tout sweettag:,2008:/12008-10-05T13:46:43Zmy life in a rural french village
[by mimi pompom a former fashion editor from west london]
Movable Type 3.34scent of a mantag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1502008-10-05T09:34:15Z2008-10-05T13:46:43ZSaturday afternoon and I am sitting at my desk surrounded by bottles of cologne - I am finishing off a a feature on male fragrance - when the doorbell rings. I throw open the window and I see Luis my...Karen
Boeuf était sur la route,' he says as I open the door. He places a sheepish looking Biff in my arms. As he leans towards me, I detect a subtle smell of citron cologne. It's one that I don't recognise but it's not bad and it's not CK-One.
'Il s'appelle Biff, pas Boeuf,' I say, unable to hide a smile. 'Mais, merci quand meme.'
Then it occurs to me that my neighbour might have reached in through the casement windows, which I have left slightly ajar in the autumn sunshine, and taken Biff from his favourite perch on top of the sofa. Except that Biff does look extremely sheepish and he is more than capable of pushing open the windows and jumping out.
'It was very nice of you to bring my dog back,' I say.
'De rien,' says my neighbour with a disarming smile. 'So what about the aperitif that you promised me?'
'OK,' I say. 'Demain soir a sept heures.'
'Ca va?' he says, looking a little disbelieving.
'Ca va,' I say, and return to my desk to finish my feature, 'Scent of a Man.' ]]>
dishevelled chictag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1492008-09-24T15:02:53Z2008-09-24T15:27:16ZSo 'dishevelled chic' is the key fashion trend for next summer according to Miuccia Prada and the Milan catwalks. I'm pleased to report that it's a look I've been practicing for some time - ever since moving to rural France...Karen
So 'dishevelled chic' is the key fashion trend for next summer according to Miuccia Prada and the Milan catwalks. I'm pleased to report that it's a look I've been practicing for some time - ever since moving to rural France in fact.
I particularly excelled at the look last week when my hairbrush went missing for several days. Biff, I eventually discovered, had hidden it behind the sofa, with the result that I started to bear an uncanny resemblance to him (ie long hair falling in front of the eyes; not the black beard). So it seems that we are both ahead of the curve on this one.]]>
silent sundaytag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1482008-09-21T18:39:08Z2008-09-23T07:52:41ZI wake up to silence. I eat my pain au chocolat and drink my coffee to silence. And I spend a couple of hours reading the Sunday newspapers on-line. In silence. By mid-afternoon - and I never thought I would...Karen
pain au chocolat and drink my coffee to silence. And I spend a couple of hours reading the Sunday newspapers on-line. In silence.
By mid-afternoon - and I never thought I would say this - I am starting to miss the sound of my Portuguese neighbours firing up the barbecue on the pavement outside, laughing, chatting and popping open cans of beer.
As I walk Biff around the sleepy village in the late afternoon sunshine, I listen for the tell-tale signs of music, loud macho voices and laughter. Rien. All is quiet in the square. Luis and Piedro, I tell myself, must have left the village for good - to the relief, no doubt, of all my French neighbours.
But early evening, the smell of barbecued fish drifts in through an open window. And then I hear a very familiar, loud and deep laugh - a laugh I would recognise anywhere. I look out of the window and see the familiar sight of Luis, bent over a barbecue, his big calloused hands tending to what look like delicate pancakes.
Ten minutes later, he puts down his barbecue tongs and follows me to my car as I bundle Biff inside to go and visit friends.
'Are you going out?' he asks.
'Yes. How is your new flat?'
'Tres agreable.'
'Have you moved far?'
'Just across the square,' he says with a grin.
'Then what are you doing back here so soon?' I ask.
He replies, in his heavily accented French, something about fishing.
'You're going fishing?' I repeat, looking incredulous. 'On a Sunday evening?'
'No, no! 'That's far too quiet for me.' He points to the barbecue and I eventually work out that he is cooking a special fish that he has brought back from Portugal for his friends (the four Portuguese men who have moved in to take his and Piedro's place.)
'What time will you be back?' he asks as I drive off.
'Je ne sais pas' I reply.
