Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Read Online Free PDF Page B

granite fire-places, one which bore an ancient coat of arms engraved upon its vast lintel, the other a giant slice of oak. A 15th century water chamber of solid granite sat suspended from the exterior walls of the salon and was considered quite a bonus. It placed our home in the upper echelon of village haut-monde , as interior water chambers were a true luxury in ancient times.
    Further, a large dining room furnished with a three metre long Couturier’s table and an ornate 18th century mirror, which had at one time graced the halls of some Provincial Chateau. Finally, on this floor, sat our vast country kitchen, which we filled with treasures and bric-a-brac purchased on our country jaunts. Copper pots and pans hung from an antique wooden ladder accompanied by bouquets of fragrant lavender and roses. Every room was given the personal touch and the walls had taken on the soft golden hue of yester-year. Antique shop owners and Broccante stores (second-hand stores) became our new best friends, as we searched for original fittings for each newly created space.
    As the European summer approached at Concorde speed, so did my increasing paranoia.
    â€˜Would it all be good enough? Were the curtains the right colour? Could I clean things until my knuckles bled? How disturbed could I become? Would I physically survive the summer onslaught, or would I die or be institutionalized before the first twelve months were up?’
    Of course, to add to the generalised mayhem, I did what every sane and self-preserving person does in these circumstances. I purchased a puppy. And not just any puppy. No, I was determined to have the most distinctive puppy dog in town, so I dragged my ‘whyis-this-happening-to-me?’ husband, to a breeder of rare chiens about 50 kilometres from Treignac in the rugged hills north of Ussel .
    We returned with a sandy haired, pyjama wearing, Sharpei bundled upon my lap, whom we named ‘Guangzhou’ or ‘Guang’ for short. He was so timid and tiny and his grotesquely wrinkled skin often made it difficult to distinguish his top from his bottom. Laurent , our recently arrived, village Vet poked about for ages before finding the correct hole to place the thermometer. These Belgian vets have a lot to learn, I thought to myself, then realised it was his way of breaking the ice. ‘Guang’ was a baby orb of sagging, silky skin, whom at close inspection resembled a hundred year old man, rather than an eight-week-old pooch. He was my pile of crinkled joy, though the little parcels of caca (poo) he left about the place, were not exactly the type of gifts I longed for, at present.
    My darling Jean set off to work each morning, breathing a hefty sigh of relief as he waved Mummy and pampered pooch Au revoir .
    Well, this was my first attempt at running a business, so a little self-induced psychosis was an unquestionably normal condition in my opinion. Of course, I wanted everything to scream perfection. I am a self confessed perfectionist, have been most of my life. As a brave psychologist once informed me, ‘You are compelled to be everything to everyone, all the time’. How bad could that possibly be?
    As a direct result of my delusional insecurities, I project myself as the ‘quintessential hostess’. Always the eager beaver; yearning to please. My success in my current role was solidly confirmed, as our widespread notability increased at ‘Mach 3’ speed. Travelling journalists visited frequently, leaving us with positively glowing reports of their short sojourns. In no time at all, we were to appear in the national media and on the glossy, travel pages of ‘ Ailleurs ’, ‘ Avantage ’ and the Air France in-flight magazine. Scores of visitors came from near and far, flashing their cut-out magazine articles and beaming satisfactorily, as they handed over their French Francs and American Express travellers’ cheques. All was well in the world and our