We really must eat more baked potatoes.
The bank manager rang. I am easily confused on the phone about who people are. He reminded me he was Sophie's and Stephanie's dad and then I placed him, but instantly assumed there was a problem. Well, he did say he was concerned about our account. I ran upstairs, 'phone in hand, to consult Tom:
'He says we've only got X euros in there!'
'Well, that's more than usual...'
After a bit, and after I'd spluttered apologetically about having to move some money over from the UK, paying the gardener and getting another car, but how we'd managed to scrape up the funds for that in liquide by other means, he went on to say that if we didn't need it all there he recommended we move some of it over to the savings account. He was not reproving us for inadequate funds but the opposite. It was our instant reaction, though, to an authority figure to assume we must be in trouble, even if he is Sophie and Stephanie's dad.
Though why bother, we wondered, it's not as though we'd get anything on it anyway, interest on savings being a nice idea but not to be dreamed of again in our lifetime. We speculated that perhaps in response to the increased Greek bail-out, all the bank managers of France had been issued with instructions to move as much money to more usable places. Yes, that must be it, we are doing our bit to help with the Eurozone-in-crisis.
I promised him we'd move some over, and sent kisses to Sophie and Stephanie.
'Phone in hand. Yes, we have a cordless 'phone at last, I finally faced the fact that my fear and loathing of the telephone, which has made me stubbornly refuse to have any more to do with it than I had to and so not to modernise in any way, was cutting my nose off to spite my face. It was even worse to be pinned in the corner by it and not even able to move around and do anything else. Still no answering machine, though, that would be going to far in conceding to the Watson-come-here-please-I-want-you tyranny.
Touching wood, crossing fingers, and performing all manner of other superstitious contortions one can think of, the plumbing leak seems to be fixed on the second attempt.
Tom likes the new car. It's nippy and fun, and he likes the change. I still don't really want much to do with it. Tom refuses to even acknowledge the possibility of a tipping point.
Looking through old pics to find one of interest, I came across this one of the emptying of the septic tank, which, it turns out, took place about eighteen months ago (so we don't need to think about having that done again just yet, photos and blogging are so useful for keeping informal records).
Fear not, nothing too detailed is revealed of this necessary but always to my rather prissy English bourgeois sensibilities, slightly embarrassing operation. At least not to you. However, as may be seen, Victor and his sister Hélène couldn't get close enough. They are both over ninety, and we don't see all that much of them these days, but no sooner had the septic tank emptying truck arrived than they both got wind of it, so to speak, and turned up to chew the fat while peering down the hole at our bodily waste products and their evacuation. They greeted us only perfunctorily, it seems it was our poo they were primarily interested in. Bless them.