings out with the neighbours.

A week later and a lull in the visits, thank heavens, but still no offers from anyone, I got a call from an English guy, a builder, who said he had a client who may be interested in the mill.  The builder's wife had spotted our advert on Green-Acres and had shown it to A who had showed it to his client.  An American....  I rang the American and got his wife who is English.  She babbled on for about 20 minutes about things unrelated to mills or property and then her husband managed to prise the phone off her and we arranged to meet mid week.  Hopefully the neighbours would be at work.

The sun was shining when I rolled up at the Mairie and there was the builder and the client and a tiny woman smoking a large cigarette.  Her hair reminded me of the mad cat woman on the Simpsons.  She didnt stop talking for the next two hours.  Or smoking.  We got to the gate and there was no sign of the neighbours so I hurried them across the courtyard and through the mill gate.  To my horror and then rage, a red and white ribbon had been tied across the wall (the mill wall) and a large Entrée Interdite sign was waving insultingly in its centre.  I saw the red mist and ripped it all off and stuffed it behind a bush.  The builder came up behind me;  'I reckon that has just buggered up your sale' he said.  I got the clients through the door and left them to look around.  I felt like vomiting and crying and shouting all at the same time.  The neighbours were gesticulating over the fence.  I banged the door shut and we must have spent a good hour in the property plus the piece of land which would be key to getting independent access.  I had found the owner, negotiated the price and the purchase was going through.  The neighbours could then rot in hell and the new owner would not have to go over their land.

Finally, the visit was over and we were obliged to go back to the gate.  It was being blocked by the woman.  'You will give me back my property, Madame' she barked.  'What??' 'The ribbon and the sign'.  I told them they had trespassed to put that up.  What the hell, who would buy with these crazy people next door?  I went to open the gate and the woman slapped her hand down on it.  I turned on record on my phone.  

'You will show me your carte professionelle'
'I had your house for sale, you know who I am'. 
'I dont know who you are and I am calling the police'
'go on then'
'you are a charlatan - you are not a professional!!!

Her husband dragged her off and we left.  I was so upset, I had to go down the road for a minute to calm myself.  I got back into the Range Rover with the builder and the clients and said 'I dont suppose you are interested in buying now'.

The American chewed his teeth.  'Are they trying to blackmail the owner into giving the mill away for peanuts?'
'Yes'
'Well, I am interested.  I dont like to see anyone ripped off'.  He turned to the builder and asked him for quotes and we agreed the price and that he would buy once the Finn had obtained ownership of the piece of land which would give independent access.

I rang the Finn and we both cried and then we both laughed hysterically.

She came over in the Summer and we went to the Americans house and they both signed the offer and I got things over to the notaire.  And the Finn and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Things started going a little bit pear shaped when the American proved reticent about providing essential information for the notaire.  And he started getting a little bit curt.  And then he became downright rude.  And then he tried to back out on the tenth day after signing the reservation contract.  Fortunately, you are not allowed to back out by email.  If he had paid proper attention he would have known this.  The agency took over, the wonderful JH, who has to handle all the txxts company wide.  She got the sale back on track and it will complete today.

It has been a long journey and for such a small amount of commission.  So much rudeness, so much abuse.  And now, that lovely mill, will become a battle ground.  The American thinks the neighbours will accept the situation and calm down.  I think the neighbours thrive on discord and it is their life's blood.  The stones will outlast them all.  And may the next owners live harmoniously with one another.

An unbearable lightness of being

Monday 22 January 2018

3 degrees, sunny spells, bitter wind

Last Tuesday, I was chatting late night to a lady from back home.  We were on FB and talking about the best ways to sell the huge range of soaps she has been making and looking at the cheapest ways of getting the toxicology reports she needed, without paying a small fortune.  It was a normal night and we signed off eventually and both, I presume, dreamed normal dreams.  I woke to a normal day.  My friend did not.  When we had been chatting about soap, a young man's body had been lying crumpled on a chilly hillside.
She sent me the following message next morning.  

Kxxxxx is dead.

All I can think is that at least he's no longer suffering...he hated being bi-polar.

I could kick his ass for not at least leaving a message or calling, first, though. His ex gf called to tell me, then I called the gendarmerie to ask if it was true, and they were just on the way to the house to come and see me. He jumped off of the telephone tower

They said it seemed he didn't suffer, as his face was peaceful. Two of his friends found him. They hadn't heard from him in a day or two, and went looking for his van. Poor kids.

