life in the Limousin

Yesterday was our annual December boys trip to watch the football. This ritual has existed for twenty years now. My friend Paul and I, are usually joined by some other long suffering Manchester City fans that we have known for years, however this year proved too difficult to organise so just the two of us met. . (The more astute amongst you will have noticed that it is not yet December - this is a mere technicality arising from life getting in the way of it actually being on a Saturday in December). The ritual used to be a fortnightly event, when football was played on a Saturday and we were young and flush enough to get away with it. Now it’s an annual event due to being grown up and slightly more sensible.

The format is devastatingly simple. We meet on a Saturday in December when City are at home and at 11am start drinking our way towards the stadium. Having arrived at the ground, at least a couple more pints are consumed prior to enduring a tortuously frustrating football match. After the game, more drinks are consumed before the entire game is drunkenly dissected, minute-by-minute in an Indian restaurant over a hot spicy curry

I was a little worried this year that all the money that City have spent (£200m in 18 months) might spoil our tradition by proving to be entertaining and rewarding which has never happened before. I was worried it might take something away from the day, that our new found wealth might erode another footballing tradition.

However, I need not have worried. The game was as the pundits would say “really crap” and despite going a goal up in the first half we succumbed to a sucker punch penalty late into the second half. I’m always at my happiest when I’m either totally relaxed and serene (like when I’m fishing) or when I’m incandescent with rage after an abominable refereeing decision (like yesterday). By the time he blew his full time whistle, I was positively neanderthal.

There was much to discuss after the game and we worked really hard to ensure that no positives were allowed to venture into our post match analysis. The curry house (Darbar – on the famous Rusholme curry mile) served the most amazing Indian food I have ever eaten to the point where I really struggled to maintain my grumpiness. The condiments were of course used to highlight formations and strategies and at one point my naan bread was used as a makeshift pie chart used to illustrate our ongoing plight. My team have now drawn their last seven games, which is a source of huge disappointment after such a strong start to the season. This necessitated more lager as we just couldn’t get to the bottom of our tactical challenges.

I called Mel to collect me at 9pm and managed to establish on the short drive home that she wasn’t really interested in discussing the merits of a 4-3-3 versus a 4-4-2 formation. She was however interested in discussing her sister Penny’s new dog which is a Bichon Frise and had been collected from the breeder that afternoon. I was taken to meet the new little girl which is called Saffron or Saffy as I am instructed to call her. On the basis of hearing her name, I was expecting her to be a golden yellow colour but not so, she is in fact white.

Saffron

She didn’t seem too concerned by my staggering although she did seem quite keen on checking my face for any residue curry so maybe Saffron is the right name for her. After a brief introduction I was whisked home on health and safety grounds, in case I sat on Saffy which in my state was a distinct possibility.

The Christmas party season starts this week and my bah humbug senses have already started to tingle. Mel is a huge Christmas fan and for her sake I will try and enter into some form of Christmas Spirit.

Mel and I have just returned from a fantastic weekend in the Limousin. I’ve always wanted to say that. Jetting off for the weekend makes us sound really cosmopolitan and cool (in my twisted mind anyway). The reality is that a chance discovery of £10 each way flights made the weekend feasible but we grasped the opportunity with both hands.

We flew from East Midlands Airport which is a two hour drive but the Friday evening flights are perfect for a weekend away. Last weeks biblical weather in the UK had left me slightly apprehensive about the flight. Sure enough, it was extremely turbulent but we arrived safe, intact and on time.

Neil and Roz were kind enough to pick us up from Limoges Airport and before we knew it we were guzzling wine like our lives depended on it and heartily tucking into Neil’s fantastic casserole. The stresses and strains of a week away travelling with work evaporated in a jiffy. Less than an hour later I was slurring my words and acquainting myself with Roz’s most recent Pet rescue, Tammy the kitten. In truth, I’m not a cat lover mainly on the basis that I am allergic to them but he/she/it is extremely cute and definitely worth rescuing.

On Saturday I just could not wake up and Mel and I both slept in until 11am which is pretty much unheard of and probably reflects how hard we have both been working recently. The silence of the Limousin always has a soporific effect on me and I never have a problem sleeping when I’m there, the challenge is always getting up again.

