During the not-so-merry month of January I turned into a hermit crab: one of those solitary creatures that quietly goes on with its own business without fuss or distraction. David Attenborough would know whether this description applies to a hermit crab, but given its name and the habits of crabs, I reckon it probably does.
In my solitude… apart from listening to Duke Ellington, I’ve been able to get on while the Good Wife has been in England. She’s been working like the proverbial Trojan, tying up all the loose ends of her mother’s house sale and then helping Sampsondottir move down the Windrush line from Crystal Palace to Honor Oak, where we trust her life will be rendered a little easier. Why did the Trojans have a reputation for hard work, by the way? It was industrious Greek carpenters who had to hammer and saw night and day to make a wooden horse big enough in which to hide a small army. I fear the Greeks even bearing gifts… a crumb of A-level Latin that lodged in my cranium.
So yes, I’ve kept my head down and ploughed my lone furrow while I’ve been on my own: reading more books and listening to more music than I did as a student, making meals that last for three days so there’s more time for getting on, walking the dog twice a day, watching a film or two and finishing my chapter on the development of telly in the 1950s. Nevertheless, there comes a time in every hermit crab’s life when it has to emerge from its hiding place and merge with the mainstream. I did it twice in one day mid month and both times it led me to purgatory. Nothing too South Sudan, but on both occasions I wished I’d stayed in my lair.
It was a Saturday, a time when many a human bean shakes off the shackles of work to go shopping in town or go to a football match to yell blue murder at the referee. In my case, I had an invitation from His Worship the Mayor to go down to the Salle Mathieux to partake of a slice of galette du roi and drink a verre d’amitié. I had a sneaky suspicion that the gallette in question would not be the flaky-pastry-with-almond-paste variety because the commune would only have sufficient funds for the unappetising brioche variety, and the thought of drinking a cup on a Saturday afternoon with my fellow communards fills me with fear and loathing, but as a perennial outsider I thought it might be politic to show my face and glad-hand the mayor and his team of élus.
The invitation was for four o’clock. Not wishing to be too English about my punctuality, I figured that five past might be a suitable time. People are usually late in this neck of France. Not on this occasion, not when free food and drink are involved. I found the salle packed with natives, all hanging around in anticipation. Unable to face the prospect of shaking everyone’s hand while wondering whether to kiss or not to kiss, I did what I usually do and sidled over to a familiar face for some vacuous conversation that leaves all parties feeling awkward and embarrassed.
I reckoned on half an hour, an hour tops, and then back in good time for the football results, but we didn’t sit down at the tables until almost five. I stuck to Patrick, a near neighbour who’s a good sort, with a sense of humour, but there’s only so much you can say about your respective dogs. Then my heart sank. His Worship took the microphone. True to form, he rambled on for at least half an hour, introducing the various associations in the commune and handing the mike to a representative so that he or she could ramble on for a bit more. Following this, it was time to introduce all the newcomers to our rural idyll and hand the mike to them so that they, too, could ramble on a bit more. Fair play to the man, the gesture showed public spirit and a splash of emotional intelligence, but the football results were pressing and I wanted my customary bottle of beer and bowl of peanuts because late Saturday afternoon is one time in the week when you can act like a real man.
By the time the bottles and the galettes were placed before us like an act of feeding the five thousand, I felt so like a fish out of water that I poured myself half a beaker of Brittany cider and cut myself a slice of brioche without even asking. And, readers, it was every bit as bland as feared. Still, with a mouth full of cake, you don’t need to worry about conversational pleasantries. At last the time came to overcome my reluctance to draw attention to myself, say a few desultory farewells, shake the hand of his Worship and thank him for the invitation, and high-tail it out of there with a profound sense of relief. Hey ho, the communal life is clearly not for a hermit crab.
Back home, there was barely enough time to catch the classified results, rustle up a snack supper and leave Daphne with a chew and some encouraging words about not being too long, before I was off for a second dose of purgatory – like two spoonfuls of cod liver oil as a child. That evening, I was on cinema duty in Vayrac and I’d had a text to ask me to get there earlier than usual because they were anticipating a crowd… for Avatar 3. God help me.
Usually, my job is to stand at the door like a spare part, tear the tickets of the punters and wish them a cheery bon film. Not hard but kind of mortifying. This time, there was someone playing that vital role: a nice guy with a propensity to ‘swallow his words’, as they say here, which means that conversations are based on guesswork. It’s a recipe for non-sequiturs. My role… was to hand each punter with his or her very own pair of 3D glasses. If there’s anything worse than having to sit through Avatar 3, in French, it’s sitting through it in three dimensions. And if that weren’t bad enough, some people mistook me for someone who might know, and asked me whether they could wear the contraptions over their prescription glasses.
There was a 5-minute trial run after which anyone could return non-performing glasses for another pair. Mine were fine, so I was able finally to settle back in a chair to enjoy more than three hours of hell in 3D. It was like being dropped into one of those Roger Dean topographic album covers that he created for Yes and other such groups – only to discover that the blue people lived in a world even worse than our own. It was war, war and more war accompanied by the constant crescendos of a soundtrack that made sleep impossible. And just to put the old tin lid on it, without either French or English subtitles, I was totally lost. Yes, the 3D graphics were impressive, but you come to expect that in this age of computer-generated images. Personally, I’m still more impressed by the recreation of the Himalayas in the Pinewood studios for Powell and Pressburger’s 1947 film, Black Narcissus.
When the credits rolled, I was eager to fulfil the second part of my role: to open the doors and wish the punters a cheery bonsoir as they file away into the night. Daniel, the president of the society that operates the cinéma Uxello, reckoned that the film was maybe 20 minutes too long. I suggested that it was three hours too long. He regarded me wryly.
Two doses of purgatory in one day. Purgatory squared. I was far too late into bed and I let Daphne stay in recompense for my protracted absence. Normally, she jumps down off the bed when I put my book and glasses down and wanders off to her basket in the sitting room. I slept off my ordeal and she didn’t wake me till it was breakfast time. I made pancakes as compensation for the mental torture I endured for the common good.
One good thing came of it. Soon after, the association held their own gathering for members, featuring this time galette du roi as confectionery intended it. I still felt like a fish out of water, but there were a few people I knew and the conversation was less stilted. I told Evelyne, whose job it is to organise the staffing for each séance, a thankless task, that in future would she please consider me only for versions originales, with sub-titles for the hard of comprehending.
She apologised for allocating me to Avatar, as indeed she might have.
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