During Tanya’s pregnancy I read a lot about husbands who become so involved in their wife’s labour that they develop sympathy symptoms - morning sickness, swollen legs and in extreme cases false labour. All I can say is that at the time of Elodie’s birth I was a little too busy and excited but this week I got there in the end and here is how it happened.
There I was sitting happily in the Sunday sunshine looking down at one of my favourite French dishes. Now there are three main ways that restaurants tend to serve Steack Tartare. Firstly, the minced steak is presented in the centre of the plate, upturned egg in its shell on top and the various condiments - capers, onions, herbs, sauce etc.. - around the side. This method tends to be favoured by cheaper restaurants as it involves little or no effort on their part.
Secondly the waiter arrives at the table and asks for your preference - spicy or not - and then mixes the Steack Tartare in front of you.
Thirdly and this is what I had on Sunday the preparation is done in the kitchen. The ensemble that arrived was magnifique. Rather than the cheaper minced steak I could see that my dish had been entirely chopped by hand into the finest slivers. On top were two soft boiled quails eggs. I couldn’t have been happier. Sun shining, Saint Remy de Provence, delicious food, all good.
One day later my opinion of steack tartare had changed considerably. I was bent double in our kitchen, head on the table, arms cradling my head, groaning in agony as my whole body was convulsed by yet another wracking pain. And the funny thing about these pains was - if pains can be funny - they disappeared as quickly as they came, re-appearing every five minutes or so. In the lucid, agony free moments, I quite reasonably suggested to Tanya that what I was experiencing was akin to labour.
She looked at me with icy unsympathetic eyes and then simply walked away.
I still think it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion - oyster poisoning is meant to be one of the most painful things in the world, and so why not Steack Tartare poisoning. Anyway the delay in this weekly blog is partly explained by food poisoning and partly by the ensuing rows.
Bon App!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
Il pleut
By common agreement among the expat community the Luberon is enduring the worst weather in a decade. In a region of extreme conditions this is quite a statement. What’s more there have been no electrical storms, no reports of the mistral gusting above the usual 30kmh (at which point things get interesting) and no return of the blizzards which three years ago according to our landlord made it impossible to reach the end of the drive yet alone the village. Instead the problem is slate grey skies and a very English drizzle. It’s been going on for weeks and as I said for the expats it is a bit too much like being at home. But the locals, the locals they love it. They really honestly couldn’t be more delighted.
The moment I raise the topic of how bad the weather has been their eyes narrow. If I was a 50 year old man who had just announced he intended to elope with their teenage daughter they couldn’t look more disgusted with me.
“What do I mean the weather’s bad?”
“Well, the rain, the rain,” I moan.
“ah but the land needs the rain,” they reply as if I am some sort of dimwit who doesn’t understand the principles of evaporation and precipitation.
“but 10 days of rain,” I persist, “why can’t we just have a good storm.”
They shake their head as if they have never met anyone so stupid.
“The rain is good rain,” they patiently explain.
By now we are both absolutely drenched, and I am feeling more and more miserable but I get the feeling that given the opportunity my local interrogator would be dancing around with the glee of a French Gene Kelly twirling his umbrella.
Anyway here is the theory of why we should all like the rain - the Luberon rarely has good rain. Usually when the heavens open, it comes down in a cascade, flows of the rock-hard earth, causes a minor flood in the village and then drains straight into the river, meaning the soil barely has a chance to absorb any moisture. 2007 was full of dry hot spells and the odd “bad” rain day and as a result the vines and the olive trees were constantly in danger of withering up.
So despite the fact that we can’t go outside Tanya, Elodie and I are learning to smile, look out the window, and say, “oh good, more drizzle.”
The moment I raise the topic of how bad the weather has been their eyes narrow. If I was a 50 year old man who had just announced he intended to elope with their teenage daughter they couldn’t look more disgusted with me.
“What do I mean the weather’s bad?”
“Well, the rain, the rain,” I moan.
“ah but the land needs the rain,” they reply as if I am some sort of dimwit who doesn’t understand the principles of evaporation and precipitation.
“but 10 days of rain,” I persist, “why can’t we just have a good storm.”
They shake their head as if they have never met anyone so stupid.
“The rain is good rain,” they patiently explain.
By now we are both absolutely drenched, and I am feeling more and more miserable but I get the feeling that given the opportunity my local interrogator would be dancing around with the glee of a French Gene Kelly twirling his umbrella.
Anyway here is the theory of why we should all like the rain - the Luberon rarely has good rain. Usually when the heavens open, it comes down in a cascade, flows of the rock-hard earth, causes a minor flood in the village and then drains straight into the river, meaning the soil barely has a chance to absorb any moisture. 2007 was full of dry hot spells and the odd “bad” rain day and as a result the vines and the olive trees were constantly in danger of withering up.
So despite the fact that we can’t go outside Tanya, Elodie and I are learning to smile, look out the window, and say, “oh good, more drizzle.”
Monday, January 07, 2008
Smoke Free France
January in Lourmarin is a strange month. Half the shops are shut, the one main café is closed and its possible to walk down the main high street without encountering anyone. Last year it was bitter enough for the fountain to freeze and when the mistral blows it’s so bleak and barren that staying in and watching a rerun of At Home with Victoria Beckham begins to look like a positive use of time.
The Parisians have boarded up their maison secondaires, the Brits have jumped on the last Easyjet home leaving just the permanent residents - the hunters, the farmers, the bar owners, the vignerons and us - the market traders. Because of our nationality we will always be outsiders but for a couple of winter months we belong to an exclusive club of all year round residents. Near strangers kiss us in the street - presumably they are just pleased to see anyone at all, even if they are English - passing acquaintances embrace us as if we’ve been on a solo voyage around the world as opposed to just back to England for Christmas and as for the scene in the tabac this Sunday - I might as well have been at a close friend’s wedding, nibbling on assorted crudités, I certainly had little or no chance of getting the paper. Instead I learnt of the 3 wild boar which had been shot near our house in our absence, that the local garagiste had a car for sale that might suit us, and that everybody thought that Sarkozy’s new beau was, to paraphrase, “a right old tart.”
