Dodgy Neighbours

I think I might have mentioned that I live in a very pleasant area. Gardens are maintained, cars are mostly newish and the residents are decent folk (for the most part at least). You will not see ladies of ill repute lurking on street corners, or hoodies gathered in gangs looking menacing down dark alleys.

Imagine my surprise then, when I went to pick up my youngest from school, and saw one of the mothers in what I can only describe as a practically totally transparent skirt. It was supposed to be a type of long, straight, denim skirt, but the back, instead of having a panel of denim had a panel of blue voile. I'm not sure if she thought it was sufficiently thick to hide her modesty, but it wasn't. A pair of blue knickers, her arse and legs were freely visible for all to gawp at.

I thought about rushing after her to warn her that she may be exposing more than she intended, but she had sauntered off pretty fast, and guess what... I just couldn't be arsed. I must say, she didn't seem to attract that much attention from other mummies waiting to pick up their little darlings. Perhaps they were so incredibly focused on the task in hand that they were blind to the entertainment to be had by paying attention to their surroundings!

Talking of arsed, or not, I couldn't be arsed either to be too polite yesterday morning at 7.30am to the neighbour who accosted me as I was trying to get my eldest to school. He was putting out his paper rubbish, came out of the bin shelter and waved at me to stop as I was just about to pass him.

Nonplussed at being delayed, when time is at a premium in the mornings, and two minutes can mean sitting in a moderately long traffic jam or one that goes via China, I wound down the window (electronically, natch). He looked very disheveled and unsavoury. Unshaven, skinny, mean and bad-tempered. A real catch...

I eyed him unpleasantly through my snazzy Gucci glasses and he started wittering on at how much noise sundry children had made the previous evening playing football at the top of our cul de sac, just outside his house.

We've had problems with him and his wife before. They are childless and don't seem to like children. Apparently they bought their house, in a road where half the houses have kids, because they were told it was peaceful. For them, peaceful means no noise. At all. Not hearing children laughing, playing, having fun. No. Peace = silence, which is golden and to which they are entitled.

If I'd been them, I think I would have bought something in the middle of nowhere in a tiny hamlet rather than in the middle of a large village. They are horrified at the noise the group of relatively well-behaved (mostly boys) kids makes. I am singularly unsympathetic. The kids are making no more noise now than before, and no one complained previously.

This pair seem to expect the whole road to conform to their perception of calmness. While good neighbours make an effort to coexist in harmony, there is a limit to what you can expect of a bunch of kids.

So there I was, in the car, running late, and being wittered at by this somewhat nervous guy. Stuttering a bit, he was. Could it have been due to my air of uncooperation and impatience...? When he'd finished blathering, he waited for me to apologise, I suppose, or look crestfallen, or commiserate, or vow that Things Would Change. Unfortunately for him though, all I could muster by way of a response was to tell him that I was in a hurry and had to go, right now. That was as polite as he was going to get. He backed off, somewhat surprised, and suggested we could discuss it another time.

Wha'evva...

My eldest then told me it had been my youngest and the kid opposite, so I later reminded my son not to play footie too late - cos I'm not a total bitch - in front of the twat's house, but to do something else instead. So this evening they went to their cabin in the garrigue opposite to make certain home improvements. As I was cooking dinner, I turned to see my youngest making his way out of the house carrying what used to be a wooden pole gate from the garden together with screwdriver and hammer. He's nothing if not resourceful, that one.

The dismal couple are so aghast at the mistake they've made that they reckon they'll sell up and move within the next couple of years. Yeah!

MiniMum

There's a girl who lives down our road who I can barely say 'hello' to. This is bad in France, as I'm sure you all know, where you get snippy bakers who pull you up tartly if you forget your manners even if your head is in the clouds, and ask for a baguette without introducing yourself formally, in triplicate.

