What lies within?

First of all I must tell you that I love boxes. I really do love boxes. Just ask my mother how every Christmas as a small child I was far more interested in unwrapping and playing with the box rather than playing with the contents.

I'm slightly different nowadays. A closed box has to be opened. I spy an attractive box - and this is most boxes to me - and I have to lift the lid to know what lies within. Sometimes they are empty. Sometimes they hold random items. Frequently they conceal treasure.

This box caught my eye at my favourite brocante this morning. It's a basic cardboard box but with embellishments. Somebody has glued paper to the lid, attached handmade lace bows and sewn on buttons. Surely a box like this has to contain something precious?

And it did. Lengths of broderie anglaise lace carefully removed from old petticoats, lovingly hemmed and stored in this pretty box.

Hand worked crochet lace, beige linen mats trimmed with white cotton crochet lace from the 1940s, a wonderful crocheted dress yoke.

A black satin clutch from the 1950s still in it's original box, along with a lovely hand done cutwork dresser scarf (under the box).

And my favourite item - a tiny hand made crochet drawstring pouch containing over 100 mother of pearl buttons.

The contents of the box will be appearing in Histoires. The box itself will stay with me.

Omlette de Paques

We had intended to attend the annual village event to celebrate Easter last year but it was unfortunately cancelled due to inclement weather. In time-honoured local tradition the villagers gather to consume large amounts of omlette, local cheeses and red wine on Easter Monday and I was rather afraid that this year would also be a wash-out. Our local "animatrice", Emilie V, had told me rather assertively that it would not rain this year. And she was right!

We assembled on the voie verte (literally the "green way" which is the disused railway line that has been turned over to non motorised usage - you can walk or ride bikes and horses but no motorbikes, cars or trains!) and unloaded our picnic hampers of plates and cutlery while the feast was cooked and served by village ladies.

The dapper gent sporting an artfully knotted torchon is our esteemed Maire, Monsieur Huillet!

As the temperature rose and more wine was consumed Pat also donned a tea towel. Her style was more Laurence of Arabia rather than Donald McGill

Chapeau envy even gripped Jeff who succumbed to wearing my very pink, very floppy straw hat

And the food just kept on coming... pate and bread, followed by pasta salad with tuna, onions and olives. The omlette itself was varied - some had lardons, some had onions and I even managed to get a "nature" egg flavoured omlette. Then there were large platefuls of local Bethmale cheeses - vraiment bon. And to finish tarte aux pommes decorated with sugar roses, leaves and little birdies. Finally basketfuls of chocolate eggs for everyone, not just the kiddies. I really can't remember a more enjoyable Easter.

My Downton Abbey moment

During my recent spell in the UK I managed to get along to my favourite auction house which holds cattle and chicken sales during the week and every Friday night at 6pm has a "general sale". A huge container of beautiful 20th century buttons, ranging from tiny Edwardian shoe buttons to 1970s plastic ones, caught my eye. The only problem was they didn't have a lot number! The auctioneer made an excutive decision and popped them into a huge box of rather mediocre linens. I let out an audible groan as I really did not want to bid on doilies and tray cloths just to secure my button booty. Oh well, I reasoned, see where the bidding goes. I really, really wanted that treasure trove of buttons.

Luckily for me I managed to outbid the competition and went home with a car load of linen and my precious buttons. So what exactly had I bought? I confess I had not closely examined the linens as I thought they looked pretty dull. And sure enough I pulled out tray cloth after doily after crochet mat and put them straight into a charity bag.

Then I reached a layer of aged tissue paper. Lifting off the first layer of paper revealed this:

This is an Edwardian maid's uniform. It has this amazing organdi handmade apron with pleated bib top and pin tucks and ladderwork detailing at the hemline. It has wide waist straps that form the most wonderful plump bow when tied

There were also 2 head bands and the original black velvet ribbon that would fasten over the top of the maid's head.

The name of the master is sewn inside the waistband of the apron and stamped on the head bands. Underneath this maid's uniform was another organdi apron with a simpler headband. Beneath this one was a scullery maid's uniform - a simple cotton apron with a handmade cap that would totally cover the hair while the maid performed cooking and cleaning duties. Beneath this apron was a simple cotton cook's apron.

I still get a massive thrill from finding something so totally unexpected in the most unlikely places. Who knows who wore these aprons. They have been heavily repaired and have clear signs of many years of use. I hope to pass these on to someone who will display or just occasionally admire them. Now where's my Downton Abbey DVD?

It's not like that in Britain

We have thought and uttered this phrase aloud many times over the 2 years we have been living in Ariege. There have been times when la vie Francaise has been extremely frustrating. The banking system is convoluted. Internet shopping is made unnecessarily difficult by the lack of pricing, product information and an apparent necessity to have your order confirmed by phone instead of merely completing your transaction on line. We have been caught out by the religiously observed 2 hour lunch break and have been physically ushered out of stores and builders' merchants at 12:30 on the dot unable to complete our shopping. "It's not like that in Britain" we have muttered.

Now that we are back in Britain for a while we are profiting from the 24 hour shopping culture, ordering goods online without difficulty and we have not had to physically enter a bank once. In many ways everyday things seem to run smoother here. Or so I thought until yesterday.