Meanwhile Tanya and Elodie were waiting on the terrace of the one open café. Last January, despite the same winter camaraderie, this was the one habit that distanced us from everybody. While the remaining population of Lourmarin huddled inside the café, we braved the icy air and sat outside. People shook their heads as they opened the door and the warm cosy scent of Gaullois drifted out. This year though the terrace is full and every smoker is sporting the enormous puffa jackets they got for Christmas. France has finally gone non-smoking and for everybody it’s a real pain. The French have as much affinity for the cold as cats water, and their lower lips quiver like lost children as nicotine pins then to the freezing terrace, meanwhile Tanya and I pace up and down looking for a spare space, and the bar staff wince as they ferry drinks outside (before of course stopping for a cigarette - at least it is easier to get served.)
Bonne Annee.
The Parisians have boarded up their maison secondaires, the Brits have jumped on the last Easyjet home leaving just the permanent residents - the hunters, the farmers, the bar owners, the vignerons and us - the market traders. Because of our nationality we will always be outsiders but for a couple of winter months we belong to an exclusive club of all year round residents. Near strangers kiss us in the street - presumably they are just pleased to see anyone at all, even if they are English - passing acquaintances embrace us as if we’ve been on a solo voyage around the world as opposed to just back to England for Christmas and as for the scene in the tabac this Sunday - I might as well have been at a close friend’s wedding, nibbling on assorted crudités, I certainly had little or no chance of getting the paper. Instead I learnt of the 3 wild boar which had been shot near our house in our absence, that the local garagiste had a car for sale that might suit us, and that everybody thought that Sarkozy’s new beau was, to paraphrase, “a right old tart.”
Meanwhile Tanya and Elodie were waiting on the terrace of the one open café. Last January, despite the same winter camaraderie, this was the one habit that distanced us from everybody. While the remaining population of Lourmarin huddled inside the café, we braved the icy air and sat outside. People shook their heads as they opened the door and the warm cosy scent of Gaullois drifted out. This year though the terrace is full and every smoker is sporting the enormous puffa jackets they got for Christmas. France has finally gone non-smoking and for everybody it’s a real pain. The French have as much affinity for the cold as cats water, and their lower lips quiver like lost children as nicotine pins then to the freezing terrace, meanwhile Tanya and I pace up and down looking for a spare space, and the bar staff wince as they ferry drinks outside (before of course stopping for a cigarette - at least it is easier to get served.)
Bonne Annee.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Happy Christmas
Tanya, Elodie and I would like to wish all the readers of this blog and all the readers of our books a very merry christmas and a happy new year
We will see you all in the New Year!
We will see you all in the New Year!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Back to work
Last year it was one of our favourite markets of the year - the Cucuron Christmas market. It took place on a crisp clear Provencal day - the type of day that makes the locals sigh and tell you that the Luberon is a corner of paradise.
What a difference a year makes. I was up at 7 listening to the rain rattling against the skylight. The wind was bending the trees at right angles and the last thing I felt like was going back to work. Still I had a cave full of wine to sell and I have to keep Elodie in baby grows.
12 months ago when we arrived for the market we were greeted with a free croissant, a smile and a Santa Hat. This year the organiser just told me to set up wherever I wanted - he had other problems - the day’s entertainers had cried off due to flooding (apparently giant inflatable sumo wrestlers are scared of the odd puddle) and the poster proudly claiming that there would be over 50 artisan stalls was looking wildly optimistic. For the first hour there was just me and my neighbours - a group of women serving a garlic and chick pea mash.
By late afternoon I was soaking wet and dreaming of the summer. I’d invested 50 euros in my stand and sold just ten bottles of wine. For a nation of proclaimed wine lovers the French are strangely reticent when it comes to a free tasting - “I don’t drink,” “it’s too early,” “I’ve got to drive.” Every excuse under the sun/wind swept, bitterly cold, slate grey sky was paraded in front of us, until we offered them our special Christmas treat . We mixed some Stone’s ginger wine, brought over by my father in law and some whisky and the French were instantly enamoured with their whisky macs, asking to order cases of the Ginger wine. The problem was we only had one bottle.
Makes me think that in 2008 instead of taking coals to Newcastle and trying to sell wine to the French I might change business and have a stall full of cheddar cheese, ginger wine, earl grey tea and maybe some rosé from an English vineyard.
Wish me luck….
What a difference a year makes. I was up at 7 listening to the rain rattling against the skylight. The wind was bending the trees at right angles and the last thing I felt like was going back to work. Still I had a cave full of wine to sell and I have to keep Elodie in baby grows.
12 months ago when we arrived for the market we were greeted with a free croissant, a smile and a Santa Hat. This year the organiser just told me to set up wherever I wanted - he had other problems - the day’s entertainers had cried off due to flooding (apparently giant inflatable sumo wrestlers are scared of the odd puddle) and the poster proudly claiming that there would be over 50 artisan stalls was looking wildly optimistic. For the first hour there was just me and my neighbours - a group of women serving a garlic and chick pea mash.
By late afternoon I was soaking wet and dreaming of the summer. I’d invested 50 euros in my stand and sold just ten bottles of wine. For a nation of proclaimed wine lovers the French are strangely reticent when it comes to a free tasting - “I don’t drink,” “it’s too early,” “I’ve got to drive.” Every excuse under the sun/wind swept, bitterly cold, slate grey sky was paraded in front of us, until we offered them our special Christmas treat . We mixed some Stone’s ginger wine, brought over by my father in law and some whisky and the French were instantly enamoured with their whisky macs, asking to order cases of the Ginger wine. The problem was we only had one bottle.
Makes me think that in 2008 instead of taking coals to Newcastle and trying to sell wine to the French I might change business and have a stall full of cheddar cheese, ginger wine, earl grey tea and maybe some rosé from an English vineyard.
Wish me luck….
Thursday, December 06, 2007
A Provencal recipe
This week I opened the bedroom window to find myself face to face with our landlord. His limbs were bear hugging the branch of a tree as he inched ever higher into the blue sky. In London I would have called the police and reported a peeping tom but this is Provence and so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Salut,” he waved cheerily at me from his vantage point directly into our bedroom.
“Salut,” I called back nonchalantly, while thinking to myself that all he was lacking was a pair of binoculars.
His hand groped forward pulling at another stray branch and shaking it vigorously.
“En remasse,” he offered by way of explanation with a beaming smile on his face.
A short time later I was outside helping out, stripping olives from the tree, which this year because of the high average temperature are bounteous.
