It’s a momentous week for us. And it has nothing to do with
Archie’s impending hair cut . We have in our hands THE contract. The one which
will transfer ownership of Le Monteil to us.We’ve survived the eight week
period where the neighbours could buy it. None of them have clubbed together
and so we’re on our way with fabric swatches and machinery we won’t have a clue
how to switch on let alone use.
Because signing the contract requires an attention span
longer than is necessary for seeing the six o clock news through to the
weather, David is in charge of overseeing that. He will sit me down with a pen
and guide it across the paper. As is usual in such circumstances he will hold a
piece of chocolate in his hand and like he does with Woody, reward me only when
I have been a good boy. Anyone who thinks I am being “colourful” in my
description of the situation obviously weren’t around when I needed to fill out
my last tax return.
I have the task of obsessively following the downfall of Greece
and I don’t mean a re run of the fall of the Mycenaeans. This is so we can
transfer THE money at an appropriate time. Don’t get me wrong I am not being
mercenary but we are watching the euro like Simon Cowell watches the ratings for
The Voice.
In the meantime the tortuous process to sell Greenwood House
continues. I say tortuous because it’s
heart breaking. More for David than for me. He knows every rose by name and has
watched everyone of them grow. The wisteria (or theMiddleton sisters plant as I
call it – smells very fragrant but climbs like buggary) has grown from nothing
to something so beautiful you can quite simply just sit and look at it. It’s
where we brought Archie home when he fitted in the palm of my hand. First thing
he did was puke on the carpet after his first ever car ride. I actually miss that
Saab with its cute between the seats ignition and mini wiper blades on the
headlights. What? Oh back on track…
The worst bit is welcoming people into your home with faux
glee that you’d avoid ever inviting to a dinner party. “Does the price reflect
the furniture?” or my favourite, “Have you ever thought about building a
downstairs toilet?” No, because the one you’ve just used is plenty enough.
David and I have long discussions after we go to bed about
what the UK bolthole should be. It’s like communism and fascism coming
together, they espouse different ideologies but you know eventually they’ll
meet round the back…..
Well Iron Girdle has a new buddy. Mr Hollande. Naturally we
were following the election with close interest. The last famous Mr Holland we were
remotely interested in was in a bar in Amsterdam and had the first name Gay. But Iron Girdle what the hec were you wearing at Camp David? It was a sort
of lavender pant suit. Way too girly and woman at House of Fraser for the
current state of the European Union. I think if we all have to put up with
endless Robert Peston as a symbol of how dire things are, the chocolate pant
suit shouldn’t be retired just yet….
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