Saturday was spent lazing, listening to the football on the radio and enjoying various combinations of fine cheeses, crusty bread, cold meats and freshly laid eggs. I had a brief worry about all the jobs that need doing around the place but had to remind myself that was not the purpose of this trip and returned instead to self indulgence, casual drinking and relaxation.

In the evening we went to the village dance at Champsac as discussed last week. I can assure you, dear readers that France did not disappoint on the accordion front. Each song was accompanied by one of the bellowing blighters as well as a saxophone and a full band. They reminded me of a French version of the Worzels although if anything, slightly older. I would have thought they had a combined age of 340, maybe more. Weirdly, there were also three different drummers throughout the course of the evening. I’m not sure if that was a deliberate rotation policy or whether it was due to age related exhaustion.

The dancing began before the meal had started and interestingly, without the aid of any alcohol whatsoever which I’m afraid is a concept lost on me. To me alcohol and dancing are natural bed fellows though when I think it through, I might be alone in that as I can’t imagine the contestants on Strictly Come Dancing imbibing cheap cider before they hit the dance floor.

Some of the dancing was really quite sophisticated and some unrecognisable songs triggered some very specific unrecognisable dances - which was nice. However, no amount of alcohol would have encouraged me onto the dancefloor. I’m just not sure that the French or indeed our English friends would appreciate either of the two dances that make up my meagre repertoire. My first is the ‘Geography teacher trying to be groovy at the school disco dance” which involves swaying from side to side. The second is a less energetic version of the dance made famous by Bez from the Happy Mondays only without the maracas. Irrespective of the tempo, style or song – those are the two dances I deploy sometimes switching seamlessly from one to the other. Consequently, Mel penned me into the corner of the room in case one of my two dances slipped out.

Our table of twenty people consisted of several couples, four children and two adults who were driving and yet by the end of the evening there were approximately twenty empty wine bottles on the table. Every other table had perhaps 2 or 3 wine bottles and several empty bottles of water. I don’t know why this particularly surprised me. The differing attitudes of the French and the English towards alcohol are well documented but it was strange to see it so amply demonstrated and being personally responsible for such a significant part of the comparative difference.

It was a great night, in lovely company and we eventually got to bed about 1am, thereby ensuring Sunday morning was a write off. The weather which had been kind to us on Friday and Saturday turned into the same weather we had left in the UK. Squally showers and blustery winds put paid to our planned horse riding session though it should be noted that Roz and Neil still went.

Mel and I opted out on the basis of having inadequate attire which was certainly true though my hangover was an equally valid reason.  Instead we relaxed in front of the fire and made Sunday dinner, that French classic lasagne(!) and before we knew it we were back at Limoges Airport and back home on the sofa by 8pm.

All in all, a very successful experiment in weekend mini-breaking to France and one which we will now repeat several times a year if we can find the cheap flights.

Strong economic news from the eurozone show that France and Germany have now experienced two quarters of consecutive growth thereby emerging much quicker from the recession than the UK & Ireland. However, even here there is still a sense of optimism and it will not be long before it is confirmed that the UK is out of recession too.  

After the doom and gloom of the last two years I’m looking forward to relaxing the purse strings a little and pressing ahead with our France project. There is still a lot of work to be done, ideally we would like our barn conversion completed next year so that we can generate some revenue that will help to fund the rest of the development. At the moment it’s a very impressive, empty shell of a building that needs wiring, plumbing, fitting out and decorating.  We are planning to restart the work in the New Year finances permitting.

Our initial financial projections conducted in 2007 look like a work of fiction having been rendered obsolete by the global economic crisis and the associated fall in the value of the pound versus the euro.  However, we can only work with those factors that are in our control and hope that external factors take care of themselves so hopefully the evident optimism towards 2010 builds momentum and we can all look forward to less uncertainty and brighter days ahead.

I’ve been away for most of last week in Shannon spending time with a warm and appreciative customer who reminds me that my job can sometimes be enjoyable and fulfilling.  However, a consequence of being away is the unavoidable calorific intake associated with staying in Hotels and taking customers out to dinner.  I returned late on Thursday night feeling like a sumo wrestler on Boxing day, my body crying for low calorie mercy.