Well, okay, I'm being facetious, but some do go a bit far on the snippy front if they've taken a dislike to you or they got out of bed the wrong side that morning, or haven't had enough caffeine injections or didn't get a good shag the night before...

This girl is the same age as my eldest and is a right little madam. Her mother is no better, it has to be said, and it's amazing to see genetics working so beautifully. They even look alike - the same bitchy face with snidey eyes.

I feel I should be adult about things though, and be able to say a breezy hello because she is just a kid, and one should set a good example. Trouble is though, I can't be arsed (another one to add to my list!).

When I ask my eldest why he is friends with her he says he isn't, she's just a 'friend of fortune' as it were because she lives opposite and it would be more of a pain not to be her sort-of-friend. Apparently she's quite keen on him, but he regards her as toxic and thus contaminated so refuses to touch her in any shape or form.

So she's jealous whenever she sees other 'couples' and goes into limpet mode sticking to him like glue. Don't I make her sound fun? She's also a manipulative little cow and a stirrer to boot, so really the less he sees of her the better.

One day she said to him, "Your mother doesn't like me, does she?" and he replied "No", which is fair enough. I think she told her mother because she now ignores me when I go past. I'm not sure our next fête de quartier will be quite as well-attended as the last!

I did actually warn my son that there are toxic females about, and that they should not be humoured or pandered to and he is quite within his rights to tell them to bog off if they get out of hand. He is quite a gentleman so this kind of goes against the grain, but there are limits, and some women do not deserve to be well-treated because they just abuse it and take advantage. She is one of those and I pity the poor bloke that gets landed with her, except he'll probably deserve her if that's the sort he goes for.

I'm relieved to know that my eldest certainly does not.

Cartagènic Crisis

Last night I experienced the 'Cartagène effect'. Cartagène was originally developed by the Gardois vignerons to serve as their aperitif, from fresh grape juice.

It's made according to a recipe that's been transmitted down through the generations - adding one litre of 90° alcohol to 6 litres of the day's grape juice (moût) and basically leaving it for 5 years or so.

It's deceptive stuff because you think of it as fortified wine - no big deal - but in fact it's a liqueur at 22°. Served frais, it's incredibly drinkable but packs one helluva punch later!

Yesterday at our lunch time neighbourhood party, we had been drinking rosé wine, pastis, muscat and so on - the usual stuff. Then, when we were way past the desserts, one of the neighbours brought out a bottle of murky Cartagène made by her grandfather, for a teatime delight...?

Ever eager to try new things, I proffered my glass for a finger or two's worth, and was warned about the deceptively deadly nature of the stuff. Naturally, as it tasted delicious, I ignored the warnings although I didn't have more than a couple (or was it 3?) helpings...

I felt fine, up until about 10pm, when I was very glad to be merely 4yds away from the downstairs loo... The Cartagène had obviously been whipping up a revolution in my stomach which had had enough so ordered it out, along with its friends the rosé wine, pizza, salad, sausage, uncle Tom Cobbly and all...

I did feel better afterwards!

I learned this evening that I was not the only one to have had revolutionary tendencies ejected forcefully from my stomach. I was heartened by the matey rapport that I now have with my fellow piss-head neighbours. We will be undoubtedly getting on like a house on fire from now on.

The chances are, however, that I'll be keeping off the Cartagène, just so the others can share more amongst themselves...

Le repas de l'impasse

It's weird, sometimes, how days turn out. There I was, expecting just a lunch de l'impasse where I live, and then we would all go about our business as of teatime. The kids would play, we would eat, drink, chat and then go home. I would work on my book, do some ironing and we would go for supper chez NG.

I live in a cul de sac of, I think, 18 houses. Today, one of the residents had organised a street party. We would bring our garden tables, chairs, something to eat and drink, and get to know each other if we didn't already.

