“I came across a nice zen story the other day. A man is looking for a fire. It’s night, so he sets off with a lighted lantern…In other words, what you seek is something you already have. You are carrying it, perhaps inside yourself”.
From Simon Barnes’ column in the Culture International section of the Sunday Times 5/3/2017.

I thought the above was a nice paragraph, and worth sharing.

Naughty old Admin has been getting my hopes up again – making me think there have been new readers. I haven’t written anything for a while, so decided to have a look at a couple of my previous posts, and of course the Stats. There have been a few views from the States, and one from Canada. (If I cared that much, I’d share the link somewhere, right?)

Just in case anyone ever wonders what happened about the hot water tank, we finally decided to get a smaller one. The tank we had was 300 litres, and seemed unnecessarily big as we have a second one which serves the West wing – (a small apartment) – and I thought if a smaller tank might save a few pennies off the electricity bill, it was worth a try. So we got a 200 litre one.

It was my son who finally installed it, having also removed the old (kaput) tank. I was very good and kept out of the way, though I did get scared when I thought I heard pre-explosion rumblings coming from the basement one night after he had installed it.
Note to self: I must phone the Service d’Urbanisme to come and take away the old cylinder – it’s lying on the floor downstairs along with all the other breeding-overnight junk. Second note to self: I had better get someone to come and clean the second tank, before that goes up the spout too.
The water in this area is very hard, and the kettle soon fills up with limescale, so I can’t imagine what goes on inside a hot water tank.

If I notice a significant drop in the electricity bill, I’ll report back here, but that’s a bit of a sore subject at the moment, as two monthly payments in a row have bounced. I was feeling very orderly yesterday for having phoned the water company and paying half the bill, rather than hiding it under a pile of  papers until it became urgent.(Usually I end up having to go and see Monsieur Personalité at the water company, who either hates his job, or women or the Brits – or heaven forfend – me)! But that feeling of domestic in-chargeness was short-lived, as I got a letter from EDF (Electricité something or other) this morning, saying I have lost my right to monthly instalments. So with that wonderful logic that will forever baffle me, they are going to send a bill for the full amount. It makes sense, doesn’t it? If we couldn’t pay two smaller amounts, obviously we can pay a much BIGGER amount.

There’s nothing like ironing to focus the mind (on anything but ironing). If you read my last post, and I know you haven’t – there’s no need to be kind, you might be wondering what happened about the hot water tank. Well, once again the indecision kicked in, and I made multiple enquiries of many people, obtained phone numbers, applied phone numbers – and I even got as far as actually getting a plumber round to look at the existing tank! He spoke to my son and I about possibly downsizing to a smaller tank, and then he said he was “going shopping” and would phone me from the hardware shop with the prices. As he left, I said to my son “We won’t be seeing him again”. Later, when the guy failed to phone me as promised, my son marvelled at my judgement.

One of the plumbers I phoned sounded about 90, and I’m not usually an ageist – how could I be? – I lived with someone who was 22 years older than me for 23 years. But I decided it wouldn’t be smart to have a trembly hand tinkering with the triphasé (that’s French for whatever triphasé means). So I told him – and here’s a tip – if you phone a Frenchman after midi (noon), he won’t answer his phone, because it’s holy hour – when people sit down and eat something they have cooked together, and converse and goodness knows what. So I told him – my blog my rules,  that we were going to try and change the hot water tank ourselves, and I would phone him back si besoin ( if needed).

And that’s what “we” did. Having had three weeks without hot water, the novelty had definitely gone down the drain – but with no hot water to help it along. By the way, replacing a hot water tank figures on the one-spanner list – you know the way they rate things from one to a whole boxful of spanners?  – well, this job is meant to be easy.

…for getting all excited about recent views of my blog – most likely just spammers. Never mind – it’s not like I’ve advertised.

I don’t think I like Christmas – except for the
filling the stockings the night before, the waking up early, lighting a fire, opening presents, mulled wine, being with my kids.
Alright, I am temporarily out of love with Christmas, due to a slight cash flow problem.

Everyone has a gift – mine is being broke and being annoying – hey, that’s two!  Happy Christmas.

My Dad’s birthday is in two days – he’s not “with us” any more, but I’m thinking about him. He went to Cambridge – I have no idea what he studied, but the important thing is that he went there. I was
thinking of calling my book ‘Daddy went to Cambridge’ – well, it made me laugh. He’d like it too.

He used to have this incredible pair of brown slippers – I think they were  suede to begin with; he must have got them when he was about twenty. The backs were completely flattened and all the sheep’s wool had been eroded away, but as they were still functional he saw no reason to get rid of them. His dressing-gown was even better: it was dark red with a very faint large check running through it – not one of those
dreadful scratchy boarding-school I hope no-one meets me running down the fire escape  in this ones. This was nice soft cotton but with regular use for forty odd years, it was more for show than warmth. My mother would have mended it and mended it, but there comes a point where there’s nothing left for a poor patch to hold on to.

I learnt useful things from my Dad – whenever I’m doing “a little judicious pruning” I think of him. Actually, it’s usually when I’m looking at our overgrown fig tree, and wondering how the hell to tackle it.

Old Man River was his song -he’d start off really low – you have to if you’re going to manage the high bits. He had a great booming voice – it could get embarrassing at the Carol Service when people turned round to look for the man making all the noise.

People have been looking at my blog! Whatever for?! I haven’t written anything for ages… Bizarre comme tout. But any attention’s better than none.Or is it? Decisions decisions.