We drove up to Hartlepool on Friday night to visit Mel’s parents for the weekend. Pat is recovering well from her knee operation and we were both really looking forward to seeing her. The journey was surprisingly straightforward and we arrived to the most amazing smell of the North East’s favourite regional dish Panaculty.

In days gone by, Panaculty would be made on a Monday from the leftovers from Sundays roast. The whole thing is slow cooked for most of the day, traditionally giving the housewife plenty of time to complete her other womanly chores! Essentially, it comprises of Corned beef, stock, potatoes and onions. Each area or family have variations on the dish and Pat’s stunning version included Black Pudding, Steak, Liver, Carrots.  Thankfully Panaculty is on the whole a healthy dish as I had two portions followed by homemade apple pie. Perfect comfort food!

My weeks travelling and travailing had left me exhausted and I was in bed for 9pm sleeping for a full twelve hours which is almost unheard of for me. I repeated the same feat last night and have awoken this morning refreshed, re-energised and ready for another long week ahead.  We return this afternoon so I can pack for my next business trip.Three days in the south lie ahead of me however I can at least look forward to our mini-break in France next weekend.  

We have both missed France tremendously even though it is just six weeks since our last visit. I can already taste the Cider I made several weeks ago and even though it won’t be ready yet I may try a sneak preview. We are looking  forward to the village dance in Champsac with a mixture of mild excitement and a small amount of trepidation.  I love immersing myself in the culture and traditions of the Limousin though Neil tells me that there will more than likely be accordions accompanying our four course meal.

The accordion is an instrument that I reserve the same amount of fondness for as bagpipes – none. I understand that the French and Scottish historically held a strong relationship known as the ‘auld alliance’. In my mind, this must have consisted of hordes of French and Scottish people converging on England, playing bagpipes and accordions together at maximum volume to torture the English. It would certainly have made me surrender.

Still I’ll keep an open mind; with enough alcohol I could become a convert to a sound reminsicent of a small animal being tortured.

I don’t think I’m a fully fledged member of the Seasonal Adjustment Disorder society (SAD) but I do tend to get a bit melancholic at this time of year. The beautiful decay of autumn always makes me reflect on things that were and things were never meant to be. I realise this possibly sounds like pretentious psychobabble and it probably is but I remember feeling this way every year since……..well since I can remember really.

Setting off from and arriving home in complete darkness is not a recipe for happiness for me and I find myself longing for spring before we’ve even got to winter. This last week has been cold, damp and miserable and Mel and I found ourselves short of something to look forward to, especially given that our next trip to France is not planned until January. For the last two years, we’ve been over in Chalus for New Year but we have both used up our holiday allocations so that’s not an option this year. Mels birthday is in January and we plan to spend a week around our wood burning stove eating birthday cake and watching crap films.

January is so far away though and I hate thinking it will be another nine weeks until we see our house and our friends in France again. So………at Wednesday Roz’s suggestion, we have booked a weekend break in two weeks time. We have booked flights from East Midlands on the Friday evening, returning on the Sunday. Even allowing for the fact that we require a seat for the whole journey, might want to visit the loo whilst in the air and require oxygen for the whole flight, Ryanair are charging us just £10 each way per person. So for approximately £50 we will have 48 hours in the Limousin, which feels like a bargain from where I am sitting.

Roz and Neil have kindly offered to collect us from Limoges and have also mentioned some kind of dance on the Saturday night including live music and a four course meal in Champsac. As long as there is no legal requirement for me to dance this will suit us just fine. I will say right now that I will not be dancing as my moves on the dancefloor are even worse than my vocals on the karaoke which is an impressive feat in itself. That and the fact that Mel is a couple of inches taller than me, even without heels and you can see why I am keen to avoid looking like some kind of Mancunian Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley.

Next weekend we’re off to Hartlepool to see Mels parents and I’m really looking forward to seeing my Mum-in-law Pat after her recent knee operation.

I intend to give myself a kick up the arse this week and be back with a brighter perspective and perhaps a few Leishmanic tales next week.