September: Night Train to Paris

At 4.35 in the morning, it was still dark. I got there five minutes early to pick up the Good Wife from our local train station. There was no one around, just an anxious husband in a car and an intrigued dog in the back seat. What on earth was I doing waking her from her sleep and transporting her down the Côte Matthieu at such an hour?

There was no need for anxiety. At 4.42 precisely, the night train from Paris rolled into view. First stop Saint Denis près Martel, as SNCF refer to it, even though locals and La Poste know it as 'lès Martel', an antiquated form of ‘near Martel’. Only one passenger emerged: Debs stepped down from the train like Anna Karenina arriving at St. Petersburg, or wherever it was, minus the exhalation of engine steam. She was remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after a night in a couchette shared with five other travellers. Cue great excitement from husband and dog. She’d been away for over a week, another last-minute trip to ever-damp Cumbria, this one precipitated by her mother’s lack of carers. One was on holiday and the other, Sarah the Carer, in hospital. So there she was, and suddenly it must have all made sense to our bewildered dog.

What a service, you might say. And you probably aren’t referring to that of the anxious husband, who set his alarm for 4.15 to throw on his clothes, rouse the dog and drive down to the station, there to embrace his wife, carry her case to the car and drive her back home. If you mean that of SNCF, well… yes and no. Yes, on this occasion – even though Debs had booked an all-female couchette, not due to trepidation but simply because it was on offer, only to find that three of the five other travellers were men. She didn’t sleep much, but it all seemed quite civilised, she told me. Everyone was very quiet and respectful, one of the benefits of living in a country like France, where children are taught a form of social responsibility in school. No drunks, no midnight-snackers, no one listening to, looking at or talking loudly  into their phones. 'R-E-S-P-E-C-T! (sock it to me, sock it to me...)'

However, ten days previously things did not go quite so swimmingly. We had very good friends from London staying with us on their first visit to these parts. Debs had taken the week off to enjoy their company and experience a full house, which – she suggested – is just what this house was created for. But then came the last-minute S.O.S. So she booked to leave on the Thursday night to spend Friday in London with our daughter before heading to Penrith by London North East Railways on Saturday, giving her a full week with her increasingly frail and confused mother. She would catch the night train to Paris around one in the morning from the local station, with a sole scheduled stop at Orléans, then onto Eurostar early the next morning. Certainly not bonne marché, but slightly cheaper than Ryan Air's August prices, which were off the Richter scale.

That week, the middle week of August, our estival luck had run out. Everyone around here agreed that we’d had the best summer for years, but that week the thermometer went up to ‘sizzling hot’ and stayed around the mid 30s. What with the inhuman temperature and the plague of voracious mosquitoes, it wasn’t the best advert for the Lot/Corrèze borderlands. Still, our friends appeared to have a gay old time and promised to come again.

Thursday would thus be the Good Wife’s last full day with guests. Alas, it didn’t start well. Checking her phone on the back balcony before breakfast, I heard the dread words ‘Oh no!’ ‘with a dead sound’ on the final syllable. What!? ‘They’ve cancelled my train.’ No, no and thrice no. If there’s anything worse than the French railways' incessant cancelled trains, it’s the process of trying to find an alternative. The prospect would colour fifty unsettling shades of grey a final day that was intended to be relaxing and enjoyable.

So it proved. Her first trip down to the station, in the morning, proved abortive. I took her down in the heat of the afternoon and she actually got to see someone. A human being, not a chat-bot. Not that this particular human being was much more helpful. He told her that apparently it was only the initial part of her journey from Rodez that was affected by the supposed ‘lack of materials’ (meaning what, exactly?). Theoretically, a coach would pick her up from the station and take her to Brive, there to connect with a waiting night train to Paris. As to what time it would pick her up, he suggested she get to the station for about 12.20a.m., but in his humble opinion it wouldn’t turn up till nearer one o’clock. So why, we were left to wonder, wasn’t this helpful information published on SNCF’s handy little app, SNCF Connect?