But as I drive past fields of wilting sunflowers, I am forced to admit that I am strangely pleased that they have only moved across the square. ]]>
wishtag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1472008-09-20T18:15:20Z2008-09-23T07:50:42ZThey say you should be careful what you wish for and for a while now, I've been wishing that my neighbours, Luis, Piedro and their housemates (anything between two and five Portuguese construction workers at any one time) would move...Karen
Tu vas sortir?'
'Yes.'
'What time will you be back?'
'Je ne sais pas.'
I should be thrilled that Luis and his side-kick Piedro (a Nicolas Cage look-alike in floral bermuda shorts) are leaving but as I drive through sunlit countryside, it occurs to me that I might actually miss having someone so interested in what time I am coming home.]]>
neighbourstag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1462008-09-19T18:01:22Z2008-09-21T18:13:29ZI like awake looking at the moon through my bedroom window and wishing that my Portuguese neighbours would go to bed. It's 2.00am and I can't sleep because they are making even more of a racket than usual. Eventually, I...Karen
'Vous faites trop de bruit. Soyez tranquils!'
I climb back into bed thinking how ironic it is that I came to France seeking peace and a quiet life only to find that I'm living next door to a 24 hour street party. Maybe it's different in Provence but I don't recall anything like this happening to Peter Mayle.]]>
hedge fund guytag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1452008-09-11T17:37:55Z2008-09-11T17:38:38ZIncidentally, Dave - for those who have been kind enough to ask - never did call. But since I am back in France and he manages a hedge fund in London, it is probably a good thing....Karen
Incidentally, Dave - for those who have been kind enough to ask - never did call. But since I am back in France and he manages a hedge fund in London, it is probably a good thing.
madonnatag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1442008-09-11T15:03:57Z2008-09-16T19:40:01ZThe Portuguese neighbour appears at my door shortly after my return to France, clutching a plastic carrier bag. He too has been away for most of the summer. 'I've bought you some presents from Portugal,' he says. 'I spent a...Karen
Oh dear god,' I think, gingerly opening the bag.
Inside, I find a bottle of port and.... wait for it... a statue of the Madonna - and a rather sorrowful looking one at that.. For once I am speechless and I hope that my face does not betray my horror.
'You are Catholic?' he says, looking concerned.
'Er yes, I did go to catholic school,' I reply, wondering what on earth I am going to do with the statue.
'You do like it then?'
'Um. Yes. It's very nice. Thank you.'
After he has gone, I put it in a box of unwanted presents destined for Médecins Sans Frontieres. And it occurs to me that it might be time to move. Provence seems like a very nice place.
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la tristesse IItag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1432008-09-10T14:29:39Z2008-09-10T14:40:34ZOh dear! Over an organic coffee with one of my French neighbours in the bookshop this morning, I heard the news that the baker is planning to close down for good. 'll est deprimé,' she declared, stating what many of...Karen
ll est deprimé,' she declared, stating what many of us suspected for months. 'Et il faut tourner la page.'
Poor old René. I for one am very sad, as his little bakery with its chocolate brown walls, chandeliers, bright red bordello lamps and twinkly fairy lights in the window really cheered up the village. ]]>
la tristessetag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1422008-09-09T22:26:38Z2008-09-11T14:57:57ZThe baker has a broken heart. When he opened up shop eighteen months ago, it was a cause of great celebration in the village and the queue for his macaroons and millefeuilles - which were as light as a puff...Karen
millefeuilles - which were as light as a puff of silk - often tailed onto the square.
When my friends Chris and Laurent visited earlier this year, we did a comparative taste test, buying croissants from the three bakeries - yes three - in the village and René Matout's were by far the best.
But then his buff Latino boyfriend - responsible for the shop's ravishing window displays - left. And things haven't been quite the same since.
Recently, I noticed that René's pains au chocolat were burnt, his bread a little stodgier than usual. Then the toile curtain came down and a sign went up saying that the boulangerie would be closed on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursday's.
When I went to buy croissants on Monday I could tell by the baker's wan, unsmiling face that all was not well. Word on the village square is that he is struggling to pay crippling taxes and that the competition from the third bakery - which opened in the summer - has caused him to lose heart. The more perceptive believe that, if his cakes now lack a certain lightness of touch, it is because the young baker is suffering from an incurable tristesse. ]]>
out of linetag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1412008-09-05T17:42:37Z2008-09-05T21:14:46ZI am quite convinced that in Biff I have found the perfect dog. He doesn't moult, is good with small children and old people, trots nicely along beside my bike and - most importantly - can sit quietly for hours...Karen
I am quite convinced that in Biff I have found the perfect dog. He doesn't moult, is good with small children and old people, trots nicely along beside my bike and - most importantly - can sit quietly for hours under a cafe or restaurant table.
