The first window is in. Like a symbol, of promise, of hope, of triumph in the face of adversity. Of the last lap. Of a house that one day will be our home.

That may all sound a little flowery but it's heartfelt.

Kitchen floor!

Windows going in this week. There was a slight hitch when our planning application - which you need if you're going to do anything whatsoever on the outside of the house - was sent back as incomplete. It takes 2 months from when the full dossier goes in, so whatever happens we don't have permission to do the windows. Last week I was almost sick when I went round on Saturday morning to see various men hanging off the roof fiddling with new velux windows, in full view of the neighbours at the back, where it so happens that the mother of the architect I have been dealing with at the Mairie happens to live (as he told me when he came round to tell me last time I got a telling off). I could feel her curtains twitching. I'm waiting for an angry letter but nothing so far.

Let us not forget that the French have a long and noble tradition of ratting on their neighbours so I don't see any reason why we should get away with this. But I've been told - and am choosing to believe - that as long as the dossier is in and we're not actually changing the exterior, it's not a problem. And if all else fails I shall ratchet up my English accent and apologise.

Yay! I think we're gonna have sanitation one of these days!





GDF (gaz de France and just about anywhere else you care to mention, who said those wily French don't like capitalism) have been remarkably - or perhaps not - tricky about reconnecting us to the gas mains. This was one of the few things I left to C - my French is really very good but I don't have the cultural understanding to be able to deal with the gasman here. However C has the incredibly irritating habit of giving our home phone number to people he doesn't really want to deal with so I always end up having to sort the gasman or the taxman or the dentist or any number of bogeymen out anyway. If I'm feeling mean (often the case) I give them his mobile and his direct line at work.

One day last week the gasman called to tell me he was coming to fix the meter. I said that as far as I knew we needed to be connected to the mains before we could have a meter fixed. 'Then why did you call me?' he said irritably. I pointed out that he had called me. I asked him if he could fix us to the mains. He said he could only do one thing which is fit a meter and what's more he couldn't do that if we're not on the mains. I said 'I know that, that's why I'm telling you we need to be attached to the mains before you do the meter'. We continued in this somewhat circular vein for a few more minutes before he got tired and told me that he had other things to do besides talking to me. I had rather the impression that this wasn't the case since he was so keen to continue the conversation, but still.

My genius solution was to call the plumber on my mobile and hold the mobile to the phone in order to let the two of them clarify the situation without any intervention on my part other than holding the two phones next to each other.

Yesterday GDF turned up, dug up the pavement and whacked in a tube that I guess will carry the gas to the future meter. They didn't of course fill in the hole. Cleaning up after yourself is clearly not the way to become a multimillion euro multinational concern. Perhaps that suggests a great future for each one of my children?

We inherited a safe when we bought the house. It was, inconveniently, on the first floor, made of concrete and steel, weighing around a ton. It closed with a combination and a key. Unfortunately neither of those came with the house. They seemed to have died with the former owner.



It's been sitting outside our future bedroom for the last four months, while we tried to work out what to do with it. Ideally we'd keep it I suppose, you never know when you might have cause to lock away something of infinite value. We don't own anything worth over 3000€ (as we discovered when the removal company asked us to list our valuables) so it wouldn't be for right away, but one can dream, after all.

We also found ourselves dreaming that there were other people's valuables locked up in this safe. In our wilder dreamstates we imagined gold bars whose value would cover the costs of the renovation. In less flighty moments we thought of useless banknotes in old francs, or perhaps a long-lost pearl necklace. Nazi documentation was the nightmare possibility.



The plumber seemed to be really desperate to know what was inside, so, having decided that we were going to bust the safe then get rid of it, I enlisted his help to break it open. Ocean's Eleven this was not. In cinematic terms it was rather more Mr Bean. It took half an hour of concerted and smoky work with a metal cutter, then a lot of yanking with different shaped iron rods. Powdered concrete poured out of the holes but the door wouldn't open. The plumber poked around in despair.



After 45 minutes of wondering if smoke inhalation was a worthwhile payoff for a stash of gold ingots, or anything really, the door swung open.

There was, of course, nothing inside.

Polished floors! 

Still no running water. No bathroom. No kitchen. But we have bedrooms, we have a (large) living room. We have beautiful floors. 

This morning I spent two hours with metres of fabric and a woman called Annabel who is going to turn the fabric into curtains. When we were in India we spent a moderately amusing hour in a sari emporium in Madurai choosing fabric for curtains. Albie had been very sick and needed the toilet every five minutes. The other two were just bored and determined to communicate this fact. They perched on stools and swung wildly against the counter, singing lustily. Large fans blew hot, humid air around the room. Desperate, we grabbed at saris as they were proffered by helpful salespeople, pulling the fabric over the counter, looking at each other with eyebrows cocked. Like it? I'd ask Cyril. Many nos later he nodded as I held out an orange sari, embroidered with gold and banded with a deep crimson edge. The saleslady draped it over my shoulder, nodding gravely. 'It suits you very well, madam', she said. 'I'll take eight', I said. She glanced back at me, somewhat surprised. 

We left with a small suitcase (whose zip broke almost immediately) filled with twelve individual boxes, each one holding a beautifully-folded sari. I opened them again for the first time today, unfurling them like enormous flags over the newly-polished floors. 

Lovely new floors, all ready now to be polished up and moved into. 

The big mirror is now above the fireplace, looking like something on loan from Versailles. The painters knocked some of it off as they were manhandling it into position and promised to knock some bits off the other side off to make it symmetrical. I forbore to mention that I'd paid 1000€ for it. Luckily it looks OK even missing bits and wonky.

Also note that the walls are now painted a very subtle shade of off white. Much much better than before. If anyone is interested in 4 pots of Farrow and Ball Off White (a misnomer, incidentally) do get in touch, it's all yours.

And the kitchen, which is still far from showing any signs of ever being useful for preparing food, nonetheless now has a huge magnetic blackboard panel ready for shopping lists and scrawled reminders of school trips and doctors appointments: