Our day out in Castelnaudary 2

Ezra Loves this town. Sometimes, (it has to be a gloomy drizzly sort of day) he says in a wistful way, 'Can we visit Castelnaudary?' and I say 'why'? knowing in fact why he has suggested it. If you are attracted to dismal looking factories and train tracks (as we seem to be) this is the place to go within easy reach of our own town. It has many classic representations of Southern French beauty: the canal, a fine church, towering plane trees, etc, but it's the factories we end up wandering around on a grey day.
So, we set off with camera (me) sketchbooks (him) money for a hot chocolate and warm socks.

Here are some snaps from the day's adventures, after which I went down with some sort of virus . . .

Hibernating hydrangeas.

We didn't see who lived here, but the sandy construction was about the size of a boiled sweet.

A lovely tap

Pierre's house?

 Canal du Midi

Ezra's favourite factory - something to do with grain. I stood for a long time and watched the pigeons flock from one end of the buildings to the other, with seemingly no reason to do so, but then what do I know about pigeons' raison d'être.

I don't usually like peach-coloured paint, but for some reason I found this rather classy 50s? building rather wonderful in its new coat - hypnotically so. I walked around for ages just looking at the way the light changed the tones from peach to warm sandy-yellow, before I realised that I was totally freezing, and we went to sit in Café St Francis (I think it was) where the hot chocolate was delicious.

Building No 33

A most beautiful urinal in Moissac.

Bad hair day

When I eventually looked in the mirror this morning, two words appeared in my mind: Max Wall.
Here's a mix of various sketches someone has put on Youtube: a wonderful showcase of his facial expressions, voice and movements, my hair reference being towards the end . . .

GPS assisted shopping and gourmet cat food.

OK. A good Sunday rant, after a stirring bout of housework.

Here, portrayed below, is a selection of Gourmet cat food sachets that Mark bought for our ginger feline. I assume he was captivated by the pure irony of this product, and he did have the beginnings of flu . . .

Some basic points about cats:

They are finicky bastards.

The pet industry know this.

They can make millions of euros/pounds/dollars out of this annoying cat-fact.

Cats do not eat vegetables, let alone a 'julienne' of them.

This however, is useful for the pet food people: put veg in - costs virtually nowt (talking about EU reject veg I imagine) and people somehow feel good that their felines are hoovering up veg particles as it will be good for them.

This particular pack is hyper-irritating as some PERSON in an ad meeting has come up with a fantastic idea: 

    'Excuse me, Mr Vanpooperstook, what about if we add a little phrase on the packet - something like 'Recettes du chef'.

    'Brilliant, Mr Beenhereforever: recipes of the chef - get onto it.' 

    'How about a chef in one of those hats, stirring a copper pan?'

    'Don't be a stupid arse, Miss junior ad-type, do you know what's really in cat food - we just have to GIVE the impression . . . '

I opened one of the said packets this morning; nano-sized pieces of slop fell out (about an egg cup full) the ginger beast fell on it and devoured it in five seconds - well, fifty cents gone then.
So, Bronzino, let's see what was in your delectable sludge, shall we.
(Cat holds up packet).
Colin à la Florentine.
Not Colin of Bracknall done in the sauce of a Florentine resident, I hasten to add: Colin being Hake, and Florentine . . . err, isn't this normally a chocolate coated, nutty fruity biscuit. Oh, I see, à la Florentine, in the way a Florentine would cook Colin/Hake (if they did) and spinach and carrots.
Anyway . . . what is actually in this:
Meat and by-products of meat, fish and by-products of fish (Hake being 4%) Protein of vegetables (of which spinach and carrots 4%) a lot of water presumably and a whole list of other scientific sounding stuff.
To break it down more: 14% protein, humid constituents (translating from French here) wet stuff (not greasy conservative representatives) 79%, 2.5 %fat, 2.2% ash, .05% cellulose. Mmmm. So, mostly grease, water, and 14% protein.
Kicked the cat out in the direction of the shed with a photo of a mouse.