But I fear that I am about to put his forbearance to the test tomorrow. After a summer of accompanying me to local fetes and country fairs across the region - and watching with a look of indulgent resignation as the French line dancing troop to which I belong takes to the stage - he is going to have to sit through our entire repertoire at least twice tomorrow. First stop at 11.00am, is the covered market of a nearby town, then an agricultural fair 25km away and then back to the covered market. We even have a live violinist who accompanies us now - the USP that sets us apart from the many other troups in the region.
Having spent large segments of the summer in London, I don't know all the steps but am hoping not to repeat the performance where I ended up facing the opposite direction to everyone else on the stage. You know you've made a fool of yourself when even your pet tries to pretend he's not with you.
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night ferrytag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1402008-08-21T12:15:02Z2008-09-03T20:01:23Z'I am starting to feel a little persecuted by you,' I say to the man in uniform who pulls me over in Portsmouth - the third time in two months. Is there, I wonder, something about me, my ancient Golf...Karen
you out for special attention.'
I desist from pointing out that if millions of people are passing through the port everyday, it only makes it more extraordinary that I get stopped 75 per cent of the time.
Instead, I assume a serious expression while he asks me the usual questions: am I carrying an incendiary device? Explosives? An offensive weapon? Or large amounts of currency (I wish!) I answer meekly in the negative, feeling mildly irritated.
But there is a bright spot on the horizon as I join the queue to board the overnight ferry back to France. Walking Biff down the columns of cars in the darkness, I encounter an elegantly-dressed fellow traveller with a small terrier. We start chatting about the best place on the boat for pets (top tip: so far, the most tranquil spot I've found is the front of deck 5 on the Brittany Ferries vessel 'Normandy'.)
My new acquaintance seems particularly anxious about where she is going to eat breakfast on arrival and asks me if I know anywhere. I tell her that sadly, I don't. While the little port of Ouistreham is very big on moules frites, breakfast is less well catered for. She seems very disappointed by this news. Later, it all falls into place when I discover that she is a famous food writer.
She suggests that we meet up for dinner in the on-board restaurant. Even though it's nearly midnight by the time we board, I haven't eaten and so readily agree.
The food writer is excellent company and we sit in the restaurant for as long as possible - until 2.00am, when we are finally forced to leave.
Having both booked too late to get a cabin, we take our seats in the lounge surrounded by people trying to out-snore each other. The food writer is very organised with a little pillow, blanket and a selection of pashminas - one of which she kindly lends me, as I am not so well-prepared. (I've brought my ipod to block out the communal snore-in but not much else.)
The following morning - after agreeing that we must meet up for cocktails in London - the food writer heads off with her charming terrier and a cheery wave and I think how much nicer the journey was for having met her.
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parktag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1392008-08-11T17:57:36Z2008-08-11T18:01:43ZSaturday morning and I bump into William sitting in the outdoor cafe of the local park. ‘So what happened with Dave?’ he asks. ‘Nothing. He saw me into a taxi and that was the last I heard of him.’ ‘Oh!’...Karen
Saturday morning and I bump into William sitting in the outdoor cafe of the local park.
‘So what happened with Dave?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. He saw me into a taxi and that was the last I heard of him.’
‘Oh!’ says William, looking surprised. (Or pretending to be.) ‘Well, I think he’s been away.’ And then he swiftly changes the subject.
The truth is that I enjoyed meeting Dave (it was fun to meet a reader who actually buys the stuff that I write about in the FT) but I instinctively knew that I am not his type. For a start, I can see him with someone with a high maintenance beauty regime whereas I’m a firm believer that life is too short for manicures.
meanwhile...tag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1382008-08-08T23:52:14Z2008-08-09T13:09:02ZTwo calls from France. The first is my Portuguese neighbour (yes, he has my mobile number) to find out why I have been away so long and when I might be coming back. He tells me he has been keeping...Karen
Two calls from France. The first is my Portuguese neighbour (yes, he has my mobile number) to find out why I have been away so long and when I might be coming back. He tells me he has been keeping an eye on my house and wants to know if I would like to go to the beach with him for the day on my return.
