France at last...

It's been a month of ups and downs. Heres and theres. Farewells, bonjours. Closure, commencement. In our last month in London we were scurrying around until the very last moment we left. It was mind-numbing work to get everything done at the right time. It did all eventually fall into place (and that does not include the sale of the flat; however we have finally found a tenant, or at least a deposit from a tenant).

Now that we've physically made it here I have to watch myself or else I slip into holiday-mode. It has been at least 30 degrees celsius (86 F) every day since we got here, except today, but the sun still manages to come out and dry our clothes. In our sixth floor apartment we have a constant breeze and little street noise given the amount of traffic below. The Canal du Midi runs down the middle of the busy street, and Hubbie regularly jogs along its tree-lined banks. The farmers' market in the neighbouring quarter overflows with stalls of sweet peaches, juicy nectarines, immense cauliflower and courgettes, types of tomato I've never seen before, potatoes of all shapes, sizes and colour. The butcher and baker are just down the road and they always seem to want a chat (though I can't be sure, with my limited French). The building where we live is maintained and supervised by the omnipresent Jean-Marc, who put our surname on the postbox within two weeks of our being here. And we're only tenants! All these little details make me want to giggle like an idiot. I just find myself smiling sometimes, at nothing. Saying 'Bonjour' to every living thing coming towards me. I am in love with this town and this lifestyle. Is there anything wrong with that?

Well ... reality ... must ... eventually ... sink ... in.

One thing that made me realise we were not on holiday was when we queued up three hours at La Préfecture just to get a form. I embarrassed my husband with my immature display of raw self-righteous indignified anger. I raged against the machine, but no one heard me. No one understood me. They closed their ears. No one cared to sympathise. Someone even cut in front of us! And I was the only one who gave a toss! (Yes, in my 6 years in England I did learn how to queue, thank you.) When I confronted the person, I think I said "cue" instead of "queue", which could have been embarrassing in another way. After our brief encounter she cut in further up the line. That'll teach her. My husband instructively pointed out the statement "C'est la vie" may have originated from dealing with the French administration.

Well, my son just woke up screaming, so I need to go tend to him. A small dose of reality injected into my holiday blog.