The sun is going down fast, and the dog needs walking before the wild boar come out – don’t laugh. They are around – and now that it’s hunting season, the boar move in to residential areas for safety, which is pretty clever  – but annoying for the people who have their lawns dug up by them (heh,heh).

Christmas is nigh (are we allowed to say Christmas?) and the coffers are empty. I went to see Mr.Personality at the water company the other day with some cash in my hand to pay some of the water bill, but guess what? They don’t accept cash. Maybe they’re scared of money-laundering.Get it? Water company – money laundering. Ok, I never said it was funny.

Keep reading – though God knows why you would.

Singular and particular detail is the foundation of the Sublime – William Blake.

Apologies to my reader (me) for the long absence.
We have had stinking hot weather here for about a month –
it’s really getting monotonous.
I never thought I would be driven to getting up early, but if you want a few lungfuls of cool air, that’s what you have to do.
Desperate isn’t it? My dog agrees – although he does quite well out of it, because he gets a walk most mornings. It doesn’t cool down here much in the evenings, so being adaptable we’ve changed the walk time to the morning. Hey, how mundane is that!

…I’ve really landed myself in it this time. A week from today I’m in the play Educating Rita. I really don’t understand why I’m doing it – and it’s supposed to be fun! We won’t mention the fact that I’ll be 54 in a few days, and Rita is supposed to be 26. You have to laugh, don’t you? We’re not complete idiots – we’ve taken out any references
to Rita’s age, but still….if I hear anyone in the audience whispering “Poor cow – they must have told her she looks young, and she believed it”, I’ll cry.

On the plus side, it’s a very funny play – just reading it, I have laffed a lot (little bit of Liverpudlian creeping in there)- and a challenge. Hang on, that’s not a plus – I don’t even like challenges!

So that’s what’s happening in real life. In the other life, the usual nonsense – I got told yesterday that there was to be an arrival today at a big house I clean. These people – they live on another planet.
Here’s a poem for you – I have to say it in the play. It’s by William Blake. It’s called:

The Sick Rose.

Oh rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy.
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

…..Life’s but a walking shadow blah, blah. Now try and say that with a Liverpool accent, which is what I am doing for the role I’m playing in Educating Rita. Oh well, at least I get to learn a bit of Shakespeare.

Dust to be found. More soon.
Just wanted to ensure that I’m late; a real cleaner is never on time – or is that ladies? A lady is never on time – or is it runs? A lady never runs nor is on time.

I won’t be so stupid as to say Spring is here, as that will provoke a snowstorm, or rain, or something else nasty.

The Mimosa is in full bloom – it’s a tree with fluffy-looking yellow flowers, and you can see hillsides covered in it, around Cannes for example.The perfume is lovely – not sharp, but mellow and gorgeous – the only pain for me being that it, along with all the other pollen that will soon be puffing out from the hedges in great clouds,makes me sneeze, and my eyes itch.I have spoken to a few people who never had childhood or even adulthood allergies – but after a few years living here, the pollen has got them too.

You know the way you read a book which leads you to another book, because of something the author mentioned? Well, recently I read ‘How Proust can change your Life’. He didn’t, by the way. Change my life. Or perhaps he has. It was a very entertaining read, and laugh-out-loud in places; the guy who wrote it is called Alain de Botton, and I’ve got him to thank for getting me on to Proust, as it were, so to speak.

The problem is that I have been trying to keep away from too much detail; whenever I tell my kids about the young slim black-haired Frenchwoman in front of me in the supermarket queue, talking on her mobile so quietly that I couldn’t hear a word, even if I was trying – which I wasn’t; or the unusually helpful EDF (electricity company) woman who I spoke to on the phone; or the cashier who didn’t give me the receipt until I asked for it, and hadn’t given me the carrier bag until I’d asked for that twice  – the kids tend to glaze over. So now, in addition to my slowness, I have the anxiety of knowing I’m taking ages, and that I should stick to the interesting parts (none) – which makes the stories take even longer.
“Where is all this leading?”, I can hear you scream. To Marcel Proust, naturellement.

Ole Proustie is great – I’m reading a translation – I’d never manage that level of French; the book is called ‘Remembrance of things Past’, and he goes in to incredible detail about everything.

For example, when he was young, his mother’s goodnight kiss was something he was desperate for, and usually she would go up to his room; but one awful night he is sent to bed early, as there are dinner guests – and he has to receive the kiss in front of everyone and then carry it with him up the stairs, hoping that it won’t evaporate, or that the unfriendly smell of the varnish on the staircase won’t overpower the memory of the kiss – but it’s much more beautifully written than this, obviously.

I’m not quite clear yet on whether I’m reading memoir or fiction – it’s labelled fiction on the back of the book, but it seems to be agreed that Proust was unusually close to his mother, even leaving notes outside her bedroom door at night. I get the impression that he was a bit all over the place, changing his mind and the format his books would take – even duplicating chapters in his other books.

In case you’re interested, here’s Wikipedia’s thing: Marcel Proust Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust (/pruːst/;^[1] French: [maʁsɛl pʁust]; 10 July 1871 – 18 November 1922) was a French novelist, critic, and essayist best known for his monumental novel À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time; earlier translated as Remembrance of Things Past), published in seven parts between 1913 and 1927. He is considered by many to be one of the greatest authors of all time.^[

And rest assured, there’ll be no more short-changing from me, where the details are concerned.