Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

having a wander round. He seems to be fervently embracing the fact that we have declared that this year we simply will not slavishly work the whole time and that the first week will be a break. It is a quiet Sunday afternoon in Martel and while it is a small town, we discover quiet streets tucked away off the main square that we had not previously explored in the past two years. That in itself is a measure of how absurdly hard we had worked before. And so it is, on just our first full day, we are able to enjoy a leisurely stroll, admiring the abundant, bright window box displays. To our surprise, we also discover two more boulangeries that we had no idea existed. Over espresso and a chocolat crepe we discuss how it simply reinforces that we have certainly worked far too hard on our previous visits. We need to also remind ourselves why we are in France. It is not to merely renovate the entire time.

7
A Mouse in the House
    On our second morning, as I sleepily stumble out into la cuisine, it suddenly comes home to me with a jolt, that just two years ago, all we had was a single table to not only prepare everything on but it was also our storage area. It would hold at any one time an eclectic array of items, like a surrealist painting; a loaf of pain , paintbrushes, bricolage catalogues, maps, screwdrivers, as well as our petite collection of plates, glasses and cutlery. Renovating and setting up a house in those basic conditions requires a lot of organisation, flexibility – and patience. The statement, ‘two years’ does not quite encapsulate all that has been achieved since then, for in reality, the total transformation until now, has all been achieved in a matter of nine weeks. While that time was spent in the longest days of sheer hard work imaginable, it was not even nine full weeks of solid work. There were the endless bricolage trips, the expeditions to the Trocs in search of second-hand furniture, the brocante and vide grenier outings. I can only marvel as I gaze around at our new stylish IKEA la cuisine , the cracked old leather Chesterfield sofa and chairs, the long wooden table and assorted array of old wooden chairs. How did we possibly manage all this I wonder?
    After only one whole day back in Cuzance, our collection of vide grenier finds are all unpacked and our petite maison is almost restored for another summer. The mantelpiece is decorated once again with everything that has been tucked away for a year. In pride of place, is my still-life painting, that I picked up for a mere two euros. I like to secretly believe that it is by a famous artist and worth two million euros . I convince myself that it is and I will make our fortune by selling it at Sotheby’s. The matching bright yellow jugs, the dark brown espresso cups and saucers, all lined up in a neat row, the beautifully carved wooden vase – all these things give me pleasure every day in our little French farmhouse. As I eat my chocolate chip muesli – surely not ‘real’ muesli but nevertheless utterly delicious – I discover that it is extremely addictive. I decide that it is far too decadent a way to start the day. Surely I should be more selective here about my choice of daily mouth-watering treats? I devour another mouthful of exquisite rich, small dark chocolat squares. For now, such momentous decisions can wait.
    As I soak up the view of le jardin while I have my first espresso of the morning , I plan my day. Most pressing is to seek Jean-Claude’s opinion on the source of the freshly dug, ominous mound of dirt in the cellar. I had only seen it in the fading light of the previous evening, yet what I saw was enough to sufficiently alarm me. I asked Stuart why he hadn’t told me about it when he discovered it earlier in the day. In his usual inimitable manner, he told me he didn’t want to worry me. It was probably only a rabbit he said.
    I don’t know much about the habits of rabbits but I do know