It seems to be my luck in Provence to always end up with the purists. When I’ve harvested grapes its been with vignerons who insist on doing every row by hand and now my landlord was adamant that a handpicked olive leant a noticeably more peppery flavour to the oil. So there were no mechanical harvesters, not even batons to beat the branches with, instead there was hour upon hour of labour as we dropped each individually picked olive into the net on the floor.
At least I was learning as we picked. Here’s a simple recipe used by my landlady:
Keep the green olives in water for 8 days, changing the water every day. Then add salt, garlic and aromatic herbs and some oil and leave the flavours to infuse for a week.
“Salut,” he waved cheerily at me from his vantage point directly into our bedroom.
“Salut,” I called back nonchalantly, while thinking to myself that all he was lacking was a pair of binoculars.
His hand groped forward pulling at another stray branch and shaking it vigorously.
“En remasse,” he offered by way of explanation with a beaming smile on his face.
A short time later I was outside helping out, stripping olives from the tree, which this year because of the high average temperature are bounteous.
It seems to be my luck in Provence to always end up with the purists. When I’ve harvested grapes its been with vignerons who insist on doing every row by hand and now my landlord was adamant that a handpicked olive leant a noticeably more peppery flavour to the oil. So there were no mechanical harvesters, not even batons to beat the branches with, instead there was hour upon hour of labour as we dropped each individually picked olive into the net on the floor.
At least I was learning as we picked. Here’s a simple recipe used by my landlady:
Keep the green olives in water for 8 days, changing the water every day. Then add salt, garlic and aromatic herbs and some oil and leave the flavours to infuse for a week.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The best Steack Frite in the World Ever
I am a bit worried that my writing career is at an end.
Here's the problem - it seems it's impossible for me to do anything other than post blogs about my new daughter. Now there are plenty of fathers who live life vicariously and do nothing but praise the achievements of their offspring, but people only listen if they are trapped in the corner at a party with the single possible escape route a Ronaldoesque dive across the room. The audience typically stays put choosing boredom over the risk of impaling themselves together with some cheese and pineapple on a cocktail stick.
With me readers don’t have to worry about skewered testicles and so to keep people's attention I have resolved to stop the Elodie blogs and rip up the proposal to my publisher about fatherhood in France…well it was a thought if not a terribly good one.
But before I move on here’s one final vignette about birth and pregnancy. When Tanya was in labour we arrived at the hospital at just after 11am. We saw a midwife and then a doctor who measured the contractions and confirmed that Tanya was 3cm dilated. The midwife fussed and fretted, offered to take us to our room, and then suggested a massage or a bath to hurry the process along. Then, mid sentence, she stopped.
We followed her eyes to the clock on the wall. It was now just past midday and a look of abject horror took hold of her face. She began to babble an apology, pulling us physically out of the room and down the stairs to the exit. Tanya and I were worried. We’d spent months planning our arrival at the hospital, timing the route and picking the best parking spots and now, when everything had gone so smoothly and when we’d successfully arrived at the hospital with the contractions a regular 5 minutes apart, the midwife, the woman who was supposed to guide us through the whole experience, was behaving most peculiarly.
She pushed us outside the door and glanced one more time at her watch, explaining that there was an excellent restaurant just down the road and that there was of course plenty of time for lunch before the baby arrived. She apologised again, and wished us “Bon App” before retreating back into the hospital, no doubt still berrating herself for daring to suggest that anyone in her care should miss their lunch.
And so it came to pass that I had one of the best Steack Frite of my life, covered in a wonderful peppercorn sauce, washed down with a pichet of red wine, while I wrote down the time of Tanya' s contractions on my napkin. Vive La France!
Here's the problem - it seems it's impossible for me to do anything other than post blogs about my new daughter. Now there are plenty of fathers who live life vicariously and do nothing but praise the achievements of their offspring, but people only listen if they are trapped in the corner at a party with the single possible escape route a Ronaldoesque dive across the room. The audience typically stays put choosing boredom over the risk of impaling themselves together with some cheese and pineapple on a cocktail stick.
With me readers don’t have to worry about skewered testicles and so to keep people's attention I have resolved to stop the Elodie blogs and rip up the proposal to my publisher about fatherhood in France…well it was a thought if not a terribly good one.
But before I move on here’s one final vignette about birth and pregnancy. When Tanya was in labour we arrived at the hospital at just after 11am. We saw a midwife and then a doctor who measured the contractions and confirmed that Tanya was 3cm dilated. The midwife fussed and fretted, offered to take us to our room, and then suggested a massage or a bath to hurry the process along. Then, mid sentence, she stopped.
We followed her eyes to the clock on the wall. It was now just past midday and a look of abject horror took hold of her face. She began to babble an apology, pulling us physically out of the room and down the stairs to the exit. Tanya and I were worried. We’d spent months planning our arrival at the hospital, timing the route and picking the best parking spots and now, when everything had gone so smoothly and when we’d successfully arrived at the hospital with the contractions a regular 5 minutes apart, the midwife, the woman who was supposed to guide us through the whole experience, was behaving most peculiarly.
She pushed us outside the door and glanced one more time at her watch, explaining that there was an excellent restaurant just down the road and that there was of course plenty of time for lunch before the baby arrived. She apologised again, and wished us “Bon App” before retreating back into the hospital, no doubt still berrating herself for daring to suggest that anyone in her care should miss their lunch.
And so it came to pass that I had one of the best Steack Frite of my life, covered in a wonderful peppercorn sauce, washed down with a pichet of red wine, while I wrote down the time of Tanya' s contractions on my napkin. Vive La France!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
L O D
We spent months agonising over what to call our baby. I spent hours compiling lists of names on sites like www.babynames.co.uk, while Tanya flicked through enormous books trying to find something suitable. As regular readers of this blog will know, we also held an online poll. Then with the birth approaching and nerves setting in we switched names on a daily basis, throwing out all our hard work and in a state of panic resolving to name our baby according to the board at the local supermarket which announced each Saint’s Day.
Finally the moment arrived and as both of us looked down on our new born, the name Elodie popped on to Tanya’s lips. It just seemed right. Or so we thought. Within days there were problems. I made my first trip to the village and visited all the gossip centres to announce the birth - the Boulangerie, the tabac and the local café.
“We had a little girl called Elodie,” I proclaimed to a puzzled silence. “Elodie,” I repeated proudly. “Elodie”
It took three goes with each person before the name was repeated back to me with the sing song lyricism of a proper French accent - “Elodie.”