So, supermarket 'GPS' system. (I don't know what it's actually called.)
This has to be the most pathetic invention to date.
I was watching Telematin yesterday and on came the guy who does the occasional feature on the Latest Technology.
SOMEBODY has come up with a sort of half-pair of glasses that you don when entering the supermarket. Somehow, the mini-computer inside them knows (I missed this vital bit) that you are searching for condoms, and then shows you by a series of arrows on the lens where to go. So you walk robotically for the section and then it tells you what to do with them, what size, etc and then you nod your head like a slow motion chicken and it buys them for you.
Fab: next stop, ravioli - compare the makes, the cooking time, recipe suggestions, nod, bought.
Supposing you sneeze while passing the chain saw section, or the most expensive wine aisle - bottle of 1968 Chateauneuf du Pape - bought, only 328 euros.
The woman in the feature duly went around nodding like one of those car back window dogs, and then went out to load up her vehicle, thus negating all that tedious talking to people, using your instincts as to where they have moved the tomato paste and queueing, where you can idly look into other people's trolleys and wonder what they are going to do with twenty-three baguettes and a bottle of carpet cleaner.
The idea is being developed in Holland, where apparently they are spending millions on it. Useful.

Belated Christmas present

For a year now, Ezra has been singing 'Money, Money, Money' by Abba.
He doesn't want to. It was inflicted on him and his class by the worst music teacher that ever taught anybody anything. I think they had to sing it one by one in some sort of ritualistic torture employed by this sadist woman. Anyway, suffice to say, soon enough it had wormed its way into my brain, replacing a rather amazing song by British sea power - Machineries of joy. 
There was no escape; on waking in the night it would be there - those two women, auburn and blonde hair covered with a silver crocheted . . . hat? Money, money, money, must be funny . . . aargggg!!!!!
After many days and nights, I discovered a cure while driving in my hire car in the UK and fiddling around with the radio, not wanting to listen to Money Box on radio 4.
Heart FM were playing (no idea why!) the above featured . . . thing. I hated it in 1972, and I hate it now; but it is the most effective way of removing any circling-song in your head. Just three words and it's there, implanted like a tic, an infestation of schmaltz, swamping and coating any previous lingering note.
Now I've just got to find something to replace it with.

Incidentally: Wikipedia informs me that the origins of the word Schmaltz is rendered goose fat . . .

Go on, press the arrow . . . three words - I'll be your . . .

Building No 32

No need to say much really, other than I got honked at by furious cabbies as I held the traffic up gawping at this edifice somewhere in East London. Such wonderful folly. I wonder if the inside of the building has been designed the same way . . .

Nassau Street

As mentioned in last post. A small extract of Chapter 8 from my book 'Going out in the Midday Sun' featuring Jasper in his 'new' flat - where I lived in the mid 80's for a couple of years.

CHAPTER 8

Nassau St - a few days leading up to 23 May 1997

                                                                     

Jasper climbed the last flight of stairs in Titian House. It was so dark he had to fumble for the keyhole in the door of flat Number Ten. 

   His flat in Archway had sold very quickly to the first viewer, as Sandra the estate agent had predicted. Holly had fallen for the flat totally and was keen to move in as quickly as possible.

It had been the catalyst he needed. He plunged himself into sorting stuff and purging unwanted belongings. 

The sale took quite a few months to complete, during which time Jasper visited lots of flats: cramped, depressing places. He quickly realised that moving further in to the centre of town was going to mean something awful, if he was going to stick to his budget. 

   Just as he was about to regret the sale, Jasper found the office of Imperial Properties Ltd - a dingy dive in Wells Street with dark brown walls, faded stacks of papers and teetering filing cabinets. Almost everything on Mr Cohen's books was above Jasper's means, except a studio flat in Nassau St: a top floor garret with views above a pub roof and pigeon nests. But it had a bit of character and was at least light.