Never mind. My wife is an eternal optimist. She wasn’t going to let a little uncertainty ruin her day. It would be all right on the night. I didn’t say anything. But when the time came, I took her down the winding road to the station with a heavy heart. We got to the deserted station car park around 12.15. We sat in the car, waiting in the dark, scanning the road that double-backs on itself on the other side of the bridge over the tracks for signs of headlights. As each very occasional car passed, our spirits prepared to soar – only to sink back again. We waited. One o’clock came and went, with the husband becoming increasingly anxious. Debs checked her phone again – to find official word all of a sudden that the train would leave Brive at around 2.05. We agreed that the best course of action would be to give up on the phantom coach and drive to Brive.

The streetlights are now turned off in Brive after midnight, lending the place the air of a ghost town. Cue the Specials. The station was locked and deserted apart from a possibly homeless guy sitting against a wall, who motioned for us to try the side gate. There we found two uniformed officials, one of whom appeared to be the driver of a parked coach. The night train was waiting at platform H. Cue determined subterranean walk to platform steps.

Not one but two uniformed female controllers greeted us. The taller of the two looked through her paperwork, but couldn’t find any mention of a Madame Sampson, Deborah. The other one checked her findings. No, it was true. So was this why the phantom coach never appeared? Debs remained calm and polite and showed them the evidence on her phone. She was indeed booked to travel on Friday 18^th August. But wait a minute, said the shorter guard. That meant tomorrow. Yes, agreed her taller colleague. At which point my wife’s composure cracked – until she suddenly realised that it was after midnight. It was tomorrow! Cue merriment and a concerted effort now to accommodate our sorely tested traveller. The taller controller led her onboard and unlocked a four-berth, first-class couchette. She hadn't booked first-class, my wife pointed out, but clearly this was by way of compensation for their remarkable all-round inefficiency.

I left her to it, finally reassured that she might reach her destination. My destination was bed, which I reached just before three bells. The rest of my weary wife's journey was trouble-free. She had a lovely day with our daughter, I'm happy to report. Next day, however, she received a message from LNER to tell her that her train to Penrith had been cancelled.

She found a later alternative with no tears involved. But is it any wonder that I'm becoming increasingly loathe to travel in my dotage? I used to moan about my parents for their lack of adventure, but now I understand. Far better to stay in my nest and enjoy its features with friends or family who are prepared to brave the slings and arrows of outrageous transport in order to get here. We now have a very comfortable bed in the spare room as an incentive.

 

August: Chronicpost

I am at war once more. A war in my head. Having destroyed the headquarters of SNCF, the French national railways, in a daring bazooka raid, I've now renewed hostilities against Chronicpost.

My ire was triggered this time by my sister's recent misadventure involving her suitcase when she and her family came to holiday in these parts. My nephew, his wife, three strapping boys and a lively nine-year-old arrived as an advance guard in their huge VW people-and-baggage carrier, so they had no issues with cases. Just a forgotten phone charger and three school books on departure, but that's par for the course.

My sister Jo and brother-in-law flew in to Toulouse airport on the Sunday, hiring a very modest VW saloon for the two-hour plus journey north to Martel. She phoned me from the airport with a cracked note of doom to announce that the bag she'd checked in hadn't appeared on the carousel. The idea of bringing a full suitcase for a four-day break seems absurd, but hey... Six years or so when they came to join us in Corsica for a late-summer holiday on that beautiful isle, the same thing happened. Lady Bracknell would have considered this second occurrence careless rather than an accident.

Jo got her bag the following day on Corsica, delivered by taxi to the house we were renting in a hillside village with a view of the distant sea. This time, however, as soon as we learnt the next day that the courier would (allegedly) be Chronicpost, my heart sunk. As you might surmise, I have altered the name of the organisation in question to inculpate the guilty, but you shouldn't have much trouble in figuring out the real name if, for example, you wear a chronometer or are familiar with the Greek word for 'time'. The company's strap line should be a cryptic 'Time waits for no one'.

Why do I hate them with such virulence? Let me count the ways. They're exorbitantly expensive – something that I could live with if I knew that they would deliver the goods. But that's far from guaranteed. They offer a tracking service that rarely works and even more rarely gives you any meaningful information about the location of your package. If you try to speak to someone on the phone, it's a costly, time-consuming, frustrating and usually fruitless business. For one thing, they tell regular and flagrant lies. Quite apart from the standard 'we'll deliver between x and y hours', they have been known to get as far as the top of our drive and leave a note in the box to the effect that they were unable to contact you, even though you were waiting just in case between x and y hours with phone at the ready.

