Nicola has been packing since last night but I cram the past six months of my life into two rucksacks, a schoolbag, three Xerox boxes and a laptop case in the time it takes her to clear out a drawer. We have so much junk to throw out it’s shameful. The bottle collection is the first to go and after that I just become ruthless as I tip out things I would normally hold on to for future arty projects. Thankfully the only people I know who have a use for used batteries are the Irish tinkers who used to visit my home town for their holidays. Countryside conservation campaigns usually tell you to leave only your footprints and to take only memories but there are always exceptions…
I gut out the living room and have just started to exhume the terrace when breakfast arrives. It’s already after midday but I didn’t notice the time fly by nor did I pay much heed to my suppressed hunger. Lionel has bought pastries, and the guts of a fry, so while he rustles something up us girls pounce on the big boxes he has brought. Nicola’s fan, the remains of our food cupboards and the drinks cabinet are carefully packed away in cartons before we settle down to salty scrambled eggs and cremated baby sausages. It’s only the lack of ketchup which holds me back from perfecting my missile launching; there’ll be plenty of time later for launching the defensive - so for now we eat in peace.
It seems like the flight of fugitives or something but at least we’re not bound up until the appointed hour of departure. I spare a thought for poor Chef Masaille and Ludo who are en permanence all week and as I’ve done my packing and my part of the tidying Lionel and I decide to visit the guys at Quartier Gerbault. The gate closes every night and so they’re locked in even though there’s no work for them – all urgency calls are just forwarded to the local hospital! Even during the day their roaming power is minimal and the work is thin on the ground. When Lionel and I arrive Ludo is washing the already spotless floor. Chef Masaille is having a siesta but Ludo wakes him up with such viciousness that poor Oli is dazed for minutes after the awake-attack. We settle in the living area for coffee, cola and post presidential vote analysis. Sarko and Sego will be in the second round punch-up. Boxing and a wildlife programme on vicious ants also add to the afternoon’s T.V viewing. I tell Oli about the weekend’s antics and our upcoming big move.
Before heading back home to face the music and the madwoman Lionel and I stop at the popote to see what damage has been done. There are a few bodies sprawled around about but a few wandering souls are to be seen - or is that the military youth club? We hang with J.V, Benoit and Christophe and tuck into the remains of last night’s BBQ.
There’s not very much left to do when I arrive home except take down my hammock and clear out the fridge. Nic and I make a last minute video in which I electrocute myself and do some flag-waving. The time comes when our knights in shining armour, Christian and Marie-Louise, announce their advancement and so Nic and I haul the last of our bin bags upstairs before making our own departure known. We’d be out tomorrow anyway as our contract is only made out until the 23rd so we don’t feel guilty about giving Arlette such short notice. We’re sure Richard communicated with her anyway. When we spy her on the stairs we let her know, give her our keys and an address to forward our post unto. It’s not vicious but she is noticeably cold. She says that someone else is moving in tomorrow anyway and that she has to check the place before we go. As if!
The Rowantree haulage company are soon set to work and when all is up and waiting at the gate we sit on the terrace for our last supper – caramel and coconut yoghurts. Arlette is skulking around watering the flowers. I gave up caring a long time ago but Nic thinks she’s hanging about to see that we don’t steal anything. Whatever! The minute our lift arrives we’re up to Marie-Louise and Christian like a bullet. Arlette and Richard are into the apartment the instant we’re out and afterwards they just stand on their terrace watching us pack the two cars with all our worldly belongings.
My last image is the washing machine with a heap of dirty bed linen beside it ready to be churned and chewed into mangled material morsels. Nic and I hop into the car with Marie-Louise. I’ve my pot of shamrock on my lap and Nic has the remains of our singleton fridge on hers.
Our new hosts are truly lovely and they are genuinely concerned for us. We thank them profoundly and repeat our sincerest thanks when they show us to our rooms. Their home in Cluny is gorgeous and they explain how everything works and where everything is. The tour of their home and the in-depth induction takes almost two hours; lots of head nodding and automatic smiles are dealt out on my behalf. We’re finally left to our own devices while Christian waters the flowers and Marie-Louise tends to her fluffy cat, White Lady, or pops her herbal pills or sips her herbal tea or plumps up her cerise lounge cushions.
I’m not in my room two minutes when the curse of the limping Leprechaun lands on me in the form of a shower-curtain and the curtain rail. I swear I didn’t yank it – I was consciously being careful. Nic balances it back on high and we make our way upstairs for some of Marie-Louise’s homemade vegetable soup.
The preparation of two bowls of soup for supper is a ritual chez-eux… There’s special crockery and cutlery as well as special napkins and there’s even a wheelie trolley. While the soup reheats we’re instructed how to rinse the dishes and put things back in the cupboards. I think my head will burst if I mention any of the other tedious tendencies of our hosts.
Nic and I dine by candlelight on the indoor patio while Marie-Louise and Christian take to the dining section of the living-room to watch the news of the day. The soup is delicious and the red wine goes down a treat but we’re still hungry and too polite to raid the fridge, or just too lazy to make something else, so we call Lionel and arrange to head into town…eh, McDo.
Dorian is to meet us at the Terminal but we’ve forgotten what day it is and we arrive to find him outside in his pink Twingo. One of Dorian’s mates is away for two months and has offered him his apartment until his return. Dorian, like us, has moved this evening and he invites Nicola around for dinner – as well as inviting her to stay with him. The two lovebirds fly off and Lionel and I head to Point du Bout for rabbit food and frothy cocktails by my birthday beach.
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