Inconsequential archeology

 Our new abode is somewhat mysterious in its history. The agent had muttered something about 1960 or 70s, but the electrician discovered wiring he reckoned to be from the 40s, or certainly the 50s. Apparently the building has been added to over the decades - as whatever family lived here had expanded, or the goat shed had been noted as a future extra bedroom, or . . . who knows, certainly the sellers didn't have much idea.

The oddest bit of the house is where I am working to create our bed and breakfast/family and friends logement. The windows and doors appear to be from the 30s, possibly a bit later. Maybe they took them from another building, or maybe there are parts of the house which really are that old. Some of the walls are of the local stone - tuffeau, and some are breeze block, and there's a ton of plaster covering everything in states varying from - wow, this is great plastering! through to - this really ought to come off and we start again. The latter is in the bedroom I am painting/filling/painting. Proper builders like our friend Kevin would shake his head at the dents and grooves I am allowing, but I know when it's all under its final coat and with furniture added it'll look quaint and pretty. No one will see the dinks, and if they do, they won't care as there will be too many other more interesting things to look at. Well, that's my theory.

The oddest of the oddest bit of the house - in said bedroom, is a corner coated in ancient creme gloss paint, interspersed with small squares of fluorescent pink paint, or possibly felt pen. There must have at one time been a small cooker here as there was a chimney flue - now gone, just an inspection chamber left. Also, a series of warped air vents which on further inspection - one was very warped so I took it out - seemed to be just sitting in the wall where no air could pass. Odd. Perhaps the 'builder' had told the house occupants that he had put in special new-fangled air grills which would assure ventilation, and had just tacked them on. We'll never know; there's certainly no 'before and after' photo album from that era.

Small and odd bedroom which will be cute and art-filled

other end featuring the mysterious air grills 

And with its earlier layers of 70s/80s paper/gamelan gong storage area

The most unknown bit of archeology is yet to come. We may or may not re-do the hideous outside tiles which resemble slabs of composite ham, but as I've had an eye-watering quote probably not. Not this year anyway. Unless Londonia suddenly gets a film deal. Which might not be 100% impossible . . .

Building no 62

Is it a signal box? is it an air-traffic control post for very low-flying, micro planes? is it a end-of-the-world 'prepper's' holdout?
I was in a village last weekend for a 'Vide Dressing' a sort of car boot sale for clothes but indoors - in this case a rather imposing 1960s municipal building with rather wonderful Twinning Association ceramic tiles on its walls. Sadly for me, the sale had finished by the time I got there so a village exploration it was instead - which was actually far more interesting than searching through boxes of discarded French fashion in the hopes of finding whatever it was I was looking for - walking boots I think . . . not very likely.
So, this building . . . down a back road on its own; no runway, rail tracks or KTFO signs although there was a large and impossible-to-scale gate. I peered and hoped that some passing bod would tell me what the place was for but as it was lunchtime in a Southern French village that would be impossible. Mm, mysterious.

The body beautiful

Or not . . .
I was actually searching for a piece of 'Pathé' film about Britain being considered for joining the common market - I've seen it somewhere . . . anyway, in the meantime, to stray a little from the scary idea of the small grey island drifting off unanchored into the North Sea, here's a fabulous bit of film featuring (to my mind) rather revolting over-pumped bodies, 1960's women in pointy-framed glasses looking hungrily on and the most wonderful example of that era's broadcasting manner.
Listen out for the part at 0:29: Just imagine the embrace such muscle could accomplish - wasted on a girl  interesting . . . .

Songs of life: No 1

Music pervades our lives, marking the stages, loves, mistakes, monumental moments, and small everyday routines.
Via my dear friend Penny, I learned that her Brother, Mr Robin Millar, has finally made it to the top of his world - he is to be on Desert Island Discs. Oh, such joy, and what a wonderful thing to be asked to do - compile that essential list. Actually . . . what a task. Where would you start?
Think I'll start right now - and continue over several weeks.
Okay. What song or music reminds me more than any other of my earlier years?
Mm. Probably the Beatles to start with. Mum had very little money - none really, and we had just a few 33s. The one I remember the most was this one:

I seem to remember her saying it had been left at her school, anyway we inherited it and I played it to a crispy pulp (I can't think of a more accurate description).
Roll over Beethoven was so thrilling when I heard it for the first time, and still holds that energy and excitement now.

So, back to our 1960's front room, and the crappy record player on . . .

Building No 37

One of a million or so small concrete buildings that haunt train station platforms.
I wondered how many people have sat in here thinking about their destination, escape from someone/something, or perhaps thinking of nothing, mind blank with the routine of another day at work.
I had a sudden image of the three wise monkeys in human form sitting on the three central seats.
Someone stifling a yawn, someone asleep, and someone with headphones firmly clamped to their head.

Odd, how climate effects the aspect of a building. If this had been in Havana, it might have contained a small lively bar; vibrant beer posters slapped across the walls and an absurd shining 1960's car parked outside. However, it was in a small, empty train station somewhere south of Toulouse on a damp Sunday afternoon in March: no music, no beer and only a small rusting Renault five in the station car park.