It sounded completely different, pretty and enchanting, and it was then I realised that I would never be able to pronounce my daughter’s name properly.
But at least I did better than some. Shortly after the birth I received several emails from friends of my parents congratulating us rather cryptically on the birth of baby “LOD”. Most of the emails went on to compliment us on such an unusual choice of name. Tanya and I sat at the computer screen completely flummoxed - “LOD.”
Later that evening I spoke to my father, how is “Elodie” he asked.
Only he didn’t quite say that, in fact without a hint of a French accent, our daughter’s new name came out rather differently
“What did you tell your friends our baby was called?” I asked.
“L O D” he repeated proudly enunciating each syllable.
Meanwhile on the weather front, it’s been snowing in the Luberon - see pictures right.
Finally the moment arrived and as both of us looked down on our new born, the name Elodie popped on to Tanya’s lips. It just seemed right. Or so we thought. Within days there were problems. I made my first trip to the village and visited all the gossip centres to announce the birth - the Boulangerie, the tabac and the local café.
“We had a little girl called Elodie,” I proclaimed to a puzzled silence. “Elodie,” I repeated proudly. “Elodie”
It took three goes with each person before the name was repeated back to me with the sing song lyricism of a proper French accent - “Elodie.”
It sounded completely different, pretty and enchanting, and it was then I realised that I would never be able to pronounce my daughter’s name properly.
But at least I did better than some. Shortly after the birth I received several emails from friends of my parents congratulating us rather cryptically on the birth of baby “LOD”. Most of the emails went on to compliment us on such an unusual choice of name. Tanya and I sat at the computer screen completely flummoxed - “LOD.”
Later that evening I spoke to my father, how is “Elodie” he asked.
Only he didn’t quite say that, in fact without a hint of a French accent, our daughter’s new name came out rather differently
“What did you tell your friends our baby was called?” I asked.
“L O D” he repeated proudly enunciating each syllable.
Meanwhile on the weather front, it’s been snowing in the Luberon - see pictures right.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Elodie Ivey
Our little baby arrived safely on Monday 5th November at 9.32pm. She's absolutely gorgeous. I am off on paternity leave, so no blogs for a week or so.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Things to do while waiting for a baby - Part 2
Yes..it’s the blog I hoped I wouldn’t have to write, we’ve thrown the entire Indian cookbook at the baby - dansak, madras, vindaloo - and yet we’re still waiting.
This week (rather than us inventing time filling excuses like taking duvet covers to the dry cleaners) the French national health service has stepped in to swallow our days. Every morning we’ve been off to Pertuis hospital for scans, acupuncture, essential oil massages and raspberry leaf tea. The baby is now over a week late by English standards and the midwives are beginning to think Tanya is something of a medical marvel.
After the first course of acupuncture a gaggle (yes there are plenty of midwives at French hospitals) gathered around the machine which had been monitoring the contractions. They shook their heads, they huddled together in consultation and finally they agreed that something completely out of the ordinary was happening - according to the peaks on the graph, Tanya should have been in the agonies of labour, but there she was happily asking what a contraction actually felt like.
And so we wait - in the meantime here are some nice photos taken on our route to Pertuis hospital.
As I write the breaking news is that Tanya has begun to feel some contractions and they are beginning to come regularly. I will leave you on that cliff-hanger and post any news when I have it.
This week (rather than us inventing time filling excuses like taking duvet covers to the dry cleaners) the French national health service has stepped in to swallow our days. Every morning we’ve been off to Pertuis hospital for scans, acupuncture, essential oil massages and raspberry leaf tea. The baby is now over a week late by English standards and the midwives are beginning to think Tanya is something of a medical marvel.
After the first course of acupuncture a gaggle (yes there are plenty of midwives at French hospitals) gathered around the machine which had been monitoring the contractions. They shook their heads, they huddled together in consultation and finally they agreed that something completely out of the ordinary was happening - according to the peaks on the graph, Tanya should have been in the agonies of labour, but there she was happily asking what a contraction actually felt like.
And so we wait - in the meantime here are some nice photos taken on our route to Pertuis hospital.
As I write the breaking news is that Tanya has begun to feel some contractions and they are beginning to come regularly. I will leave you on that cliff-hanger and post any news when I have it.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Things to do while waiting for a baby
Part 1. (Hopefully there will be no Part 2)
The English due date has now passed and the French one (babies take one week longer to cook in France) is this weekend, but still we wait. Since we live in the middle of the field there is not much to divert us.
Star Academy - the French version of the X-Factor is fast becoming our favourite TV show, and last night we watched a rerun of Cool Runnings a programme about the Jamaican Olympic Bobsleigh team. As I said things are getting desperate..…
Here’s a sample of a serious conversation from today:
“What shall we do now?”
“We could go and get the duvet cover dry cleaned.”
So it seemed that all our Christmases had come at once when on one of our rare forays from the house we met Jesus, Spiderman and a 1920s gendarme (see pictures). Forget Cool Runnings I was tempted to invite them all round for a dinner party and then a game of charades…anything to help fill another baby less evening. The only problem was they ran away.
Spidy and co were actually part of the field of the Luberon Marathon and after all the excitement of the race it was back to the usual routine. Tomorrow we’re picking up the duvet cover, and if we are feeling adventurous we might go to the boulangerie. Any other suggestions to keep us amused are welcome….but to save you the trouble, as I write Tanya is downstairs cooking a curry and then we’re having an early night.
The English due date has now passed and the French one (babies take one week longer to cook in France) is this weekend, but still we wait. Since we live in the middle of the field there is not much to divert us.
Star Academy - the French version of the X-Factor is fast becoming our favourite TV show, and last night we watched a rerun of Cool Runnings a programme about the Jamaican Olympic Bobsleigh team. As I said things are getting desperate..…
Here’s a sample of a serious conversation from today:
“What shall we do now?”
“We could go and get the duvet cover dry cleaned.”
So it seemed that all our Christmases had come at once when on one of our rare forays from the house we met Jesus, Spiderman and a 1920s gendarme (see pictures). Forget Cool Runnings I was tempted to invite them all round for a dinner party and then a game of charades…anything to help fill another baby less evening. The only problem was they ran away.