'I won't be back until the end of August,' I say.
The second is Travis calling from his garden to tell me how great the weather is, how clearly he can see the stars in the sky, how many aperitif soirées he has attended and which of our mutual friends he has seen. He has very kindly offered to go over to my house tomorrow morning to collect my post and a computer cable, which he is going to bring back to London.
'Would I be pushing my luck if I asked you to bring back my favourite leopard shoes?' I ask.
'Yes,' he replies. 'I might be a poof but I'm not getting caught at the Eurostar security check with a pair of girls' shoes in my bag.'
blind datetag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1372008-08-01T21:01:49Z2008-09-11T15:02:56ZGallingly, I am in London for pretty much the whole of August (for dental treatment among other things) while most of my London friends have departed for France. Travis my GBF (gay best friend) calls me from the beach where...Karen
Pret when William (tall, long-haired, looks like a rock star) one of the new aquaintances I have met through walking the dog, sits down beside me.
'You're back!' he says, pulling out his mobile. 'Are you free tomorrow night?'
'I think so,' I say.
'Right! Well, I'm going to phone my mate Dave.'
He's told me about Dave already - 34, speaks fluent French, great personality, has a house in France, hedge-fund manager, single.
'I just know that you two are going to get on,' he says. 'He's very unassuming. Very understated. You'll love him.'
Dave does indeed sound excellent. And so the following evening, molar pulsing with pain, I head to the bar in Fulham as arranged to meet William and his girlfriend. And Dave.
I see the well dressed crowd on the pavement outside the heaving bar and panic slightly. I've left all my good shoes at home in France and am wearing flip-flops and basically my dog-walking outfit but with a dab of Nars glitter eye pencil. The girls inside the bar are wearing colourful chiffon and smatterings of sequins and look like ....London girls. I look like a country bumpkin.
William is waiting for me outside on the pavement. He takes me inside and introduces me to Dave, who is, as promised, instantly likeable. We talk about France and Brits behaving badly in the French countryside. Dave is funny, attractive, intelligent, self-deprecating and very good company. He has a house somewhere between Burgundy and Reims 'so either way,' he says, 'it's well placed for drink.'
He asks what I write about and is polite enough given my crumpled outfit - I so wish I'd made a bigger effort - not to look surprised when I tell him fashion and beauty. He offers me a forkful of his seared tuna and later a bite of his chocolate brownie.
It's all going very well. He asks me if I once wrote an article about an exotic fragrance ingredient called oudh for the FT. I tell him I did, several years ago. It turns out that not only did he read the article from beginning to end, he actually bought the male fragrance in question. He tells me an hilarious story about visiting the perfumer (a friend of mine) and being charmed into buying half her shop.
'I was shaken down like a Christmas tree,' he laughs. He tells me he still has a stash of scented candles at home to show for it.
At the end of the evening, he asks to see my dog - Biff is waiting patiently in the car - and then escorts us to a taxi, asking if I need money for the fare. (Although I appreciate the gesture, I cringe: do I look like the sort of girl who can't pay her own cab fare?)
The following morning William texts me to ask what I think of Dave. 'Gorgeous!' I text back, since there's no point in pretending otherwise. 'Charming, funny and cute. Just as you said.'
I am hoping that William will text me back to say that Dave thought something similar about me. But he doesn't. ]]>
solar panelstag:www.toutsweet.net,2008://1.1362008-07-27T22:09:28Z2008-08-01T20:59:43Z‘Oil powered central heating - that’ll be cheap to run,’ said a friend, who came to look over my house shortly after I bought it. (And no, he wasn’t being ironic - this was before oil prices headed into the...Karen
anglais, who boasted that he enjoyed free hot water all summer long thanks to two solar panels in his roof. I was as green as a maize field with envy.
I experienced a similar feeling today on reading of Sex and the City actress Kristin
Davis's excitement at ‘being off grid’ and the thrill of climbing up a ladder to check the solar panels in the roof of her home in LA.
Among switched-on folk, it seems that solar panels are the new 'must-have' (even if they don't generate much power in winter.) The oil boiler in my garage on the other hand, feels as past-it as the Amstrad computer. ]]>