October: Thank You Letter

Dear Uncle Eric and Auntie Pauline,

Thank you very much for the cheque you sent for £5. It was very kind of you. I shall probably go crate-digging with the money, looking for records or CDs. Not that I need any more, but you know how addictions are.

How are you? I am very well, thank you. I had a very nice birthday, even if the weather was pish. Sorry, maybe I shouldn't say that word. It's Northern Irish. But it was miserable, even though the sun has been mainly shining ever since. How is it there? All three of us took Daphne out for a walk on my birthday, even though it was raining. We had to give our shaggy dog a good towelling when we got back home. It was so cold that I had to light a fire. It was the first of the season and it meant having to clean the chimney. I didn't do it from above, though, because the rain makes the roof very slippery and I might have fallen to my death. It was worth the effort, because the house was nice and cosy and everyone appreciates a roaring fire.

This birthday I got some nice presents (yours included, thank you again). Here is a picture of the present Deborah has commissioned from a friend of my sister Jo's. Her name is Vickie Wells and she's a sculptress (although I should say sculptor because we don't distinguish between the sexes any more, ha ha), and she specialises in gargoyles. This is a gargoyle of a fur-less cat and he or she will probably live on the front porch when we get him or her – to ward off evil spirits. I think you'll agree that no bad people will want to come anywhere near the house faced with such a fiendish cat!! Anyway, I am very much looking forward to taking delivery of the sprite. Eventually. I will have to think up an appropriate name for him or her. Maybe Cliff or Rebecca or something like that. Or something a bit more grandiose, like Orson or Vita.

My daughter gave me a set of four special glasses for drinking coffee out of. Apparently, the French drink their espressos out of glasses. I didn't know that, did you? I've always drunk mine out of something made with china. The trouble is, I always add a cloud of milk, so it's not a real espresso. I'm using goat's milk now, because it doesn't separate like soya milk and I've discovered that you can buy half bottles in Intermarché, so there's no risk of the goat's milk going off if kept in the fridge. Not that Otis minds. He's so crazy about the goat's milk that he'll drink it even if it's on the turn. I give him a little bit in a ramekin on top of the washing machine in the pantry, so his brother doesn't hear what's going on, because Mingus is far too fat as it is. 

My daughter also gave me a little packet of my favourite chocolates from Eric Lamy, which is by common consent the best chocolatier in Brive. It's quite incredible how many chocolatiers there are in Brive. Almost as many as there are hairdressers!! They were very nice, but now they are history – even though I tried hard to be reasonable. My daughter also baked me a special cake in the afternoon. A chocolate cake! The recipe was Nigella Lawson's, so if you're familiar with the celebrity baker, you can imagine how rich it was. That too is history now. My friend Dan came over on Saturday morning to play records with me and he had the last piece with a cup of coffee. He agreed that it was delicious. It was incredibly nice, but now I've got a mouth full of ulcers. Too many sweet, rich things do that to me. It's very painful and it has been my cross to bear ever since I was a little boy. Deborah thinks that something very significant must have happened to me at an early age, but I can't remember what. Maybe it was the time I broke a window, playing cricket in my bedroom. My mother was not best pleased!!!

This birthday, I also got two bottles of champagne: one from my mother-in-law and the other from our tenants in the flat above the clinic in Brive. It was very nice of them. They've moved on to somewhere near Bergerac, which is a great shame because they were the best tenants we've ever had and no trouble whatsoever. But they've become good friends, so we shall see them again because they want to settle somewhere in Nouvelle Aquitaine. We only drank one bottle of champagne between us – as aperitifs before a very nice fish pie that my dear wife cooked for us as a special treat. I only had two glasses of champagne, but I was quite squiffy. I don't have a very big capacity for alcohol, which is probably just as well. What's yours like? Mind you, my dad still has a stiff gin every day at G-Time, which is 5 o'clock your time. It doesn't seem to have done him any harm. Nor did it do his father any harm. He had two stiff gins every day and he lived till he was 97. It was either the gin or the two or three prunes he had most days with his breakfast.

After dinner, we listened to music and danced a bit or watched a film before bed. I can't honestly remember. Maybe it was the champagne. Or maybe it's because I'm losing my marbles, ha ha. I hope you haven't lost yours yet. I find that with every birthday that passes, my short-term memory gets worse. What was I saying? It does worry me sometimes, though. You don't know whether you're coming or going. Now where did I put my glasses?