Spidy and co were actually part of the field of the Luberon Marathon and after all the excitement of the race it was back to the usual routine. Tomorrow we’re picking up the duvet cover, and if we are feeling adventurous we might go to the boulangerie. Any other suggestions to keep us amused are welcome….but to save you the trouble, as I write Tanya is downstairs cooking a curry and then we’re having an early night.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
How to deal with the in laws
Only two weeks to go until the due date and we’re both getting a little nervous. Every unusual movement of Tanya’s tummy might be the big contraction that provokes the mad rush to Pertuis hospital. In the meantime as local residents will have noticed our market stall is closed - Tanya is too tired and I’ve decided to start my paternity leave early, but if anyone is missing any of our wines, feel free to call up and order - the cave is still well stocked.
To keep our minds off the impending birth we’ve become tourists. We’ve lived in the shadow of Mont Saint Victoire - the imposing line of rock which dominates the skyline near Aix en Provence for nearly a year and like the impressionists before us we’ve marvelled at how the view changes with the season and time of day. Army camouflage experts should really study the place - even on a clear sunny day this enormous mass of rock can be invisible, somehow shrouding itself in its own shadow or alternatively appear just a few kilometres away with the fine detail of every crevice clearly discernable.
On Saturday we decided to get up close and personal, taking the route through Le Tholonet (the Primrose Hill of Aix en Provence full of gated villas and helicopter pads) towards Puyloubier. The road is stunning and Mont St Victoire doesn’t disappoint at close quarters.
Our trip also had a hidden bonus. Periodically we’re lumbered with unimaginative visitors. They stay for a week and shake their head at every suggestion - how about the Palais du Pape? Nah too historical; a trip to the coast? too windy - preferring to hang around disrupting our lives. Well now we’ve got another excursion for the list and the round trip to Aix along the edge of Mont St Victoire and back via Rians takes all day.
It’s perfect for the parents-in-law when they come and see the baby.
To keep our minds off the impending birth we’ve become tourists. We’ve lived in the shadow of Mont Saint Victoire - the imposing line of rock which dominates the skyline near Aix en Provence for nearly a year and like the impressionists before us we’ve marvelled at how the view changes with the season and time of day. Army camouflage experts should really study the place - even on a clear sunny day this enormous mass of rock can be invisible, somehow shrouding itself in its own shadow or alternatively appear just a few kilometres away with the fine detail of every crevice clearly discernable.
On Saturday we decided to get up close and personal, taking the route through Le Tholonet (the Primrose Hill of Aix en Provence full of gated villas and helicopter pads) towards Puyloubier. The road is stunning and Mont St Victoire doesn’t disappoint at close quarters.
Our trip also had a hidden bonus. Periodically we’re lumbered with unimaginative visitors. They stay for a week and shake their head at every suggestion - how about the Palais du Pape? Nah too historical; a trip to the coast? too windy - preferring to hang around disrupting our lives. Well now we’ve got another excursion for the list and the round trip to Aix along the edge of Mont St Victoire and back via Rians takes all day.
It’s perfect for the parents-in-law when they come and see the baby.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
2006 - The Verdict
Whisper it quietly but it’s one of the best year’s for wine ever. The prolonged dry spell has had the vines straining every root to find moisture deep in the soil. There are precious few grapes but they are loaded with flavour. Already bankers have been flying in from London thinking of investing some of their hard earned cash in the en-primeur market (wine sold by vineyards before it has even been bottled).
Does this sound like Bordeaux?
Actually it’s 2006 Domaine de La Brillane ( http://www.labrillane.com )just outside Aix en Provence. We visited on harvest day and already the cerebrally-wired owner Rupert Birch was working out how best to market his product. Magnums and Methuselah’s are for wimps, what the City movers and shakers want these days is a personalised barrel. Luckily for Rupert he had a wad (is this the correct collective noun? would plague be more appropriate?) of bankers holding a conference in his domaine last weekend. The plan was to put a big screen up for the Rugby and then spring the prices on the inebriated throng.
I’ve yet to hear how Provence’s first en-primeur market went, but the pictures to the right show just what a good year it was for Rupert’s grapes.
Another two weeks or so until the baby arrives. The hospital in Pertuis is a shining advert for the French health service. We’re going in every week now, and the mid-wives are carefully monitoring Tanya, wiring her up to a machine to test the baby’s heart over an hour long period. Sarkozy’s market reforms are much needed but I am not sure whether the French will ever put up with a health care system like the UK -we can’t afford rooms any more, but how about a corridor to give birth in?
Sebastian and Coco topped the baby name polls, not the rather avant garde Maverick (which I voted for three times). Thanks to all those that voted. Watch this space for what we finally decide.
Does this sound like Bordeaux?
Actually it’s 2006 Domaine de La Brillane ( http://www.labrillane.com )just outside Aix en Provence. We visited on harvest day and already the cerebrally-wired owner Rupert Birch was working out how best to market his product. Magnums and Methuselah’s are for wimps, what the City movers and shakers want these days is a personalised barrel. Luckily for Rupert he had a wad (is this the correct collective noun? would plague be more appropriate?) of bankers holding a conference in his domaine last weekend. The plan was to put a big screen up for the Rugby and then spring the prices on the inebriated throng.
I’ve yet to hear how Provence’s first en-primeur market went, but the pictures to the right show just what a good year it was for Rupert’s grapes.
Another two weeks or so until the baby arrives. The hospital in Pertuis is a shining advert for the French health service. We’re going in every week now, and the mid-wives are carefully monitoring Tanya, wiring her up to a machine to test the baby’s heart over an hour long period. Sarkozy’s market reforms are much needed but I am not sure whether the French will ever put up with a health care system like the UK -we can’t afford rooms any more, but how about a corridor to give birth in?
Sebastian and Coco topped the baby name polls, not the rather avant garde Maverick (which I voted for three times). Thanks to all those that voted. Watch this space for what we finally decide.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
A Year in Provence
Tanya and I have now worked in the Provencal markets for exactly a year. Here are a series of photos which take you through the seasons.
Hope you enjoy them.
Hope you enjoy them.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The Compromis Kids
For most of the year Tanya and I have - as far as we know - held the accolade of being the youngest English speaking residents of the Luberon. We’ve met plenty of ex-pats but almost invariably they’re retirees in their forties, fifties or sixties. They’ve bought vineyards and old farmhouses and typically divide their time between France and England. Just once in a while we’ve wished - and it’s true be careful what you wish for - that we had some company of our own age.
