Monday, 2 June 2014

Rent asunder

There are things you know exist but seldom address outside of polling stations. One of these is acknowledging how other people live. OK, here's the boring little backstory: Mrs. F and I have finally sold our bigger flat and have bought a house in another good part of town. While waiting for the electricity to be updated and a new kitchen installed we've called on the services of the much-maligned Airbnb (God bless 'em) and are currently living in a little house with a garden until the work in the new place is finished. So far, so tedious, yes, I know etc etc. Anyhow, our little garden has meant that we've finally been able to play host to our friends (who, to their credit, accept no money to be described as such), so we've been having little Frenchy-style apéro-dinatoires, meaning late-afternoon get-togethers over fine wines, olives, jabugo ham and salchichon, cheeses and crème caramel etc. And still the country has zero growth, I know, I know…Nonetheless, you live in France so your walk the walk, right?

Yesterday, we invited some people over. While I was at work in the afternoon, a friend of the neighbour came to my wife brandishing a Yorkshire Terrier, gesticulating that we needed to take immediate care of him and not let him escape (the friend, like the dog, spoke no French. Or English. Or Spanish. Just Portuguese). A couple of days before, the dog had gone off in search of its mistress and ended up about four miles away. The vet located it thanks to the microchip he'd inserted in some part of its anatomy. So the dog had previous and no-one wanted to take any more chances. Mrs. F looked rather bemused until she saw our neighbour wearing an oxygen mask being carried out of their little house by the paramedics. The friend shook a bottle of bleach in my wife's face before running off to join her friend, who was, by now, being shovelled into the back of an ambulance.

When I got back from work at about 4pm I found a Yorkshire Terrier in the kitchen who immediately tried to mount my leg. Upstairs, apparently, was a cat. I'll add, at this point, that the only animals we own are three goldfish, but another neighbour's cat has, thanks to the continued attention of the Fingernails since we arrived here a month ago, now spends 95% of its waking (and non-waking) hours in our house. It's maybe the time to mention that the recent canine addition was also on heat and was dripping around the kitchen and - oh, joy - our adjoining bedroom. Mrs. F was, in the meantime, trying to cook for fifteen people without letting the dog out of the house while fending off its misguided amorous advances.

The guests started arriving and we hooked the dog up to the back wheel of one the bikes with a key necklace. A good time was had by all, the various invited children making one hell of a fuss of Yorkie until the two friends of the bleach-drinking neighbour finally returned a couple of hours later. They neither smiled nor said 'Thank you for looking after our friend's dog, even though it was incredibly inconvenient for you to do so', just picked him up and went into their house. The boyfriend of the hospitalised girl returned later, also saying nothing. Strange.

Mrs. F saw one of the friends this afternoon. Yes, the girl was still in hospital. Yes, she was taking pills. Yes, she washed them down with bleach on purpose. Basically, she tried to commit suicide. Apparently, she failed. This time.

I'm looking forward to moving into our new house.




No comments: