I got in a bit of a fluency flap mid-week. Despite spending the majority of my time, particularly the social part, with mes amis français – there are days when I lose hope in ever being able to rattle off sentences without doubting my grammar. The thing is, I never seem to worry too much when I’m talking to those friends but trying to argue a point with a shop assistant without getting frustratingly tongue-tied can really stomp on your confidence. It doesn’t help either being blonde in an area where most are dark-haired – the conversation invariably starts with “You are English, non?” and then my linguistic learnings go out the window.
It all started with a visit to a furniture shop in Carcassonne on Tuesday. The weather was miserably wet so I roped Denis into coming with me; I had a few errands to run and he was bored stiff of being on post-op recovery down time. Owing to the fact that I had apparently missed a delivery from said establishment, the other half of the bed my brother had bought at no small cost, I had promised Simon that I’d pay them a visit and find out what had happened. I had been at home that whole afternoon and neither myself or the woofers had seen the truck – that is to say, they hadn’t been when they said they had. Anyone in this village will tell you that my woofers can be set off by a leaf blowing past the front gate. Now, I’m a London gal and know how to deal with snotty counter-controllers but this one saw me coming – blonde hair and all. She refused to take any blame on the shop’s behalf for only delivering half the fully paid up bed in the first place and insisted that the delivery chaps had rung both bells and no-one answered. Simon would have to pay for another drop-off. I thought I said all the right things in the right order but her smug smile made my temperature rise and Denis had to drag me out of the building before I threw a tantrum. To make matters worse, by the time we got to the next stop, I needed someone to fix a thingy in my kitchen, my French had decided to sail. Luckily, the ever-patient Denis managed to charm the kitchen fitter into coming that evening to fix the problem. And he did, very nicely.
The whole debacle put me in a mood to match the grey skies above, something even running up the hills couldn’t shake. And then, there was the vet appointment. I have to say I did warn Denis that Arry could be a little more hyper than usual seeing as how he has never understood the art of keeping calm in a waiting room but my man insisted on holding the other end of the leash. I had Simi who has the art of Zen down to tee in any situation. If he wasn’t lunging at every other dog in the room, Arry barked and bounced up and down like a demon possessed. I could feel everyone’s eyes on the blonde with the crazy canine, that is except for the vets who for some reason find my over-sized German Shepherd delightful. It goes without saying that Arry would never have played up had I been the one on the collar, he just decided to take full advantage of D’s inexperience at handling dynamite.
Finally, by the end of the week, the rain stopped and sun soared high into the sky. And with it Sophi’s sagging spirit. Denis decided that the best way to shift my blues was a walk down by the river. The River Aude is just a short hop across the main road onto a dirt track and after a few precarious wiggles, you’ve reached Nirvana. Or the river’s edge anyway which to me, is total bliss. I even got to drive D’s ancient and much-adored camionette, although I don’t know who was more scared – me or the car. It’s been a long time since I’ve driven a stick shift, even longer using one whilst trying to keep on an almost non-existent path into the woods. It was worth it. The sound of the water and the stunning landscape surrounding it was the perfect panacea to my murky mood. We ended up walking across the fields below Rouffiac to say hello to Abraham’s pigs before stopping by to say hello to the afore-mentioned. Abraham is one of the sweetest people you could meet, a tall gorgeous-looking (ladies, he’s married) Rastafarian who owns a small-holding on the same short hop across the main road. He is also one who loves to hold parties so wanted to show us the new space he’d created for such great occasions and whilst we were there, we could buy some of his fresh pork cuts. Before long, familiar faces started to arrive and an excuse to open a bottle of wine that just so happened to have started life in the field next-door. I may have been the only blonde there but amongst friends, such frustrations are forgotten and words began to flow once more. Inevitably, the week finished with a dinner party chez moi, complete with bangers and mash drowned in good old British onion gravy. Wine though, not beer and a knees up. I even bought the heels out. I haven’t worn stilettos since I left London – country living doesn’t really lend itself to such footwear and Denis is a little shorter than me but a girl’s got to have her dancing shoes. I can only apologise to the residents of Rouffiac however for the car crash karaoke that Saba and I subjected their ears to. Learning to speak French fluently is one thing but singing it is a different matter, all the notes were definitely in the wrong order…..
“It is great to be a blonde. With low expectations it’s very easy to surprise people.” (Pamela Anderson)
Widow plus woofs 