About three months ago Lisa (31) and Dave (28) came surfing on a wave of chaos into the valley. With admirable impetuosity they’d quit London and headed for the south of France, packing their belongings into the back of a van and vowing to buy a property on arrival. The local immobilier must have had euro signs tumbling like fruit machine reels around their eyes.
Within days Lisa and Dave had signed a compromis, a legal document which commits a purchaser to buy a house after the expiry of a 7 day cooling off period. At this stage estate agents will usually kick back smoke a cigar and count the cash confident that the deal is all but finalised, but within days L and D‘s enthusiasm had thawed.
Over the next few months three more immobiliers thought they’d hooked the couple we’ve dubbed the Compromis Kids. They swagger into town, they fall in love with a house, they sign the Compromis without blinking and then with the estate agent salivating they wriggle free at the last minute. In the intervening time Tanya and I have become quite fond of them - they are so unsure of what their future holds they could be us, only we’re older and should know better.
In any event as I write this the Compromis Kids have just arrived to drop off a van load of their belongings They’ve decided not to live in the south of France after all, instead they’re heading to the Alps - estate agents beware - because they’ve always apparently liked the mountain air.
The only problem is that they’ve nowhere to store their belongings, which is where we come in. I am now running a wine business from a cave filled with tables, beds, chests of drawers, eel-catching nets, top hats, stereos, and Tvs. The Compromis Kids have promised to come back and collect all the stuff when they are settled in their new house but with their track record we’re not holding our breath.
Still it was nice to have some young friends for a while.
About three months ago Lisa (31) and Dave (28) came surfing on a wave of chaos into the valley. With admirable impetuosity they’d quit London and headed for the south of France, packing their belongings into the back of a van and vowing to buy a property on arrival. The local immobilier must have had euro signs tumbling like fruit machine reels around their eyes.
Within days Lisa and Dave had signed a compromis, a legal document which commits a purchaser to buy a house after the expiry of a 7 day cooling off period. At this stage estate agents will usually kick back smoke a cigar and count the cash confident that the deal is all but finalised, but within days L and D‘s enthusiasm had thawed.
Over the next few months three more immobiliers thought they’d hooked the couple we’ve dubbed the Compromis Kids. They swagger into town, they fall in love with a house, they sign the Compromis without blinking and then with the estate agent salivating they wriggle free at the last minute. In the intervening time Tanya and I have become quite fond of them - they are so unsure of what their future holds they could be us, only we’re older and should know better.
In any event as I write this the Compromis Kids have just arrived to drop off a van load of their belongings They’ve decided not to live in the south of France after all, instead they’re heading to the Alps - estate agents beware - because they’ve always apparently liked the mountain air.
The only problem is that they’ve nowhere to store their belongings, which is where we come in. I am now running a wine business from a cave filled with tables, beds, chests of drawers, eel-catching nets, top hats, stereos, and Tvs. The Compromis Kids have promised to come back and collect all the stuff when they are settled in their new house but with their track record we’re not holding our breath.
Still it was nice to have some young friends for a while.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The most annoying customers in the world....ever
The attention to detail in a Provencal market is remarkable. First thing in the morning the traders meticulously arrange their produce, the olive vendor creates perfect conical towers with the care of a sculptor and the clothes lady fans out pleats and dresses dummies according to the weather. By the time the customers arrive the market has such an air of permanence it’s almost impossible to believe that it’s been put together in less than an hour.
But hidden by the colourful Provencal tableware and the tables sagging with tapenade are old boards and rickety legs. Just occasionally over the year the mistral has lifted the skirt of the market, sending a parasol cart wheeling into the air, and leaving the unfortunate trader clinging to the attached rope like a small child chasing an oversized kite.
This week our luck broke.
There were probably 100 hundred bottles of wine on the stall arranged in a rainbow of pinks when it happened. It was midday and my thoughts were already turning to lunch. An English family stood opposite us, grappling with two conflicting desires - to taste some ice cold rosé and not to embarrass themselves by speaking French.
“Un degustation?” I offered, engendering a look of mild panic on their faces and a couple of involuntary steps backwards.
“Would you like to taste?” I cajoled them back to their English comfort zone.
Circling the table I grabbed a bottle from the ice bucket catching the leg of the stand with my foot. Everything then began a slow slide. My foot was trapped supporting the weight of the wine and every time I shifted my balance to try and arrest the vinous avalanche, the angle of the table became steeper. Tanya lunged and missed as the first bottle hit the ground. The ice bucket tipped over and a deluge of water swept our stock to the ground in a series of large cracks.
There’s nothing like misfortune to attract a crowd, and quiet soon we had a throng of shoppers and market traders commentating on our efforts to clear up as if they were watching a sporting event.
Our English family went further. While I was shredding a finger on a jagged shard and adding my own blood to the pink stream running out of the market, they accosted Tanya.
“We wanted to taste some wine,” they said erasing the recent unfortunate events with the ease of a pair goldfish.
Tanya searched through the wreckage for some bottles and poured
“That’s alright, but what about a paler one,” they twittered
On my hands and knees I passed Tanya another wine.
“Too dry,” they chimed
I grazed my arm as I searched for another.
“Hm I like this one,” said the wife.
“But they should serve it colder,” her husband chided, as if it was somehow our fault that our entire stock of chilled wine had just shattered.
“Yes we might have bought some if it had been cold,” the woman nodded in patronising support.
The two of them waddled off, Daily Mail clasped under one arm, and their moral rectitude under the other. What was the world coming to when they couldn’t get cold wine? If things went on like this they’d have to speak French in France.
But hidden by the colourful Provencal tableware and the tables sagging with tapenade are old boards and rickety legs. Just occasionally over the year the mistral has lifted the skirt of the market, sending a parasol cart wheeling into the air, and leaving the unfortunate trader clinging to the attached rope like a small child chasing an oversized kite.
This week our luck broke.
There were probably 100 hundred bottles of wine on the stall arranged in a rainbow of pinks when it happened. It was midday and my thoughts were already turning to lunch. An English family stood opposite us, grappling with two conflicting desires - to taste some ice cold rosé and not to embarrass themselves by speaking French.
“Un degustation?” I offered, engendering a look of mild panic on their faces and a couple of involuntary steps backwards.
“Would you like to taste?” I cajoled them back to their English comfort zone.
