Life stages

And this is a big one . . .
The boy, off on his own into a big city and us knowing the readjustment is looming a couple of months away. Eek.
I just spent two days in Bordeaux with him, traipsing the well-maintained and decrepit pavements (the latter where he will be living) visiting estate agents, along with herds of other weary parents and uni-ready offspring.
Manically checking the various flat-suggesting internet portals had revealed almost zilch for the taking, and anything that was available had a queue of rendezvous attached to it.
The son's expectations (fuelled by us staying in an 'arty and cosy' Air B and B - which it was) had started with an idea of a modest (22 sq meters) but elegant apartment with high ceilings and perhaps a small balcony on which to tend a small garden and sip the odd Margarita, rapidly dwindled to - 'well, perhaps, 15, with a window, preferably'. Yes there are places offered without windows, and even biscuit tin-sized flats of EIGHT sq meters; the size of . . . a generous toilet cabinet?
The bigger estate agents (company not employees) we visited were also weary, the smiles tired and wry, the same words projected, brows furrowing at my mention of our maximum budget - slow shake of head, suggestion of something possible . . . 'ah non - pris, ce matin' - taken this morning; too late, then the inevitable comment that Bordeaux has more and more students and less and less accommodation.
Alors. What to do . . .
A couple of hours and two bowls of Tai soup later, we did find an agent down a back street who was less weary and did have two things to show us.
We followed him keenly to the first - a once elegant stone building - and entered a dismal, lino-infested 'space' with wonky cupboards and the inevitable coating of semi-opace white on everything that certain landlords favour. Poor lad, I watched his face pale to the wall-colour as he took in the sight of his possible future logement, the worst feature of which was the very small window that looked out onto an impressive view of pigeon-shit and a blank wall.
The second place was cheaper, in a hideous 80s block but did have a tiny 'balcony'. In my optimistic 'stylist' mind I could see it working - lots of plants, a better view, but finally the interior and the miles of depressing corridors, which the agent did refer to being 'prison-like' and like Hell if there were ever to be a fire (great salesperson . . .) was too awful and we turned to tea, cake and a long think.



Peculiar, aquarium-like flat, and boy trying not to howl

Just as the second 'oriental pastry' was being consumed back at base, we found a newish ad on 'Le Bon Coin' - a 13 sq meter flat - ridiculously small but did have a mezzanine bed area. We rang . . . and it had gone. Shit. But the guy did have another - bigger, a tad more expensive but within our budget. He said to visit now, so we did - just a nip around the corner and there it was: the future logement: tiny, weird pink colour (but we can change it) with a window! Okay view of similar ancient stone buildings and a few mins walk from the art college.



 

                

We said yes, did a bit of paperwork, went to eat and drink a little more extravagantly than I might have wished (but W T Hell, we'd done it) and then I lay awake most of the night worrying about various aspects of the accommodation: no storage space whatsoever, would he be able to play his collection of instruments there without getting evicted? why had the building next door disappeared? and would his flat be very cold because of that; where on Earth would the water-heater have been in that space? - was there one? etc, etc . . .
But this morning in the rational light of day I recall my own student dumps, what you made do with and got around, and it was fine, and he'll be fine in this new life-stage.  

Funny how things turn out . . .

The first board game that our son devised was a hexagonal cardboard affaire, when he was about four. No one understood it, possibly including himself, but it was the start of something that has continued off and on until his nineteenth year.
Now at the end of his art foundation year, and after many, many started, ripped up, mulled over, abandoned and occasionally finished attempts, his board games have matured into something that I could imagine on a game shop's shelf.
This one, featuring a reoccurring theme of mining, has been played by various people and has been deemed to be 'good'. To me, not-overly-keen-on-board-game, person, it's a rather beautiful example and culmination of his love of game construction and fascination of old, disused factory buildings and abandoned mines.
I'll be interested to see how this combination developed in his following years at fine art school . . .

A couple of minutes of wonderful madness

Fighting the tide of plastic . . .

admittedly on a tiny scale but if everyone did it . . .