I made 3 pizzas and some coleslaw, and took a 3-litre box of chilled rosé. The children stuffed themselves while us adults took an aperitif, then they all buggered off while the barbeque was going and we contined to eat and drink. The tables had been set up at the bottom of the hill, with parasols, as the sun was pretty ferocious today - one of those balmy indian summer September days. We stood around until we'd drunk so much we had to sit and start eating.

The impasse was designed for young families, but since the rise in house prices, it's mostly Parisian retirees that can afford the little houses although there are enough to rent (like mine) which are still within the reach of those families for whom they were originally intended (to keep the schools open!).

We chatted, drank, ate, and then one of the guys fetched his electric guitar and started on his repertoire of songs, inviting us all to join in if we liked. I love singing, and used to belong to choirs right up until I went to do my Masters in the UK (when I retook up my viola) so was delighted to be able to sing casually with my neighbours. Of course, most of the songs were French, but even if I didn't know them, by the second refrain I could usually hum along.

When I wasn't singing, I was listening to the others and it was all so pleasant and convivial - one of those little gems of a day where you're at peace with the world just hanging out, not worrying about drinking too much because the car is in the drive, and everyone is getting merry with you.

Eventually, I had to put the boys to bed (9pm) but the hard core guys might still be down there drinking out the evening.

When one thinks of counting one's blessings as opposed to moaning about what one doesn't have, I reckon I have things pretty well taped here. I'm surrounded by friendly neighbours who enjoy a good laugh, a drink or two and a convivial evening. I work in a pleasant lab with pals I adore even though the work itself is crappy. I live in a lovely village which is peaceful, secure and perfect for bringing up the boys, where I also have NG. Quand j'y pense, je me dis que, quand même, ça roule. Je suis où je veux être. C'est ça, être heureux (en partie).

Naughty Ulysse!

I am compelled to tell you about naughty Ulysse. Not only has he caught TWO birds recently - their poor little corpses are lying in my garden and I hadn't seen them until today as it has been a bit wet and I haven't needed to water the flowers - but he chased the cat over the road INTO HIS OWN HOUSE and had fisticuffs all over the sofa and up the stairs!

There! I knew you'd be shocked. The worst of it was that we were standing watching helplessly. I just missed grabbing him as he shot over the fence - he's more slippery than a conga eel that one - and he careered up the garden after the little kitty who's new and hasn't been there more than a couple of days.

Actually, in my opinion they should be keeping him in for a week, no outings at all, because he could escape and not be able to find his way back. I'm sure Ulysse would be no help either. I doubt he'd volunteer for Mountain Rescue Cat duty. Or even Suburban Rescue Cat duty (or Chat de Sauvetage de Lotissement for those interested in the Official French version). No, he'd be rubbing his paws together with glee and hissing that if the poor little thing came near that he would shoo him off again. Thus leaving Ulysse to be sole pretender to Suburban Chiefdom.

A few years ago I had an elderly Burmese female cat who was very territorial. I had taken in a poor little kitty whose owner was going back to Australia and couldn't take him too. He and my cat took one look at each other and knew it wasn't going to work. She was absolutely horrid to him. One evening, he was allowed out and there was just one window open, from the loo upstairs. I swear she sat by the open window the whole night and swore at him if he appeared there, but not so loudly as to wake the household. She prevented him from coming back, and he had to go and find another, more welcoming household. I looked for him, to no avail.

When his owner came on a visit a year later, he asked after his cat and I had to tell him the truth, just in case he asked to visit. It would have been most embarrassing! He was a little crestfallen, but I cheered him with the news that I hadn't seen any little furry bodies by the side of the road, and was sure a nice person had been charmed by his feline good looks and fluffy coat. My own cat was quite nauseatingly smug for some time afterwards.

I am sure Ulysse would behave in exactly the same disgraceful way. Luckily our neighbour was not in the least put out by my kittypoo behaving like a voyou interloper in her house chasing her own cat. In fact, it got us chatting out in the garden. She even said what a nice cat Ulysse is!

There's neighbourly for you!