Circling the table I grabbed a bottle from the ice bucket catching the leg of the stand with my foot. Everything then began a slow slide. My foot was trapped supporting the weight of the wine and every time I shifted my balance to try and arrest the vinous avalanche, the angle of the table became steeper. Tanya lunged and missed as the first bottle hit the ground. The ice bucket tipped over and a deluge of water swept our stock to the ground in a series of large cracks.
There’s nothing like misfortune to attract a crowd, and quiet soon we had a throng of shoppers and market traders commentating on our efforts to clear up as if they were watching a sporting event.
Our English family went further. While I was shredding a finger on a jagged shard and adding my own blood to the pink stream running out of the market, they accosted Tanya.
“We wanted to taste some wine,” they said erasing the recent unfortunate events with the ease of a pair goldfish.
Tanya searched through the wreckage for some bottles and poured
“That’s alright, but what about a paler one,” they twittered
On my hands and knees I passed Tanya another wine.
“Too dry,” they chimed
I grazed my arm as I searched for another.
“Hm I like this one,” said the wife.
“But they should serve it colder,” her husband chided, as if it was somehow our fault that our entire stock of chilled wine had just shattered.
“Yes we might have bought some if it had been cold,” the woman nodded in patronising support.
The two of them waddled off, Daily Mail clasped under one arm, and their moral rectitude under the other. What was the world coming to when they couldn’t get cold wine? If things went on like this they’d have to speak French in France.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
My birthday
And so there I was on my birthday in a room full of French women, all of them heavily pregnant, watching a video about breast feeding. Produced by some public health body or other it made women who don’t (breast feed) look like the spawn of Satan - invariably they were pictured fagging away while their poor under nourished child screamed - and women that do like little angels, all beatific smiles as twins happily nuzzled on their ample boobs. In any event there’s nothing like being on an interactive pre-natal course to expand one’s French vocabulary - contraction, waters breaking, push, breath, epidural, oh **** this hurts, I am right up to speed now.
As we left I was feeling slightly better about all the social security bills I’ve been paying. Extortionate as they are, it’s reassuring to visit a maternity unit like Pertuis. There are 20 odd rooms, most have two beds but you can guarantee your own room - presumably provided you promise to breast feed - for 30 euros a night. The staff counselled us about when we should come to the hospital - whenever we want. None of this wait until the contractions are regular and occur every five minutes. No, in Pertuis, if we have even a remote worry, in fact even if just fancy a change of scene, we shouldn’t hesitate to pop into the maternity unit.
Compare all this with the experience my sister in law who had her first baby in St George’s Tooting. Feeling regular contractions she rushed to hospital with my brother, only to be turned away. The contractions weren’t regular enough. Half way home they turned back convinced the Doctors were wrong. They were. My sister in law gave birth on a trolley in a hospital corridor due to lack of beds and was sent home a couple of hours later. When we tell the French midwifes this story they are appalled. Tanya is due to stay in the hospital for five nights and I even get a bed and a wine list.
So here’s a tip for expectant mother’s - move to France.
Meanwhile in the fields the grape harvest has begun. Cars are parked on the verges and teams of pickers toil up the long rows of vines. On the roads there’s chaos as vigneron’s chug their way to the Cave Cooperative. Forget caravans, camper vans, mopeds, Sinclair C5s, there can be few slower things than a tractor load of grapes. It’s all very quaint and rustic.
But it’s not the tractors that are the main worry, it’s the mechanical harvesters. Imagine a machine that straddles both lanes, blocks out the horizon and moves at less than 1 mile an hour and then imagine rushing with your pregnant wife to the hospital and encountering one.
Second tip, for pregnant mother’s, make sure you don’t give birth in France in September.
As we left I was feeling slightly better about all the social security bills I’ve been paying. Extortionate as they are, it’s reassuring to visit a maternity unit like Pertuis. There are 20 odd rooms, most have two beds but you can guarantee your own room - presumably provided you promise to breast feed - for 30 euros a night. The staff counselled us about when we should come to the hospital - whenever we want. None of this wait until the contractions are regular and occur every five minutes. No, in Pertuis, if we have even a remote worry, in fact even if just fancy a change of scene, we shouldn’t hesitate to pop into the maternity unit.
Compare all this with the experience my sister in law who had her first baby in St George’s Tooting. Feeling regular contractions she rushed to hospital with my brother, only to be turned away. The contractions weren’t regular enough. Half way home they turned back convinced the Doctors were wrong. They were. My sister in law gave birth on a trolley in a hospital corridor due to lack of beds and was sent home a couple of hours later. When we tell the French midwifes this story they are appalled. Tanya is due to stay in the hospital for five nights and I even get a bed and a wine list.
So here’s a tip for expectant mother’s - move to France.
Meanwhile in the fields the grape harvest has begun. Cars are parked on the verges and teams of pickers toil up the long rows of vines. On the roads there’s chaos as vigneron’s chug their way to the Cave Cooperative. Forget caravans, camper vans, mopeds, Sinclair C5s, there can be few slower things than a tractor load of grapes. It’s all very quaint and rustic.
But it’s not the tractors that are the main worry, it’s the mechanical harvesters. Imagine a machine that straddles both lanes, blocks out the horizon and moves at less than 1 mile an hour and then imagine rushing with your pregnant wife to the hospital and encountering one.
Second tip, for pregnant mother’s, make sure you don’t give birth in France in September.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
How to bring a smile to a pregnant woman's face....
The markets have finally quietened down and for the first time in months we have had a moment to stop and think.
The result - panic.
We’ve got a baby arriving in under two months and we’ve done absolutely nothing about it. When we first visited the hospital to register they handed us a list of preparatory courses. That was 4 months ago and the baby seemed a long way off. But now, well what if our baby comes early? We’ve no idea what to do if Tanya starts getting contractions - should we go to the hospital straight away or should we wait until they are spaced a certain distance apart?
I was sufficiently worried yesterday to start reading baby books but after just a couple of pages - all about breach positions and caesarean births - I was even more jittery. In a knee-jerk, panic buying, oh god we’ve got to do something, reaction Tanya and I headed off to the French version of Mothercare and €800 euros (buggy, car seat, changing table, cot etc…) bought me one hour of peace.
Then the doubts came back. We might have all the kit, but now I am assailed by this vision/ recurring nightmare of the car not starting when it’s time to go to the hospital. I’ve drawn up an emergency list of phone numbers to call, and I asked our French teacher whether I could put her on it. Looking across I saw that Tanya was looking ashen. Nothing about labour is appealing to her at the moment but within seconds she’d cheered up.