   Jasper paid the deposit and spent a day cleaning what appeared to be egg off the walls. He painted it all off-white, moved his newly-depleted belongings and settled in.

   The kitchen, no more than a cooker, fridge and worktop, was in the lounge, which was the size of a kitchen. The loo was a tiny box and the shower, a mysterious dribbly affair encased in brown plastic, sat in the bedroom next to a rickety 1950s wardrobe. He was a free bird in its eyrie, ready to fly: no complications. 

    Jasper sat down by the window and looked out over the rooftops; it was so quiet, almost impossible to imagine the traffic coursing up Tottenham Court Road a couple of streets away. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Jasper went to open it and was surprised to find a young man wearing a threadbare dressing gown, standing in the corridor, holding a bottle of tequila.

    "Hi, I'm John. Just thought I'd greet the new neighbour. We're having a party, d'you want to come over?" Jasper glanced down the corridor. He could see jiggling bodies and a lot of bottles through an open door. "Students," explained John, "medical students."

    "Err, okay," said Jasper. He had been hoping to do some reading and plan his day off tomorrow but it seemed churlish to refuse a friendly offer of welcome.

    "I haven't got anything to bring," he said, doubtfully.

    John looked him up and down. "Oh, just yourself will do nicely."

Jasper watched his rather attractive figure swaying down the corridor and drew in his breath: Uh, oh, complications.

    He tried the shower: odd, but wet at least, then slipped into something casual but not quite a dressing gown. As he had nothing else, he took a tin of peaches he had found in the cupboard. The door was opened by a girl in a surgeon's green top and yellow high heels; her face flushed, mascara smudged.

    "Come in, stranger." 

    Jasper did so and handed her the peaches. "Suze, put these in the punch!" she yelled, ushering him in to the throng.

    "This is Jasper - new neighbour," announced John. There followed a chorus of, "Aw, poor him!" and someone staggered over proffering a glass containing a very generous measure of something.

    "Tequila slammers," grinned John. "Here we go, 1...2...3!" Everybody thumped their glasses and drank. Jasper swallowed the fizzing liquid. Three more and he was up and dancing to The Cure, his shirt off and John's hands caressing his bare torso.

Jasper slowly opened an eye; something stabbed him in the pupil: Light. He moved his head and discovered his brain had been replaced with a ball of molten lead. He was lying in something smooth and cold, a coffin? A bath - luckily not full of water. He had his boxer shorts on and a blond wig in one hand. Moving hurt a lot so he lay there for a long time, squinting at the marble tiles. They all had scary faces. Screaming cats, phantoms, Pascal the chef: Putain . . . wat 'appened to you, hein?  He groaned. This was his day off, his planning time, and he'd be unable to walk, let alone sort his flat out.

   Jasper stood unsteadily and managed to place a foot on the floor, which heaved to the right; nausea rushed over him and he was violently sick in the sink. The room was a rollercoaster. He lurched to the door, wiping his mouth on a sock, stepped over bodies and retrieved his trousers. Back in his flat he crumpled onto his bed and stayed immobile for a long time.

   With small movements, he managed to turn on the TV at the end of the bed. The remote buttons were stuck. The only programme was 'The Waltons'. He lay very still, watching cheery folks as the room spun gently. The pigeons cooed and strutted outside, the sun passed over and round and by five o'clock Jasper was just about able to get up.

   A whole day wasted. He tried the shower again, dressed gingerly and left the flat taking the stairs slowly. He walked into Goodge Street and explored his new neighbourhood, pausing outside an interesting pub but the waft of beer fumes was too much. He opted for a comforting bowl of plain pasta in an Italian restaurant, then continued wandering, returning when it was dusk. 

   Titian House was in darkness, the musty smell of old carpet and long ago-varnished wood already familiar. He climbed the three flights of stairs, realising that the climb was going to be a good daily workout in itself.