It’s getting nearer to the first day of my French adventure. Every room in the house is littered with cartons, tape and squidgy bubble wrap that I spend hours squashing, row by row with obsessive neatness. Here I sit like Dido in the ruins of Carthage amidst this devastation and wonder what the hell I’m doing, where I’m going and where I’ll end up. Well actually I know the answer to that – a tasty lump of worm food…but hopefully not for a good while yet.
These last preparations are all about decisions, what ifs, why not try…and any variation thereof.
There’s a period of limbo to deal with whilst I’m between houses and waiting for the money to transfer. Where do I go? Hotel? Friend’s sofa? Back seat of the car?
Do I take my car with me? Sell it here? buy a LH drive here or in France -where used cars are expensive?
How can I open a French bank account as soon as I get there when I won’t have any utility bills to brandish?
What if I…It goes on…and on.
There are so many decisions, choices, options and what-have-you that when I try to draw little coloured decision trees I end up with a London Underground map gone haywire.
Add to all that the realisation that what is known and familiar as a holiday destination suddenly becomes rather weird and foreign with bureaucratic dictats in a language so unlike the friendly “Salut, bonjour Toto, ça va?” of camping holidays. For a while at least I’ll be a “Stranger in a Strange Land” (thank you Mr Heinlein).
It’s only pre-emigration nerves I know that. As someone once said “it’ll be alright on the night” although whether it was stage or wedding-night fright I have no idea. Does anyone suffer from wedding-night fright these days I wonder? How deliciously old-fashioned.
But all this palaver reminds me of the writing process (as I know it). All these ideas jostling for space in your head; characters half-forming and then disappearing without as much as a by-your-leave; plots that could go this-a-way or that-a way and, in my case, no-a-way and the minute you try to write anything down the ability to put pen to paper or digits to keyboard becomes unaccountably difficult, nay impossible until at the very least you’ve cleaned the car, re-decorated the house, ironed everything that could be pinned down and scorched and circumnavigated the globe twice. Displacement activity? What displacement activity?
However, to be serious a mo – you’re not getting rid of me. I’ll still be blogging here and will dazzle you with tales of the conquest of France – Sheila’s revenge for 1066 and a certain Duc de Normandie.
Now please excuse me. I have an article to write but I dropped a whole bag of birdseed on the drive this morning and I have to go and pick it all up, grain by grain…with chopsticks.
Yes, the more you think the worse it gets. You didn’t mention if there’s a good chippy nearby. You see how the most important things can get pushed back.
How many seeds do you have to pick up? Why don’t you have a competition to market ‘Time For Your Life’? Whoever can guess the number of seeds wins the book! Of course, they have to get the exact number – that way you’ll gets lots of publicity but won’t have to give a book away. 🙂
Good luck with it all. When does it happen?
Not a good chippy but a wine depot just down the street so I need a large demi-john type thingy to carry down there and get filled up. There are 2kilo worth of seeds so about a million zillion. Good idea tho’. I think I’ll be away 2-3 week in Feb depending on how I resolve some of these last issues. Come and visit.
Thank you for the invite. I may be the visitor from hell. . .
Don’t worry. I’ve got a good cellar and a disused well 🙂