The reason? Our French teacher, Pascal, had of course agreed to be added to the list, but she’d also suggested a simpler solution, a fire engine full of fit young firemen in uniform from Cucuron are apparently on 24 hr call for just such eventualities.
It’s comforting to know. Well for Tanya it is. If she wasn’t before, she’s certainly glowing now.
Finally if anyone is looking for a special way to spend their birthday this year, here’s what I will be doing when I turn 35 this Thursday. You might think that I would be enjoying a meal. Perhaps a glass of champagne, then some foie gras with a deliciously sweet sauternes, and a hefty Cote du Boeuf to follow for the main course. Not a bit of it, in fact I will be celebrating by attending a 2 hour breast feeding course at Pertuis hospital - in French!
Happy birthday me.
Ps Readers of the blog voted Sebastian their favourite boy’s name, so this week I’ve set up a poll for girls. Vote away.
The result - panic.
We’ve got a baby arriving in under two months and we’ve done absolutely nothing about it. When we first visited the hospital to register they handed us a list of preparatory courses. That was 4 months ago and the baby seemed a long way off. But now, well what if our baby comes early? We’ve no idea what to do if Tanya starts getting contractions - should we go to the hospital straight away or should we wait until they are spaced a certain distance apart?
I was sufficiently worried yesterday to start reading baby books but after just a couple of pages - all about breach positions and caesarean births - I was even more jittery. In a knee-jerk, panic buying, oh god we’ve got to do something, reaction Tanya and I headed off to the French version of Mothercare and €800 euros (buggy, car seat, changing table, cot etc…) bought me one hour of peace.
Then the doubts came back. We might have all the kit, but now I am assailed by this vision/ recurring nightmare of the car not starting when it’s time to go to the hospital. I’ve drawn up an emergency list of phone numbers to call, and I asked our French teacher whether I could put her on it. Looking across I saw that Tanya was looking ashen. Nothing about labour is appealing to her at the moment but within seconds she’d cheered up.
The reason? Our French teacher, Pascal, had of course agreed to be added to the list, but she’d also suggested a simpler solution, a fire engine full of fit young firemen in uniform from Cucuron are apparently on 24 hr call for just such eventualities.
It’s comforting to know. Well for Tanya it is. If she wasn’t before, she’s certainly glowing now.
Finally if anyone is looking for a special way to spend their birthday this year, here’s what I will be doing when I turn 35 this Thursday. You might think that I would be enjoying a meal. Perhaps a glass of champagne, then some foie gras with a deliciously sweet sauternes, and a hefty Cote du Boeuf to follow for the main course. Not a bit of it, in fact I will be celebrating by attending a 2 hour breast feeding course at Pertuis hospital - in French!
Happy birthday me.
Ps Readers of the blog voted Sebastian their favourite boy’s name, so this week I’ve set up a poll for girls. Vote away.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
How to be cool
Part 1
Young boys across the world do stupid things to impress girls but nowhere have I ever seen anything quite as foolishly macho - or is it masochistic - as the customers at the mobile pastis bar at the Clarensac village fete this weekend.
To give you some context, every year the villages near Nimes hold annual bull runs. The Gardians - or bull herders - from the Camargue are challenged to drive the bulls through the village streets. Their objective is to keep the young bulls sandwiched between the protective cordon formed by their white horses. Meanwhile the villagers try and break the bulls free and steal the garlands from their horns. Successful competitors paint bull motifs outside their house and the front door of a champion bull runner is covered in enough hieroglyphics to make a pharaoh jealous.
Young boys across the world do stupid things to impress girls but nowhere have I ever seen anything quite as foolishly macho - or is it masochistic - as the customers at the mobile pastis bar at the Clarensac village fete this weekend.
To give you some context, every year the villages near Nimes hold annual bull runs. The Gardians - or bull herders - from the Camargue are challenged to drive the bulls through the village streets. Their objective is to keep the young bulls sandwiched between the protective cordon formed by their white horses. Meanwhile the villagers try and break the bulls free and steal the garlands from their horns. Successful competitors paint bull motifs outside their house and the front door of a champion bull runner is covered in enough hieroglyphics to make a pharaoh jealous.
Most of the village cowers behind bull repellent iron railings while the young boys let off excess testosterone. Some of them stand directly in the path of the horses, forcing the rider to veer out of the way and release the bulls, others attack from behind and grab the bull’s tail allowing themselves to be swept along with the nonchalance of skateboarders hitching a lift on the passing fender of a bus.
But the really cool people ignore the surrounding mayhem and have a pastis at the bar. The fact that this bar has been wheeled directly into the path of the rampaging bulls is of no importance, for behind the padded walls of the mobile bar, a couple of the cutest young girls in the village are serving drinks. In this context displaying even a flicker of interest in the bulls is considered too big a risk - lose eye contact with the girl and they might lose her forever. And so with their hair slicked back, they drink their pastis and make small talk oblivious to the fact that their testicles are about to be skewered. Now that’s cool.
Part 2 - How to be uncool
Tanya and I were at the festival because Tanya’s sister Claire, who lives just outside Nimes had gone to England for the weekend, and asked us to baby-sit her children - Rosie (5), Tristan (3) and Freya (8 months). In the UK we would probably have had a walk in the park and got some videos out for the children. But despite their age, and only having lived in the village for a couple of years, the kids were infected by bull fever.
The first run was scheduled to start at midday, but as I confidently informed Tanya, this was the south of France and nothing happened on time. At about 12.15 we ducked our way through the protective railings and headed towards the centre of the village. Tristan held one of my hands and Rosie the other, while Tanya pushed a sleeping Freya. We walked quickly aware that we had to get back behind the railings before the bulls were released.
The crowd around us thinned suggesting the moment was approaching. As we pulled the children anxiously onwards, the air cracked around us, and a puff of smoke from the gunshot drifted across the village roofs. The bulls were about to be released and we were standing in their prospective path with two toddlers and an infant. At that moment we made babysitters who raid drink’s cabinets look like model professionals.
The second the shot was fired Tanya set off like an athlete from the blocks. I hoisted Rosie under one arm and Tristan under the other and frantically followed. Moments later we stood panting behind the barriers as the villagers looked on in bemusement, no doubt wondering what all the fuss was about, after all the bulls were so far off they hadn’t even wheeled out the mobile bar yet.
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