His body is at xxx, and will be transferred to xxxxxxxx for an autopsy. Ha, I told them they won't find drugs or anything. I have to meet the gendarmes at his apartment in the morning, then go back and sign papers and stuff. I did ask the gendarme if they had an instruction booklet to give me for this kind of thing. They have a shitty job, sometimes.

This is going to take weeks and weeks. All the other kids are crying and want to drop everything and come home, but I told them not to.

The gendarmes said to come with a friend or someone, in the morning...but I'm going by myself. What good is it going to do to bring someone along with me, anyway.

I told my mom. I also told her to not go and have a heart attack.

It'll be just fucking great to stick my head out the door, come morning...facebook and the kids will make sure that all and sundry will be au courant.

I think I'll call (doctor) in the morning...I wouldn't want to compound the issue by going off the rails or having my own heart attack, and maybe he has some kind of magic pill that I could take to get through this.

K was the youngest of her four children and just 19 years old.  He was such a beautiful child, with thick golden hair and deep blue eyes.  So bright and loving.  So alive.  So ready to come over and give me a hug when we saw one another in town.  It utterly breaks my heart that he felt so desperate that he could not bear to carry on.  I cannot even begin to imagine how his mother will cope with this.  No mother should know their child's death day.

They have decided on a cremation - the Maire has offered to pay for it - and then a big party.  K's friends are fundraising for a huge send-off and they will wear Hawaiian shirts and it will be as joyous as possible for such a terrible occasion.  His ashes will then go to the Big Island and be scattered in a place where he was happy.

When we become parents and receive that little parcel of blood which is our blood and skin which is our skin and an assorted mix of the genes of everyone who ever contributed to the whole, only then do we become of the awe-some and awe-full responsibility we have acquired.  We are no longer an individual, separate and apart.  We are a mother.  We are a father.  And our world has changed; irrevocably and forever.

Some say that it is not our inadequacy which terrifies us but rather the fact that we are powerful beyond measure.  Did K climb the tower and then have the insight that he was a being filled with light and could fly over our town and away from his demons?  I do hope so and I hope, wherever he is and whoever he is with now, that they will surround him with love and fill him with joy.  And that he can be reborn, fresh and new, into a better life.

We won't be going there again....

Monday 8 January 2018
Sunny and clear 5 degrees

Yesterday was the most stupendously beautiful day and I was too ill to get out of bed, and watched it passing before my window.  The sea was blue and the sky the palest lemon.  So much traffic - is there no such thing as a day of rest any more?

The day before we went to pick up some Ebay finds from a town about 60 kms away.  I wont say which one it is because I do not want to harm the business of the cafe bakery which we visited, but cannot miss this opportunity to tell you about it.  This is a traditional part of the UK.  And I am married to a traditional sort of man.  One who is deeply suspicious of anything organic (possibility that you will be charged extra) or Fairtrade, and who would prefer to have his nether regions flayed in public rather than frequent a coffee chain.  I have never got him inside a Costa to this day.

The journey had taken quite a while because we had to keep on stopping whilst he popped out for a wee.  It is normal in France to see people peeing, quite flagrantly, at the side of the road, but quite something else over here in the UK.  I always take the opportunity to pomp my horn with gusto and shout 'ceci n'est pas un pissoir' as I pass, and have the pleasure of seeing them peeing on themselves as they jump.  Finally, we arrive and he has to go again.  He drags me past the Costa, thronging with happy people and into a nearly deserted place next door.  

'This looks more like it', he says, throwing down his stuff 'I'll have some of that coffee and walnut cake and a cup of tea'.  He runs off to get a paper.  The coffee and walnut cake turns out to be peanut butter and salted caramel.  I have to tell you, dear reader, that traditional men do not entertain such strange combinations so said I would wait.

Everyone in the cafe was accompanied by a dog.  There were dog pictures on the walls.  There were sandwiches shaped like bones and garishly coloured donuts.  The back wall of the cafe was created with chipboard, on which the word 'toilet' had been written in black felt pen.  The women behind the counter were very thin.  I started to suspect we had strayed into the other type of establishment to which OH has a particular aversion, and that is the veggie/vegan type.