What else did I get? Oh yes, my dad gave me a cheque to spend or save or both. I bought a drawing on card by an artist called TirzahMileham called 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun'. Maybe you know the song by Cyndi Lauper, or maybe not because I believe you like classical music mainly. It was part of an 'Art to Roam' initiative by the International Fund for Animal Welfare in conjunction with an Australian auction house. The art works on offer were all by artists with social or health issues and half the money goes to the artist and the other to support the IFAW's work in helping to save African elephants. I really like it and can't wait to frame it and put it on a wall here, but the artist lives in England and it's complicated to send anything to France these days because of Brexit, so I'll probably get her to send it to me c/o my dad. He's already looking after my Britains Limited cowboys and Indians. (Except I shouldn't really say that word now.) One day I'll be able to travel back to England and relieve him of my stuff. Bloody COVID. Bloody Brexit. Sorry, I shouldn't use that word. Better than the F word, though!!! Did you vote for Brexit? You probably did because you must be as old as the hills now and everyone old voted for Brexit – apart from my dad and my mother-in-law, too, actually.

Never mind. It didn't stop me from enjoying my birthday. Thank you again for the cheque. It was very kind of you. I hope you stay well and survive the coming winter.

Love, Mark xx

 

September: Tomorrow is Not Guaranteed

 

Once you get to 'a certain age', you start to look back on your time on this earth and think about 'life's great lessons'. A major one, I find, is that you can never rest on your laurels. Just when you think that things are ticking along nicely, along comes something or someone to drop you right in the thick of it. Things have been ticking along quite nicely, thank you: it has been a summer made glorious by an occasional sun that hasn't been too hot, and watered frequently by rain reminiscent of all those wet summers back home. Apart from an irritating ticklish cough, which I put down to an airborne allergy rather than emphysema on better days, I haven't been too troubled by thoughts of premature death. But then suddenly... I found myself the potential hero, or rather protagonist, of a Kafkaesque novel.

I was just about to shut down the computer to watch the cricket highlights and took a last look at the e-mails in one of the three accounts that overwhelm me. Just in case there was anything urgent to attend to before the evening's relaxation. I noticed something that I would normally ignore as a scam. It appeared to come from someone who worked in the office for the protection of minors. The return address looked plausible, there were no dodgy links to click on and there was a pdf attachment that I could scan before opening. The body of the message, in French of course and therefore slightly impenetrable, seemed to suggest that I had been found guilty of some kind of child pornography. What the...?!? My weary heart skipped several beats.

So I took a look at the pdf, as I still had a couple of minutes before the cricket. It was in French and couched in official language and therefore yet more impenetrable, but it appeared to come from the head of an office linked to Interpol. It had what looked like a genuine watermark, and it outlined my transgression: either I had downloaded images of child pornography or I'd been engaged in online conversations with impressionable minors or some such heinous act. Now of course I knew that there had to be some mistake, that someone somehow must have stolen my e-mail address and used it in the course of these vile goings-on, but I'd read too many novels and seen too many films of the type where the protagonist suddenly finds himself accused of something he hasn't done and must somehow prove his innocence to overturn a guilty verdict. It's never easy.

Feeling too discombobulated to fully enjoy the rare pleasure of watching cricket on the telly, I decided to record them for my later delectation when my head was a little clearer, and I joined the girls for a crepuscular walk with our dog. Just to the communal bins and back. It was a glorious evening, calm and free, a holy time quiet as a nun (to paraphrase old Bill Wordsworth's words) and the bats were flitting about just above our heads. My head was full of the accusation. How was I going to approach this? Apparently I had 48 hours in which to state my case. My daughter wondered why I was quieter than usual. I smiled at her bravely and started composing an e-mail response. I was an Anglo-Français old enough to know better, I lived a good and reasonably useful life with the woman to whom I'd been married for over 30 years, I was the father of one female adult child and the whole idea of child pornography was abhorrent to my nature. So shurely shome mishtake. 'May I assure you, sir or madam, of the sincerity of my distinguished greetings'... blah blah blah. Well, it might not constitute the kind of jury-swaying address delivered by someone of the gravitas of, say, Jason Robards jr. or Charles Laughton, but it would do for a start.

Notwithstanding this sudden tectonic ontological shift, I slept well that night because I nearly always sleep well, and I was convinced of my innocence. I had no reason to feel guilty. Did I? No, surely not. I hadn't yet mislaid my marbles. Nevertheless, I awoke next morning with trouble on my mind. I went to the market in Martel, wondering what would happen to me if I didn't reply within 48 hours. After all, I really should do a little research into these supposed prosecutors before I risked any personal domestic information falling into the wrong hands.