On this occasion, there was a tantalising preliminary call. Probably an error. The phone rang once, I answered, nothing. I phoned back immediately – to hear a recorded message that referred me to the company's cheery website, there to insert a tracking number. Unfortunately, there was none to enter. The lost baggage reference, it transpired, was unique to British Airways and Aviapartner – just another outsourced outfit whose remit seems to be to keep the customer in the dark while shunting responsibility from pillar to post.

After the abortive phone call, things looked up ostensibly on the Tuesday. We received an e-mail from the Aviapartner intermediaries to say that the bag would be delivered the following day, the last full day of the family's stay, between the hours of eight and one o'clock. What's more, the e-mail came from a named individual, who even provided a phone number. My ever-optimistic wife blithely announced that she had a good feeling that my sister would get her bag back. Jo, bless her innocent cotton socks, derived comfort from her words. So much so that she insisted on coming over here for 8 o'clock, partly because she doesn't trust anyone, even her older brother, to do the necessary, and partly because she clearly genuinely believed that someone would turn up with her case at such a farcical hour.

And so, after breakfast on the back balcony in full view of our view, we waited. Fruitlessly. At least I don't have to take time off work and can get on with other things. In theory. When eight became nine became ten o'clock and still no bag, Jo urged me to make some calls to find out what was happening. If there's anything guaranteed to drive me to bedlam, it's the business of calling organisations that direct you to select an option, then move you very slowly down a queue of similarly frustrated callers until you stumble upon someone who may or may not understand let alone take any interest in your query. It's a good job that modern telephones are cordless, otherwise I'd have wound the flex around my neck and pulled tight long ago.

Given that there was no point in phoning Chronicpost's hotline without a tracking number, I tried Aviapartner. The number given at the foot of the hopeful e-mail wasn't recognised on each of three attempts. So I phoned the premium number at Toulouse airport, waited five minutes and gave up. Then I tried the Paris number I tracked down for Aviapartner: to be held in a queue on each of three occasions only to be told by the automated voice that 'all of our operatives are busy with other customers at the moment, please renew your call ultérieurement.' I'll bet the bastards were busy with other customers!

My sister's frequent questions I couldn't answer about what was happening and why didn't help my growing angst and despondency. I wanted to tell her, 'Forget it, Jo. It's Chinatown' – but she wouldn't have got the reference. It would only have compounded her perplexity.

Meanwhile in Brive, my therapeutic wife had a cancellation and got involved in the action as the one o'clock deadline approached. Perhaps it's her sunny disposition and relentless optimism that enabled her to get through to Aviapartner and find someone helpful. She learnt a key bit of information: that Chronicpost wouldn't get paid until they delivered the suitcase. A crumb of comfort as the delivery deadline passed. My sister and I ate the lunch that I'd prepared while waiting in vain, and afterwards I managed to persuade her to accept the inevitable and go and enjoy her final afternoon here with her family. By now, she had come round to the idea that in future it would make more sense to travel lighter and carry her bag into the cabin.

I hung around here all afternoon just in case, glad at least not to have to make more fruitless calls nor answer more questions about the way things are. Finally, I could get down to planning how to send in the drones and blow the entire Chronicpost organisation to kingdom come. The trouble is, they spread themselves wide and far, with depots everywhere, to mask their nerve centre and prevent such attacks. Just as Jake Gittes learns that you can't take down an evil self-seeking businessman like Noah Cross, so you can never, ever derive revenge or customer satisfaction with a company like Chronicpost.

By the end of the day, my neck felt like I had whiplash. The whole sorry experience had turned me into a tense, nervous wreck. Fortunately, I made a great choice in marrying my wife. Half an hour's deep-muscle massage and a night's sleep on a pillow retrieved from the clinic filled with spelt husks (or something equally crispy), and I rose from the dead the next morning. With my neck restored to its customary ramrod-stiff state, it no longer felt that I was dying slowly but surely from a brain tumour.

My sister and family are back in England. She sent me a text on Saturday evening to say that she had been reunited with her suitcase. Perhaps British couriers work. Hopefully Chronicpost weren't paid – by any of the other organisations in the equation. It all adds up anyway to a digital dystopia. 'Forget it, Mark. It's Chinatown.'