OH rushed back in and confirmed that peanut butter and salted caramel was anathema and then rejected the large leaden cookies and the strange mound of brown stuff covered in cream.  His tea arrived and it looked like this

There was no obvious way to get the top off the tea pot in order to stir it and the glass was very hot.  The frothy stuff at the bottom of the picture is my coffee.  It was weak.  The tea was very weak.  However, effective as a diuretic so he had to go again.  He was gone a while and I watched the dogs enjoying some donuts.  He came back and gesticulated - I just had to go and check out the toilets.

The staircase down was a corkscrew one, with very narrow treads.  The walls were lined with green baize.  Downstairs, more chipboard.  It reminded me of a particularly nasty renovation carried out by a Belgian guy on what had been a lovely and innocent country property.

The whole thing was a triumph of style over substance.  Chipboard does not look nice.  It looks cheap.  Like concrete.  No one can ever convince me that concrete looks good.  It looks like a low cost solution.  No matter how much you brush it.

We left, after having been relieved of 5.50 and decided we would not be going there again.  With a dog or without.

I started feeling really ill again on the way home and went to bed early.

Grabbing your Dracula

Friday 5 January 2018

Sunny periods 6 degrees 

I really haven't chosen a good time of year to start this blog.  I have flu and consequently beggar all to write about.

The last two days I have slept fitfully, either burning up or shivering and spent most of the night wrestling with my duvet or staggering to the loo.  There is a corner cornice which is specially designed to grab an unsuspecting boob when it wobbles past at 3 am.  The house makes creaking noises and car lights periodically sweep over the ceiling.  The wind makes whale song in the chimneys.  The lights flicker over at Arnside.  I try and listen to a podcast on the murder of Thomas Beckett.  He could have compromised and had a natural end.

OH has been ordering knick-knacks to enliven our windows and shelves back in France.  Each morning, the postie staggers up the steps with enormous boxes, mummified in parcel tape and rammed full of either pieces of the Daily Mail (OH puts these away quickly, as the Editorials render me apoplectic) or styrofoam versions of cheesy wotsits.  Every day, at 10 am, neither of us is dressed.  He must think we are such slobs.  I wear my Bet Lynch spotted dressing gown bought for me by eldest son last year.  It is probably not a good look.

Today, the sun was shining and eldest son is here on a short break, so he and I head out.  I feel a hundred years old and we wander slowly along the Prom whilst he tells me about the various Eastern Europeans with whom he has worked.  The Slovaks like a shot of neat alcohol to get them going in the morning, the Romanians like poker and women, the Czechs break machinery.  He has a friend called Stan - I had lost track of which nationality he was - whose English was not brilliant until you get him on the subjects of rapping or prostitutes.  I think of all the camping families, innocently ordering their double fried chips and burgers, or steak and salad, and children's menus, and who is preparing the food on the other side of the kitchen door.  It is another world through there.  A world of 12 to 15 hour days.  Cocaine and weed and alcohol is how people keep going.  Last Summer we picked up eldest son for a break - he was terribly thin - barely 9 stone.  I was shocked and horrified.  So shocked that he has made an effort to eat more and sleep more and actually looks better, despite working 7 am to 10 pm over Christmas and New Year.  He came back and slept for nearly two days straight.  It is no life for anyone.

After getting to the far end of the prom, I felt exhausted and we went for a coffee and hot chocolate.  A lady came into the shop, and maneouvred a large pram containing an adorable baby girl.  I cooed over her and asked her age.  The lady said she was not English and held up six fingers.  I asked her nationality - Romanian.  I turned to eldest and asked him didnt he know a bit of Romanian.  His eyes bulged and he made choking noises.  We left and he admitted he did know a bit of Romanian and muttered something that sounded like grab your dracula.  And what does that mean, I enquired?  Hurry the fxxk up....  We laughed so much that I had to cross my legs (pelvic floor not good at dealing with surprises) and he then had to get my inhaler out of my bag.  

It appears that he knows a variety of Eastern European phrases, none of which can be easily inserted into polite society.  In fact, when we came to France, the boys were taught Spanish by their French teachers and had it pimped by their contemporaries. By the time we had been abroad six months, they could swear fluently in all three languages.  Job well done.