Here’s the thing. A recent visit to Oraas revealed multitudinous work activity from the plasterer, the tile layer, the electrician, the plumber – the butcher baker and candlestick etc… the progress of which was conveyed to me on site over a cacophony of drilling, sawing, French pop radio and general shouting (look at all those empty bottles of Ricard I mused to myself). If they were trying to impress me with the ferocity of the energy they were devoting to fixing up that house, they failed completely. I went into mental meltdown. And, by the way who’s that old bloke wandering around amongst the 14 hyperactive people on site.
The work looks good, the bathroom tiles are over-rated, the terracotta floor tiles are fabulous. Minutiae were pointed out to me, but then - hey – where’s the staircase, am I to spend the rest of my life climbing a ladder to get upstairs. Gullhaume, ah bless, told me it was with the carpenter. But when I pressed him for a drawing he referred back to the original estimate only to discover that the cost had been left off. Oh the shame and embarrassment he displayed, so he suggested a nice pine open backed modern staircase. After I shrieked and brought him to 8.8 on the emotional Richter scale, he got the message. ‘Find an old gal, wait for her to die, and raid her house for the old solid oak overly polished staircase – do like everyone else does Guillhaume. And, by the way, where have all my lovely huge half barrels gone that were to be my instant garden?’ Shoulder shrugging gaellic style overtook his body together with excessive eyebrow raising.
It was not a good day and it was boiling hot. So I went back to Rick’s house with my friend Patrick the cyclist and downed a cold bottle of Entre Deux Mers faster than you could say ‘Ah ooooooway’.
posted by French Deal @ 9:01 am
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