 

July: Insect Apocalypse

No doubt I'm tempting fate, but so far – weather-wise – this has been a perfect summer: a bit of sun, plenty of cloud-cover, a few thunderstorms, a fair bit of rain and, above all, fair –to-middling temperatures. If anything, they've had it hotter in England. My sister tells me that the recent torrential rain has turned the grass in her garden back to green. It's not easy being green here at this time of year, but this year green is very much the prevailing colour.

What they don't have in England, particularly in the town, are the insects. The teeming hundreds and thousands of them. While a lethal combination of intensive agriculture, insecticides, 5G and other human activity is busy killing them off all over the rest of the world, here there are bees and butterflies in abundance. Perhaps there are fewer than there might have been, say, 20 years ago, but every time I walk past the lavender bushes at the front of the house, the air is loud with the sound of bumble bees, multi-coloured butterflies and hummingbird moths all busy with their daily activity.

How perfect it would all be if that were all. Alas, there are flies. Just as a cricket ball tends to swing more under cloud cover, it seems that the threat of rain and particularly thunder brings out the flies in their multitudes. They mass on the glass windows and doors, they swarm in the kitchen and they upset my delicate mental balance. The big ones are bad – once they get into the house, they fly around the place, crashing into windows and walls as they look for a way to get out again, yet when I open a door for them they head in the opposite direction, back into the house to fly around noisily like the model airplanes down at the aeronautical club in the meadow directly below us.

The small ones are worse, though. Far worse. The silent enemy that doesn't even attempt to get back outside. They fly around your head and land on you when you're attempting to concentrate on any activity – such as some supposedly relaxing yoga to redress your mental equilibrium – and every futile attempt to brush them away only increases their determination to land on you. I hate it, just as I hated being tickled as a child, so maybe it's a throwback to those days. When I used to go to evening yoga classes BC, before COVID, our teacher would tell us just to let it go and welcome their visits. What woolly and idealistic nonsense.

I've tried everything. I've even tried some readers' tips from the Daily Express, which somehow found their way onto my liberal phone. With hope in my heart, I tried dissolving some common soap in a dish of white vinegar. Not a single fly investigated it. Not a single fly was drugged by the heady mixture and rendered too heavy to fly. I even resorted to the vacuum cleaner when I found them massing on the underside of the extraction hood. My disgust trumped my usual frugality when it comes to unnecessary use of heavy-duty electricity.

So it's been back to the trusty two-pronged assault of fly paper and fly-swat. The former is as disgusting to try to secure to the ceiling with a drawing pin as it is once it becomes a popular port-of-call for inquisitive flies. Not to mention the business of taking it down and disposing of it in the bin without getting glue or dead flies on your skin.

The fly-swat turns me into a raving, raging psychopath. My rampages are generally accompanied by the kind of foul and abusive language that would get me sent off a football pitch – although I've come to try to adopt more the Good Wife's German 'verdannpten fliegen', which means approximately 'bloody flies'. The basic plastic swat from Intermarché is now so patched with grey gaffer-tape that it's almost unrecognisable. Being a thoughtful psycho-killer, I don't like to chuck away plastic that probably can't be re-cycled if I can positively help it. The grey gaffer-tape has the advantage that the whacked fly sticks to the implement long enough for me to dispose of it in the bin. It also gives the weapon a little more heft. But the time is rapidly approaching when I am going to have to trade it in for a new one.

And then there are the mosquitoes. For some reason, there are many more of them at the front of the house than there are behind it. Being conscious of how much water is wasted every time you flush a loo, I like to use the ample facilities of mother nature in the summer. But it's a hazardous business thanks to the mozzies that proliferate around my favourite watering holes.  

Generally speaking, a quick one and back inside and you can elude attack. Should I stop for a bit of weeding, however – which I do from time to time when the need to do something useful (even if futile) becomes overpowering – I'm quickly bitten to buggery. The speed with which they bite and suck is astonishing. I try to ensure that they pay the ultimate price for such temerity, but the little swine are even smaller and nippier than the common housefly.