So, once I got back with our vegetables and cheese from the cheese man and assorted groceries for the week ahead from Intermarché, I turned on the computer and did some rudimentary research on the government site indicated in the correspondence. Each time I typed in the name of the various officers involved, all kinds of stuff came up, but mainly apparently triggered by the individual's first name. That I didn't find anything about any one of them didn't necessarily reassure me, as their names would surely not be in the public domain given the sensitivity of the subject matter and the potential danger of reprisals.

Further research revealed a telephone number available to the public – but would there be anyone there on a Saturday? If I waited till Monday, my 48 hours would be up and then what...? Would they send a car for me? Would they come in plain clothes or some kind of uniform? What would I say to my wife and child as I was led away in handcuffs? How would I reassure our barking dog that it was all right, that daddy would be back soon? And I would, wouldn't I? As soon as they interrogated me in whichever office they were taking me to, and as soon as they realised that I was essentially a good, responsible citizen even if I was against enforced vaccination and I'd built a structure to capture rainwater without declaring it to the authorities. Yes, they'd soon know that it was all just shome sherious mishtake.

Then, I stumbled upon some French newspaper article thrown up by a 'search with substance' on the Lilo search engine. It appears that the switchboard of this mysterious government office has been jammed by the wrongly accused. I read that if I'd replied to the e-mail I received, I would have received a follow-up plea-bargain proposal: if I paid something like €18,000 euros, then charges would be dropped and they'd forget all about it. Now, you'd really have to have something bad on your conscience to agree to that kind of deal. 

With my private drama now concluded, I told the Good Wife what had been troubling me for the last 36 hours or so. 'Oh that!' she said. 'I got one of those. I deleted it straight away.' You live and you learn. I should add it to my list of life's enduring lessons. Delete all dodgy e-mails as scams. So... I could  get back to deleting the hundreds and thousands clogging up my in-boxes. I can laugh about such idiocy now, but of course here in the privileged West, such potential miscarriages of justice happen only rarely. Which is why I'm a fully paid-up member of Amnesty International. People are languishing in jails the world over, guilty until proven innocent, but with no opportunity even to prove their innocence. Perhaps that's my number one lesson of life, my Top of the Pops: tomorrow is not guaranteed, so' just be thankful for what you got.' Others aren't quite so lucky.

August: Puffed But Chuffed

It seems sometimes that my life is becoming increasingly governed by the whims of our dog (cue heavenly pre-pubescent choir: Oh for the whims, for the whims of a dog...). Give 'em an inch and they'll take a mile. Admittedly, the morning walk – or bike ride – is good for my constitution too, nevertheless she should be more grateful that I'm prepared to take her out before breakfast, when the day is but young. Yet, there are days when she just looks at me and refuses to budge, no matter how much I cajole and beg. And there are other days when we get to the top of our track and I head left in the customary manner, only to find that she's not there beside me. When I double-back to see what the matter is, she's sitting by the roadside at the top of the track because she fancies going right rather than left on that particular morning.

I wonder whether this behaviour has anything to do with her change of diet. We've recently bought some croquettes with protein derived from insects rather than animal by-products. It's a recognition of the future, I suppose, when we'll all be chomping on insects. It's our ever-so-'umble equivalent of owning an electric or hydrogen-fuelled car. After first sniffing suspiciously at her new food, she seems now to be a fan of pulped larvae and maggots. The Good Wife performed a taste-test the other day: in one hand, a croquette from her customary supply; in the other, a new-fangled crunchy treat from the insect world. Reader, she went for the latter. Since she has a talent for taking out flies and wasps in mid air, she clearly has an innate taste for such irritating creatures.

Maybe this helps to explain her annoying whims, although really who can blame her for a little canine caprice? There's not a lot of excitement in a routine of sleep, eat, walk, sleep, bark, play, eat, play, walk, bark, sleep. I tell her that she's much luckier than the vast majority of dogs in this benighted world of ours – in the same way that our mother used to remind us of the unfortunate children in Hong Kong and Biafra when trying to get us to eat our yummy overcooked vegetables and fatty mince. The latter I could understand, given the hideous civil war that raged in Nigeria at the time, but I never really got the hang of Hong Kong. It seemed to me that children there, no doubt engaged in the manufacture of the cheap plastic toys that derived then from that bastion of Empire, probably had just about enough to eat. And at least they didn't have to eat overcooked veg and fatty mince.

