The Other Side of Paris

Once upon a time there was a plumber who didn’t believe in call-out charges and sometimes, if the job was simple, didn’t charge at all.

A fairy tale, right?

Wrong. Our plumber for the past 15 years is just such a man. He also runs a building firm and we have used his services exclusively: our new roof, bathroom and two toilets are thanks to him; and our water boiler has been repaired several times by him; once for no charge.

He isn’t the cheapest plumber in town but he is thorough and reliable; if he says a job will be done by such and such date then it will be. The replacing of our tiled roof was a massive undertaking but Monsieur Plombier orchestrated the whole affair with the least disruption to us.

Obviously, we have spent a lot of money with him over the years but it is the small kindnesses that one remembers.

Once, water was running down the wall into our hallway above which is the bathroom. Disaster! He came over soonest and quickly assessed the situation. We were thinking major repairs; he told us otherwise. Our sealant around the bath was old and had been gradually letting in water that had pooled under the bath and eventually gravity had shifted it down into our hallway.

He said that he could do the job and it would be time consuming and quite costly but suggested I could do it quite adequately: he told me to scrape out the old sealant and refill with a brand he recommended. I did and it never leaked again. Cost: nothing. He wouldn’t accept a euro.

And so to yesterday evening. Our downstairs lavatory – installed a couple of years ago by Monsieur Plombier’s men – was overflowing a steady stream of water into the bowl and making a racket while it did so. I could fix the old ball cock lavatory – take off lid, prod around a bit, bash something for luck and hey presto! – but we now have a new-fangled loo, which is not so easily accessed. I took the plate off the wall to look inside but was met with a complicated grill that needed screwing off and I didn’t recognize the parts within. So, no go.

This was at the beginning of the month and everyone, including Monsieur Plombier, was on holiday.

But yesterday he was back and immediately came over to sort out our troubled thunderbox; the seat was also wobbly although that was the least of my concerns. Monsieur Plombier got to work and discovered the fault – some bit of plastic like a washer had worn out or eroded. But the washer came with another plastic thingy. Zut! But not to worry – he went off to his van and came back with a replacement part. Ten minutes later lavatory was back in full working order.

I then mentioned the seat. I couldn’t for the life of me correct it. And the reason, he told me, was because I needed an Allen key for it. He said the fitters of the new toilet would have left one with me. I assured him they hadn’t – his workmen, of course.

Not to worry – off he trotted to his van and got a set of Allen keys and fixed the wobbly seat.

Phew, I’m glad that’s done. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Plombier, and how much is that? Can I give you a cheque?

You know what’s coming next but it still surprised me. He refused any money. He mentioned that the toilet was only installed a year ago (some sort of guarantee?), but I told him he had installed the toilet two years or so ago.

Au revoir, Monsieur Dumdad, we shook hands and off he went.

Fairy tales do come true sometimes.

Lord's cricket ground.

There’s a breathless hush in the Close tonight -
Ten to make and the match to win -
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play, and the last man in.
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat.
Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,
But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote -
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!”

Sir Henry Newbolt, English poet (1862 – 1938), opening lines from “Vitae Lampada”.

This summer has seen the English cricket team taste sensational success.

We whitewashed India, 4-0, in the Test series that ended last week. India were world ranked No. 1 and we prised that honour off them as well.

I didn’t see a ball bowled or a run hit as the Frogs don’t televise French cricket, let alone Test cricket. But I listened avidly to Test Match Special which airs on BBC Radio 4 longwave. Bliss to the ears, thanks to the golden tones of Blowers, Aggers, CMJ, Tuffers, Boycs and the rest of the motley crew.

*** The late Brian Johnston, a TMS cricket commentator, said on radio: “Bowler’s Holding, batsman’s Willey.” (Michael Holding of the West Indies was bowling to Peter Willey of England in a Test match at The Oval in 1976).

And I shan’t record here the heroic exploits of individual cricketers who shone on the field with bat and ball (Arise Sir Stuart Broad!) because if you’re interested in all this then you’ll already know what happened and if you don’t then cricket is not in your blood and you probably find the whole thing tiresome.