Of course, I could resort to the back balcony. Half- or fully-cut with whiskey, William Faulkner would piss from his balcony at or onto visiting strangers, but discretion is my middle name. To be a real writer, you have to live in extremis or a semi-permanent state of inebriation.

Worst of all is being trapped in a bedroom with even a lone mosquito. That appalling high-pitched whine somewhere near your head as you sink into the pillow tells you that you're in for a night of it. My skin must be particularly tasty to the blood-suckers. When I'm around, they leave the Good Wife in peace. She is troubled by the moon and the concerns of her clients, while I tend to wake up only when the call of nature or the need to scratch a mosquito bite becomes too strong to ignore. They always go for my knuckles, where the most intense itching on earth seems to occur. It calms down after about half an hour, but by then I'm in such a state of agitation that getting back to sleep becomes fraught – usually demanding an extended case of fictional cricket teams. Eventually, the mental exercise tends to bore me back to sleep.

So every night I scan the walls and ceiling of our bedroom armed with my taped-up fly-swat. If you're lucky, you can catch them off their guard, dozing as they wait for the lamp to go off and the nocturnal blood bath to begin. So why not get a mosquito net and drape it around the bed, you may ask? Two reasons: one is that you get tangled up in the thing when you get up to answer nature's call; two is that said entanglements can tear the net – and if there's one thing worse than a mosquito in your bedroom, it's a mosquito in your comfort zone.

That said, you're probably right. It's time to buy a new mosquito net and a brand-spanking-new fly-swat. Neither, though, will stay spanking-new for long.

 

June: Still Collecting After All These Years

Since moving to France, almost 28 years ago now, we've taken a perverse pleasure in collecting Anglocisms, if that's what you call them, that have crept – or rather leapt – into the French language despite the efforts of a Salon dedicated to keeping it pure. Les baskets, for example, are a form of footwear – which doesn't mean, alas, that people here wear great cumbersome basket-shoes on their feet, woven out of straw or raffia or whatever they're made from these days. No, the word means 'trainers' and presumably derives from basketball shoes.

Another early one that we have taken in our stride is un jean. Normally it takes about three French words to approximate one English word – and hence, I suppose, all these Anglocisms – but in this case it's the other way round. Un jean equals 'a pair of jeans' – again alas, because I like to imagine a whole nation of one legged-people wearing a single denim trouser-leg (and wearing a woven basket on the foot at the end of that leg). Sadly, not the case.

Le jogging was another early favourite – it's old hat now – as in 'Est-ce que vous faites le jogging chaque matin?' To which my stock answer would be, 'No I prefer riding my bicycle each morning with my faithful dog at my side, because jogging probably wrecks your knees over time.' A properly equipped French jogger does le jogging in un jogging (no 's', no need for 'pants'). From le jogging it's a comparatively logical bound to le re-looking. You can go to a hairdresser or a stylist for a re-looking, or you can even give furniture a bit of a re-looking, perhaps with a bit of sandpaper and a tin of varnish.

The other morning I received a gleeful text from the Good Wife, who'd tuned into a radio station on her way to work in Brive and heard about une stand-upeuse. All day long, I imagined it had something to do with women who made a habit of not keeping their dates – as in 'Oh, that one. She's a notorious stand-upeuse. Good luck if you think she'll turn up for the film.' But no, I was quite wrong. When the worker returned, she revealed that it means 'stand-up comedienne'. Sorry, I shouldn't say that any more, should I? 'Stand-up comedian.' So the male of the species would be un stand-upeur. 'What do you want to be when you grow up, Jean-Luc?' 'Je veux être un stand-upeur.'

There are many more that tickle us consistently. I won't even start on 'Cuir Homme', the leather shop for men. Fortunately, they don't take up any physical space, unlike my compulsive need to collect tangible objects. The ageing process slows most things down, but my obsession with cultural artefacts is growing apace. The older I get, the more it seems I want to look at things, touch them, listen to them while I'm still here to enjoy them. You can't take them with you.

It started early in my life, with Corgi toys and Britains Limited cowboys and Indians and... zoo animals. Then it was records. Then it was books. Then it was more records, and cassette tapes, and video tapes. Then it was CDs and DVDs. Now it's more records and more CDs. My wife's maxim is that for every new item that comes into the house, an old item should leave it. I've managed to get around it by being literal. I don't buy new items (well, not generally), I buy things second-hand.

