On Saturday the 1st September I queued up at
my customary stalls in Martel’s market as I do each Saturday morning. Only,
this Saturday, the queues were a mere
fraction of the size that they have been over the last couple of months. The
Egg Man joked that it had been difficult to get up that morning. Sabine – or
Bio Woman, who grows vegetables fit for superhero(in)es – told me that earlier
it had been four degrees down in the valley. Only two weeks before the
temperature had climbed above 40.
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| Another Saturday, another market |
Suddenly the crowds have gone for another year. The roads
around here are no longer so full of Plastic Fantastics, the mobile camper vans
that clog up the highways and threaten to topple over on sharp bends. It all
happens so suddenly. Almost as if high summer is some kind of Never Never Land
and we wake up as if from a dream to stare at the familiar landscape in which
we exist for the remaining ten months. While queuing for my onions, I overheard
two good ol’ boys looking forward to the slaughter of the new hunting season.
(Something else to look forward to, now that autumn’s on the way. I made a
mental note to heap pestilence upon both their houses.)
September 1st is such a symbolic landmark. On
this day, already nine years ago, the digger man dug out the foundations of our
house-to-be. Children and their parents everywhere are busy thinking about the rentrée
des classes. Those of us who have woken up from Never Never Land with a
gloomy frame of mind are maybe thinking about the next phase of La Crise
and how we’re going to get through it. As yet, I haven’t encountered a single
rich and famous French person heading for a haven where they won’t have to pay
the new president’s new wealth tax. But then, they’ll all be off by air or sea
and unlikely to pass by the Lot.
For the time being, though, there were smaller, more
practical things to occupy this first Saturday of Normal Service. Such as: how
to work around an earlier time for Football Focus. I decided to record it while
making lunch and then to eat lunch while watching the recording. Simples!
(When you have the technology.) It was all about huge last-minute transfers
before the ‘window’ closes. While I ate-and-fumed, I couldn’t help wonder why
we continue to tolerate such inequity in our society. I’d read about the stir
Nick Clegg’s proposed one-off wealth tax is creating in the UK. It’s only half
of one per cent or something piddling, which seems very little to give back to
the so-called Big Society that’s helped to swell their wealth. I noted on a
Post-it to heap pestilence upon the House of Beckham and other overpaid
mercenaries of his kidney. (Actually, while I’d encourage the Grim Reaper to
carry off the surly Victoria, I might ask him to spare the boy David and his
children if they promised to do more for the common good.)
Once my raging fury had abated and I’d tidied up the
lunch things, I took Tilley over to see a friend and help her sort out her
stuff for Clermont-Ferrand, where she’s going for some higher education. One by
one, her school friends are dispersing to pastures new – to Clermont-Ferrand,
Limoges, Toulouse, Bordeaux and Paris – and trepidation is rife. In the middle
of the month, she swaps the familiar peace and quiet of the Lotois countryside
for the hurly-burly and hullabaloo of the capital. The prospect is
understandably scary.
Having dropped off The Daughter, I drove over to see my
friend, Adrian, the tree surgeon, and on the way to deposit our duvets for
cleaning. The nights are getting appreciably colder and soon a blanket and
cover will no longer suffice. As I popped the ticket into my wallet, I couldn’t
help think what a packed multifarious existence I lead.
Adrian was packing up his latest second-hand van with
beer and wine for the long haul back to Dunkirk and thence to Cornwall. He
helped me load into the car a pair of acro-props he’s lent me for the duration
to prop up a rotting beam underneath our back balcony. Then he showed me around
the latest home improvements he’s made during his summer here. He’s just had
the house valued. Since he’s been going through a messy protracted separation
from his wife, he was delighted to show me a valuation he’s just received from
an estate agent. I was staggered by how low it was. It just goes to show how
far the property market has fallen and how much value a new road can strip from
your assets. If other people had put the kind of work he’d put into the place
over the years, they would be devastated by such a valuation. But Adrian
doesn’t intend to sell. The house still represents his dream of a better future
and the negative equity will help him wriggle reasonably unscathed out of the
financial net in which he’s been trapped for so long. Or so he hopes.
Back home, I found the girls watching another episode of Six
Feet Under on the box upstairs. There was just enough time to give the dog
a quick walk and call for Daisy, who hadn’t come in for her breakfast. Friends
were expecting us within the half hour. We were to bring Alf over to meet their
new puppy and effect an introduction. We like to think of these friends as
Alfie’s godparents, since they’ve looked after him whenever we’ve gone off on
holiday without him. The trouble is, we haven’t been able to reciprocate, as
their last dog was a bit of a loose cannon – and forever guilty of traumatising
Daisy’s sister, Myrtle. So, if Alf and Holly got on like the anticipated house
on fire, then we could have her to stay whenever they went off on their
travels.
After a slightly nervous beginning attributable to our
dog’s sheer size, everything went swimmingly. We ate a clotted-cream tea in
celebration of Sophie’s birthday and aah-ed to see the two dogs tug a rope
together until Large got a little fed up with Little’s constant demands. It was
all very charming and bodes well for a happy and harmonious future.
We’ve all been watching and enjoying Tom Stoppard’s
adaptation of Ford’s Parade’s End on BBC2, so I was determined – despite
the impact of such a packed Saturday on mind and body – to stay up for an Arena
special on the fascinating figure that adopted the brilliant nom de plume of
Ford Madox Ford. At first, I was bright and alert, but gradually slipped off
into Never Never Land. Fortunately I had the wit to press ‘Record’.
If you need accro props just ask
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