Anyway, one good thing about turning right rather than left at the top is that it forces me to climb the steep, slippery chemin that leads up to Monsieur Delpy's sheep sheds. A decade or so back, I used to do it more often to test my physical mettle. These days, with everything else in inexorable decline – eyes, ears, back et cetera – I'm a little more reticent. However, thanks to the whims of our dog, I discovered that I can still do it. Still get to the top of a very steep and awkward gradient on my bike without having to get off. On reporting this revelation to the women of the household, I was asked how it made me feel. 'Puffed but chuffed,' I revealed.

It got me thinking about how lucky I was to be born in a country where they speak English: the universal Esperanto. How much more difficult life might be to be saddled with a language that no one else in the world can speak, like Finnish or Hungarian. Even French is only mainly understood in north and west Africa. And the thing about French is that you generally need so many more words to express a simple sentiment like 'puffed but chuffed'. Consider its wonderful simplicity. So much is revealed in those three words. Had I been born a French speaker, I would have struggled to pack so much meaning into so pithy a phrase. It might come out as the equivalent of 'I feel quite contented despite the difficulty of respiration.'

Once at the top, the rest of my anti-clockwise morning constitutional is a piece of piss. Another glorious expression. Un morceau d'urine means nothing at all and I know of no equivalent other than fastoche, which is argot for facile or easy. Which is fine, of course, if a little prosaic and much less colourful.

Daphne understands English, but not French. When I explain this to locals, they find it curious. Surely we should be talking to her in the prevalent language. But whenever we've tried it, she thinks something's up and makes a bee-line for the door in order to bark at whatever's wrong. Yet, give her a word like 'walkies?' or 'supper?' or even a whole sentence, such as 'put the ball down please' or 'no, you stay here and look after the house', and she knows exactly what's expected of her and responds accordingly.

Given the fact that there are as many etymological similarities as there are differences between the two languages, it's surprising that the English and the French have never understood each other. We are at war once again. This time the post-Brexit fall-out is at the root of the travel turmoil. There doesn't seem to be any other reason why the U.K. should put France on its red or amber or whatever other colour the list is that keeps pesky French travellers out of their green and pleasant land. And just to compound matters and further obfuscate potential travellers, Boritz & co. change the rules from one day to the next. Had the friends who returned early from France to avoid pay-back for their stay here waited a while, they would have found that there's now no obligation to self-isolate for however long it is – or was. When spoken by persons in office, the English language can be very confusing.

Certainly the Good Wife and I are not yet thinking of travel, despite the needs of our surviving ageing Ps, as Dickens called them. My mother-in-law's needs are much more pressing than my father's, whose social calendar is far fuller than my own. Debs does her mother's shopping for her online and ensures that the poor old isolated dear has enough gin to keep her going until the day when she can go and relieve Mafeking. That may not be far away. There's still the issue of obligatory and very costly tests, but at least the prospect of self-isolation in a claustrophobic and worryingly unhygienic house seems to have diminished.

Some friends of hers in Brive got back from Bordeaux recently and brought the Delta variant with them. With the passeport sanitaire coming into effect, we both feel tempted to go and visit the friends in order to catch the disease – in much the same way that our parents' generation would send their children to parties to catch measles so that they could get it all over and done with and build their immunity for the future. The only thing that's stopping me is that, for all my faith in my immune system, nurtured steadily over the last two decades or so of clean-living, there's a niggling fear that it might lead to my demise. Despite the daily assault of dire news from all around the world, I don't wish to push up daisies just yet. Another fine phrase you've got me into! How could you translate that one into French in less than 10 words?

I'll leave you with the conundrum. Right now, there's weeding to be done. And while pulling rather than pushing things out of the ground, I shall be debating whether to opt for that 20% off the price of a pizza or whatever other inducement is on offer and submit to the needle. Anything for a quiet life.

 

July: Strange Days of Summer

Yesterday was the quatorze juillet. We were cordially invited to join the ceremony down at the mairie. A fellow communard delivered it the other day in a white van. The mutt did her nut because there must have been another dog in the van, presumably of the hunting genus. Although I didn't know the man from Adam, I recognised his beard and have probably spotted him in these parts, dressed in camouflage gear and sporting a rifle. We didn't go. It's just another excuse to drink a verre d'amitié (a glass of alcoholic friendship) and we wouldn't have been honouring any dead other than those who stormed the Bastille over two centuries again.

What happened to all that revolutionary spirit? On Monday evening, the nation was addressed by President Micron in his customary suit from Man at C&A. Despite his reassurance some months ago that vaccinations would not, he repeated not, be obligatory, he announced swingeing new measures that will 'encourage' mass inoculation. He and his medical advisors are introducing a new passeport sanitaire to be shown in cafes, restaurants, cinemas and even trains. So anyone who exercises their right to refuse a vaccination for whatever reason will effectively be forced to wear the equivalent of a Star of David to mark him- or herself off from the rest of society.