The passion for books gradually abated after my student years. Books do furnish a room, as Anthony Powel entitled one of his novels, but the trouble is they have furnished most of this house. The shelves are full, there's room for no more. Besides, books take so frigging long to read and we're both, rapidly, running out of time. The same with DVDs. There's no more room and anyway there's not the pressing need now, given Film Four, Talking Pictures and so on.

People think I'm mad keeping my cassettes; you can never find the one you're looking for, anyway. But they represent a considerable chunk of my misspent life, they still sound pretty damn good and pre-recorded cassettes (for some peculiar reason) are becoming sought after. Records and compact discs, though, remain another matter. The official shelves are sagging at the seams, but you can slot records into canny spaces if necessary and you can build little hillocks of piled CDs. One of my few regrets is that I wasn't more avid in my collecting when vinyl was as unloved as CDs appear to be nowadays. But there are still bargains to be had, which makes the thrill of the chase perhaps that much more thrilling.

My oldest friend and lifelong male soul-mate spends much of his spare time trawling for records in the thrift shops of Manhattan. He has a small and just affordable basement apartment replete with tower-blocks of piled books and cupboards full of records. Apart from both being the eldest of four, we're shaped by quite different family influences, yet we're two peas in a pod. My hunting grounds are the charity shops of Romsey, when I'm back in the U of K, and – now that Philippe has closed his record shop in Brive to take his retirement – Emmaüs, La Ressourcerie and the Secours Populaire here in France. Charitable thrift shops, I suppose.

Much of the time, I come away empty-handed, but just recently I've had a bit of a shark's feeding frenzy. The other day, I came away with what could have once been someone's entire jazz collection on CD: 30 of them and a triple Django Reinhardt LP set, for 11 euros. I probably didn't need any of them, but they filled a few holes in my collection, which is already big enough to keep me going till the bitter end and into the after-life. My brother quizzes me with quasi-mathematical problems like, 'If you did nothing else, how much time would you need to spend to listen to everything you've got?' But that's missing the point. It's just so nice and reassuring to have them. I'm an inveterate browser, and it allows me to browse to my heart's content.

If this sounds like I'm a sad bastard, I'm happy/sad, as Tim Buckley might have had it. I was very happy the other day, when I stumbled upon several boxes of records in a depot, probably part of a house clearance, priced at three for two euros. The name on a couple suggested a fellow Brit and, judging by the records' vintage, perhaps a similar human vintage. Perhaps he died and his collection was dumped by long-suffering loved-ones. Perhaps he sold up and moved back home and decided that he couldn't take them with him. I don't know. In any case, he left behind Pink Floyd's first two albums. I'm not even a particular fan of Pink Floyd, but the adrenalin rush nearly knocked me off my feet. I could sell them for a considerable profit, but I'll probably hang onto them even though some of the music makes me cringe. It's simply to have them there, so I can pull them out of the rack and look at them from time to time and maybe glow in the pleasure of showing them to someone and hearing them gasp. Unfortunately we have few visitors these days, and even fewer who are remotely interested in perusing records. I shall have to wait for my Man in Manhattan's next visit. 

Just lately I have also started collecting ticks: those fiendish parasites that jump onto your skin or clothing when you brush past their natural habitat. It's a hazard of living in the French countryside, but this year they have reached epidemic proportions. On Sunday morning, for example, we took Daphne on a long walk through the woods. I wore shorts because it was hot. When I got back, I removed seven microscopic swine scuttling over my legs. If you don't get them straight away, they burrow into your flesh to suck your blood. The tiny ones are the most difficult to remove with the green plastic hook device.

We removed at least seven from Daphne, too. Her coat is so thick that they're hard to find, and you generally only discover them after they've gorged themselves on her blood. Sometimes, if you miss them, they get so big and bloated that they fall off onto the floor. The other day I trod on one in bare feet. It was not a nice experience. The blood in the bulbous sac was a deep, virulent red and very difficult to wipe off foot and floor.

Just one of the many hazards of being a collector. But if I were young and wanted to follow a career as a stand-upeur, it'd provide plenty of material. I could call myself Kid Kollektor or something edgy. The other day, right...?