We are but two of the apparent tens of thousands of worried French people who have chosen to sign up to EDF’s Tempo. They called it other things in the past, but it’s a binding contract by any other name. With the surging price of power, it seemed like a sensible thing to do: you opt to cut your consumption during 22 journées rouges when the price of electricity is about three times higher than what you normally pay. In return, you receive a 10% or so discount during 50 or so journées blanches, with a hefty 20% or so off during the remaining journées bleues.
It requires the kind of frugality that my mother – someone who lived through the war and rationing – tried to instil in her four children. For some reason, the principles have only lived on in her two sons. My brother, a master plumber by trade, still lives in a flat where the water from the sink flows into an old plastic rubbish bin christened The Ganges, which he periodically flushes down the loo. Me, I assiduously save paper bags and elastic bands, while the clothes that I’ve finally finished with are demoted to work clothes, which are then demoted to rags at the end of their protracted lives.
So I'm well equipped for Tempo. As is the Good Wife. Despite foreign travel with her family from an early age, she went to an all-gels private boarding school where she froze to death and ate bread heated on a hot water bottle to serve as ersatz toast. Later, she was a student, so we have both survived the type of accommodation that would normally have been condemned by Social Services.
Our first Red Day occurred a couple of weeks ago, causing panic and consternation in the household. It means that after six in the morning, you have to turn the thermostat down low enough so there’s little risk that the heat pump will switch itself on. It means that we can’t use the oven, the dishwasher or the washing machine. Under no circumstances should the Dame dry her hair with a hair-dryer. Lights should be illuminated sparingly and the vacuum cleaner is off-duty. But – and it’s an enormous one – we do have a wood burning stove in our living area. Even though our wood is limited and still not dry, we can at least keep warm without having to spend the whole day in bed.
Our daughter doesn’t understand it. How can we possibly cope with such inconvenience? She’s accustomed, like most of us in the western world, to having every convenience at the flick of a switch. I say ‘NEPA’: 'never expect power always': a corruption of the National Electric Power Authority as devised by Nigerians resigned to the vagaries of their electricity supplier. (I’ve never been to Lagos, nor would ever wish to go, but it’s the title of a very funky album by Fela Kuti’s famous former drummer, Tony Allen.)
Things have moved on, though. When I first encountered Tempo in a previous guise, chez friends in the Alps, you were notified by a light that EDF installed in your house. These days, of course, notification is online or by text. What’s more, a Red Day lasted (I believe) 24 hours. That wouldn’t wash today. To tempt those aforementioned tens of thousands, between the hours of ten at night and six o'clock you’re charged as you would be for a journée blanche. Or something like that. Preferential, in any case. Which means that – play your cards right – you can put the heat pump back on while you’re tucked up under your 13-tog duvet and set off the dishwasher or washing machine. And if you’ve got chocolate brownies to make for a dinner party, you can cook them in the over after ten. If that means having to hang around for half an hour or so when you could be horizontal in the best place on earth, well... needs must.
So, this is how we cope… We set the alarm for half an hour earlier than usual. Half five rather than six. One of us gets up promptly: to attend to the fire, to boil a kettle for our hot lemons and to turn the under-floor heating thermostat down to something like a pusillanimous 14 degrees. There may be just enough time for the water heater to catch-up after a quick shower before the witching hour. And after that, it’s a matter of superintending the fire diligently and boiling water on the gas hob for hot drinks. I've been too busy stoking the fire to ask myself what happens when that nice Mr. Putin cuts off the supply of gas to the West.
You could say that it gives us a flavour of the war-time spirit that my parents always used to swear by. The people of Britain were never so happy as when they were mucking in together in the face of adversity. According to legend. Certainly, my mother was never so cheery latterly as when she was watching a film like Sink The Bismark! on television. If we heard once about the time when she and her mother witnessed survivors of Dunkirk arriving by train at Exeter Central, we must have heard about it ten times or more.
Only 15 more Red Days till Christmas, Gran. You can tick off the journées rouges on the calendar, thus filling the void created by the lack of an advent calendar, now that Tilley the Kid has fled the nest and her parents are too blasé. With fortitude and perseverance, we’ll get through the privations ahead. My only worry is the wood. Our supply is dwindling. I have neglected what should be an important role as house-husband. Wood monitor. Ordering and carefully stacking long in advance enough logs for the duration. Last year’s mild winter threw me a curve ball. I rested on my laurels in springtime, enjoying the abundant delights of nature when I should have been calculating the number of cubic meters needed for at least two winters ahead.
Tempo fugit. It's cold this Christmas, but I'm dreaming of Blue Days, nothing but Blue Days...