Yesterday we drove into Salisbury and parked in a central car park. I could not help but notice how expensive it is to park your car. Parking is almost always free in France. Oh well, no choice but to buy the overpriced ticket. The parking meter only took coins. And only certain coins, and moreover not any of the coins we unearthed by raking through our purses and pockets. Luckily there is the facility to pay using your mobile phone. "It's easy and fast" the display board promised us. Jeff dutifully dialled the number, entered our car registration number on his phone and waited for the call back from Parking HQ to take our payment. Yes, you've guessed it - we waited and waited and no call back.

Luckily we spied a man wearing a hi-visibility jacket. Well he's got to be an attendant hasn't he? Jeff approached him and asked if the phone pay system ever actually worked. He didn't know. He wasn't the "Parking Ambassador". Yes that's right, they're not called Car Park Attendants or Wardens anymore, they are Parking Ambassadors. I'd had enough by now.

I volunteered to trek to the distant shops at the far side of the car park to get some change. Jeff stood guard by the car to beg the Parking Ambassador not to issue a penalty ticket while I ambled around a shop mentally calculating how much I needed to spend on an item to get adequate change from a £10 note. Clutching some moth repellant and £6 in assorted coinage I trudged back to the car and nearly 15 minutes after arriving we could leave the car park. It all felt quite French!!

Largin' it in Southsea

This blog post was published last year. I'm adding it here because, well, it's still apparent this year.

I spend several weeks back in Southsea every year over the summer and each time I notice something different about the people, the area and about Britain in general. Having spent nearly a year in France the thing I noticed almost immediately is that here in the UK there are many, many fat people. If there is such a thing as a “typical” person in France, Mr, Mrs, Miss and Master “average Ariège” is small, lean and certainly not fat. Here the converse seems to be true. And it is apparently not restricted to one or other gender, age group or even social class (if I can use this outdated and inappropriate term).

I was aware that there is an acknowledged obesity problem in the UK but just dismissed this as Daily Mail style hyper sensationalism. Surely with the constant media pounding you receive about eating 5-a-day, the importance of an active lifestyle and the apparently universal popularity of TV cookery programmes, the nation should be eating healthier, exercising more and consequently becoming slimmer, not fatter.

A walk along Southsea seafront from Castle Field to Gunwharf Quays on Sunday was enough to convince me that your average Brit is in pretty poor physical shape. It was a beautiful day and as part of the military celebration weekend there was a “Love Southsea” festival. I decided to take a look at the festivities and was assailed by the sight of an extremely well-upholstered young lady bedecked in a bright orange floaty belly-dancer outfit with matching orange platform shoes performing a fan dance. Yes, a fan dance. Her audience of OAP's reclining in deckchairs appeared only slightly entertained as she strutted her ample stuff and coyly concealed parts of her generous anatomy with two bright yellow fans before whipping her skirt off with a Bucks Fizz style flourish. My impression was that she was a novelty act based on the never-to-be-forgotten Roly Polys so I kept on walking past the stately parade of veterans which was immediately followed by hordes of rowdy bikers.

I could not help but notice that there were large numbers of, what I can only describe as, overweight people in the throngs. Substantial mothers pushing prams containing tubby babies. Overly plump school age children waddling slowly along. Big, loud teenagers leaning on bus shelters and slouching along the seafront. Older men with T shirts stretched tightly over their “Jeremy Clarkson” tribute stomachs. Even elderly wide-hipped ladies leaning heavily on walking sticks or using zimmer frames to support their bulk. Blimey, Britain has got big.

I discovered further proof of this observation, should it be needed, this morning. As I have flown out from France I have very few clothes with me and I certainly did not think to bring old clothes to clean and paint in. As I now urgently require some cheap, lightweight and ultimately disposable clothing I decided to comb the local charity shops. There are 3 on a 100 yard stretch of Albert Road close to where I am living. The first yielded nothing suitable and when I entered the second one I realised why. The vast majority of the unwanted clothing on sale is a UK size 14 or larger. The problem for me is that I am a size 10. Admittedly a foray to the more central charity shops did yield the requisite clothing and the rather stunning bonus item of a Calvin Klein leather jacket.

“It's too small for me”, the shop assistant had sighed.

Tant mieux pour moi! Sometimes it's pretty good not being average.

The original post had an image of Jeremy Clarkson on a beach here but I've removed it because it was just TOO gross. Here instead is a photo I took last year of Pompey lass

OK in the interests of gender equality here's the original image of JC

 

Histoires

Histoires, a set on Flickr.

Latest additions

Progress!

At last I can write about REAL progress on our massive project turning a motley collection of agricultural buildings into a comfortable, efficient and (hopefully) beautiful home.

We battled torrential rain and high winds last year and eventually finished the roof ealier this year. The painful process of fitting the hugeTrilatte roofing panels to the crooked stone walls and wavy beams is now just a bad memory. All that remains is cladding the underside of the panels and fitting the zinc guttering.

We decided to focus our attention on the "new barn" (that's the ugly concrete block building on the end) and have now fitted wall insulation and constructed the inner walls. The pipework for plumbing and the electrics are in place.

But here's the most thrilling progress to date.

This is the new barn before work started. There were 4 enormous openings covered with metal doors and panels.

These had to be blocked in to support the new roof structure and window openings were formed (left hand side ground floor).

This is Harry (left) and Gareth installing the first window frame. And here is the final result... we have windows!

Thanks to our current builders for their hard work and loyalty. There's still a long way to go but I know we can, and will, complete this project.