As the screw is turned and our civil liberties are gradually removed, you would hope that mobs of angry revolutionaries would storm the presidential palace. Instead, within hours of the announcement, people have been queuing up in their thousands to book appointments with the needle. Who can blame them really? Living in a city, you'd be excluded from public transport and unable to get to work, let alone from drinking your sorrows away in a bar or chatting with a friend over a coffee and croissant on some boulevard of broken dreams.

Nevertheless, when the Good Wife read out the gist of the address on her phone, the three of us felt angry and frustrated enough for our own private revolution. We were at the local cinema to see Nomadland, which was every bit as good as claimed: a film, also, about society's excluded ones, not by dint of health, but by an economic system that continues to tolerate the acquisition of billions by the tiny but powerful few. Without so much as a murmur, it often seems. Frances McDormand was fantastic. Good luck to the wandering kind that she portrayed so poignantly.

That was Monday evening, the glorious 12^th July. New friends from Ulster with whom we passed a splendid afternoon recently told us that the hard-line Prods of the province were busy building bonfires to light that same evening. One in particular in East Belfast, a poor area where the Protestant and Catholic communities live on top of each other in uneasy acquiescence, was apparently several storeys high, big enough to create a conflagration that could easily turn into an urban wildfire. The police felt powerless to do anything about it lest their intervention opened up a can of worms. The worms are still there, though, writhing and wriggling just beneath the surface.

Just as, in fact, the old attitudes on the mainland still prevail. The ignorant few – or are they really so few? – are still trying to deny the obvious, that modern British society is a multi-racial one. 'No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs.' My heart sank on Sunday night, watching the final of the European Championships go to extra time and then to the inevitable penalties. Then, after Rashford and Sancho missed their penalties, the final chance was handed to the 19-year old Bukayo Saka, a lovely lad who plays, what's more, for my team, Arsenal. Of course his shot would be saved. I didn't mind so much that England lost to Italy, not after all the media hype and the national nonsense about football coming home, what hurt was the certainty that Saka and his other two team mates would receive messages of hate on social media. And so it inevitably came to pass. Sure, we shouldn't get so hung up about social media and sure, there were many more messages of sympathy and support, but how distressing that anyone courageous enough to take on such a burden of responsibility should be abused for the colour of their skin.

Earlier in the day, just to compound the misery, our daughter's good looking Italian contender with the massive serve lost in four sets to Djokovic in the Wimbledon men's final. None of us bothered watching because the inevitability of a Serbian victory far outweighed the faint possibility of an Italian upset. I keep telling myself that he's a decent enough human being, but I just can't help disliking the man. Is it the fact that his haircut makes him look like a human Action Man? Is it the robotic nature of his game, which transforms him into a Yul Bryner character from Westworld? No matter how hard and how often you attempt to stop him in his tracks, he just keeps on getting up. John McEnroe did a little piece about how someone who will never be a crowd favourite should nevertheless be respected for his brilliance. Bugger that. Given his 'wolf energy' and his attentive team of fitness trainers, he will probably dominate proceedings for at least another three years and end up with 25 or more Grand Slams. He'll be the chosen GOAT, but give me an artist like Federer rather than a machine any day of the Wimbledon fortnight.

We've had so much Monsoon rain of late, no doubt diverted by global warming from the west coast of the U.S.A. and Canada, that the woods are full of wild mushrooms. Country folk emerge from the trees with carrier bags full of girolles and cêpes. Like billionaires, they jealousy guard their secrets and never dream of sharing their haul with anyone. The three of us walked the dog late one morning, walking very, very slowly through the damp woods in an effort to spot edible mushrooms among the undergrowth. We found some girolles and a faux cêpe and made an omelette for our lunch. On the whole, I'd rather eat mushrooms than insects. The day must come, but not yet – although we are considering changing Daphne's croquettes to a new French brand made with insect protein.

That same day, the Daughter spotted an enormous caterpillar just before lunch. It was green and the size of a pea pod, and probably the equivalent of a T-bone steak in terms of its protein count. Since it was wriggling its way over to the flower bed and seemingly intent on a feast, I went to fetch the dustpan and brush with the idea of moving the beast to the middle of the field. When I came back, it had gone, nowhere to be found. It could reappear in a few days as the kind of king-size butterfly you might find in the Costa Rican rainforest. Or some flower-devouring superbug. Strange Days, as the Doors once entitled an album of theirs.