We have become slightly obsessed with second-hand yogurt-makers - they turn up at all junk emporiums and boot vide greniers, usually sporting a fine 1970s livery of orange/red/mustard, etc.
We have three now - a mid-yellow one that cost two euros in a local boot-sale, a large circular mustard-coloured one which is only suitable for really for large yogurt events (?) and our new find: orange-red, called SEB and fitted with a pleasing smoke-coloured plastic lid. This is definitely the best yet - a fine, even yogurt and just the right sized jars and it only cost THREE euros!
We haven't purchased yogurt in plastic pots for years now, and at a rough estimation, if we had, and had kept them all for some weird reason, there would be probably enough to fill the kitchen or at least the shed.
Having seen yet another distressing bit of film this morning about whale death due to plastic, one of the many, many answers is to make more stuff at home and buy less packaging - washing up stuff/shampoo etc, purchase 'loose' from bio shops, fizz-up tap-water with a soda stream and of course, the yogurt-maker - pint of milk (bio works best), a bit of the last yogurt to get it going, or a small sachet of 'culture powder' (wonder what other sorts of culture could be dried and reanimated) a minuscule bit of electricity and off you go . . .

inspirational places

  

Our local museum - The Piano Museum (and behemoth/ex-church) is stuffed with beautifully-polished and documented pianos. Mark and I were there yesterday - he page-turning for a pianist friend, me attempting to take photos in the unforgiving spotlights/deep shadows.
Away from the main museum, I found this stock/dumping area which was far more interesting with its collection of rejected, or waiting-attention pianos, dust and portraits of composers. I thought I'd do my own of the composer I live with, and will probably return soon to see what storylines might occur in this ancient resonant space.

where's the map?

                       

It's that time again - book finished (writing, that is) at least to the point where the end has been reached and the editing starts - that rolling project that envelopes you in a certain security each day - knowing where you are amongst all the other day-to-day stuff, where you're heading - sort of.
So where next? I've several ideas stumbling about looking for the right path; some to be developed from short stories, another in my Londonia series, or a follow-up to the one just completed - The Hundred and Fifty-Eighth Book.
As Hamish, the main character is still firmly inhabiting my head I might just continue with his life - I rather like him and it might be interesting to see where he wanders off to next, me following, pen in hand.

More things I know nothing about

We have B and B guests arriving and suddenly the loo broke down and the cooker . . . The loo looked fairly straight forward and I did some DIY in the cistern; this worked for a while providing you gave the button three 'clonks' perhaps not something to have to request of your 'invitees'.
I tried to improve on it and then broke the whole thing. No plumbers answering phones, so I went to the plumber's merchants and spoke to a biker who was delightful: didn't sell me anything unnecessary, explained what to do with the thing I had bought and gave me the number of a local reputable plumber in case it - me, failed.
Yeah . . . instructions! bits of ratchety plastic! things to unscrew, tighten again, lose down the bog . . nope, need the right person for the job. Mark can play extraordinarily complex bits of Scriabin or Chopin but faced with a dribbling loo and a spanner or two - nope, encore. Luckily the plumber was free; came round with his backpack of tools, accepted a glass of water and tamed the bog - in about ten minutes. Lesson to be learned, hm - yes, don't DIY unless you have an awful lot of spare time and patience. There are people who know about theses things, just as I know about . . . lots of other things.
The cooker . . . Oh, God, what a thing of fearful complexity. From the outside it looks Aga-like; friendly, solid, dependable, but when the 'special man' (electrician had sucked in his teeth and advised a specialist) unbolted it all and took the top plate off, it was full of wires and tiny skinny bits of metal as fragile as a spider's leg.
I went and tackled something simpler - cleaning the bathroom (I'm good at this - water, Jif, scrub, done) while he talked to himself - 'Alors, donc . . . cette fil blue, hm, pourquoi ça . . . ah, d'accord. Bon . . .alors, donc . . . cette fil marron, hm', etc. After two hours he announced he knew what it was, and that IT would have to be ordered and that he would have to come back again when I had agreed to the price of the thing that was to be ordered, uh?
I suggested I didn't have much choice and perhaps he could just order it. Suppose I could haunt ebay for a few days, but time wasted and possibly not the right IT would be even more annoying. So Mark will have to suppress his cake-making urge for a few days and we won't be able to offer our guests home-made bread, but at least the loo works.

Loo and oven I probably could mend