*** The American actor Robin Wiilliams reflected: “Cricket is basically baseball on Valium.”

Here are a few more choice quotes and quips from the wonderful world of cricket:

*** It’s a funny kind of month, October. For the really keen cricket fan, it’s when you realize that your wife left you in May. – Denis Norden, TV writer and presenter.

*** “Sometimes people think it’s like Polo, played on horseback, and I remember one guy thought it was a game involving insects” – Clayton Lambert on explaining cricket to Americans.

*** Of course it’s dull! That’s the whole point. To go to cricket to be thrilled is as stupid as to go to a Chekhov play in search of melodrama. – The late Robert Morley, actor.

*** Cricket is indescribable. How do you describe an orgasm? – Greg Matthews, former Australian cricketer.

*** Stuff that stiff upper lip crap. Let’s see how stiff it is when it’s split. – Jeff Thompson, former Australian fast bowler talking about the England team.

*** So how’s your wife and my kids? – Rod Marsh, former Australian wicketkeeper, to Ian Botham, former English player, during a match.

WARNING: The following quotes are for cricketing buffs. The names will be known to them but probably not to non-cricket fans.

*** “Yorkshire were 232 all out, Hutton ill. No, I’m sorry, Hutton 111″ – John Snagge.

*** “There’s only one head bigger than Tony Greig’s – and that’s Birkenhead” – Fred Trueman.

*** “I know why Boycott’s bought a house by the sea – so he’ll be able to go for a walk on the water.” – Fred Trueman.

*** “The first time you face up to a googly you’re going to be in trouble if you’ve never faced one before.” – Trevor Bailey

*** “Flintoff starts in, his shadow beside him. Where else would it be?” – Henry Blofeld

*** “I don’t ask my wife to face Michael Holding, so there’s no reason why I should be changing nappies.” – Ian Botham.

*** “If I’d done a quarter of the things of which I’m accused, I’d be pickled in alcohol, I’d be a registered drug addict and would have sired half the children in the world’s cricket-playing countries.” – Ian Botham.

*** “I reckon my mum could have caught that in her pinny!” – Geoffrey Boycott on a dropped catch.

*** “I feel so bad about mine now I’m going to tie it around the cat.” – Geoffrey Boycott, dismayed at the award of an MBE to Paul Collingwood for scoring 17 runs in the 2005 Ashes series.

*** “In my day 58 beers between London and Sydney would have virtually classified you as a teetotaller.” – Ian Chappell, after batsman David Boon drank 58 cans of beer on the flight from Australia to England.

*** “Who could forget Malcolm Devon?” – Ted Dexter, completely forgetting Devon Malcolm.

*** “Lady, if I were built in proportion I’d be eight foot ten!” – Joel Garner.

*** “It’s hard work making batting look effortless.” – David Gower.

*** “In the back of Hughes’ mind must be the thought that he will dance down the piss and mitch one.” – Tony Greig.

*** “If he’s not talking about the flipper it’s the zooter, the slider, or the wrong’un. He’ll shortly start working on a ball that loops the loop, disappears down his trouser leg, and whistles ‘Waltzing Matilda’ before rattling into the stumps.” – Martin Johnson on Shane Warne.

*** “What do I think of the reverse sweep? It’s like Manchester United getting a penalty and Bryan Robson taking it with his head.” – David Lloyd.

*** “And we don’t need a calculator to tell us that the required run-rate is 4.5454 per over.” – Christopher Martin-Jenkins.

*** “The blackcurrant jam tastes of fish to me.” – Derek Randall, tasting caviar for the first time.

*** “The third umpires should be changed as often as nappies . . . and for the same reason.” – Navjot Sidhu.

*** (Greg Thomas beats Viv Richards on the outside edge a couple of times).

Greg Thomas – “It’s red, round and weighs about five ounces if you’re wondering.”

(Richards hits him for six, out of the ground and into a river the very next ball).

Viv Richards – “Greg, you know what it looks like. Now go and find it.”

Whitstable harbour.

Times are hard economically and so this year, after spending a mini fortune on our silver wedding celebration fling in May, we decided that we would have to skip our usual summer holiday in England.

That is until our great friends the Swivvies, who live in Canterbury, invited us over for a long weekend. Hmmm, but travel is expensive and we discovered the Eurostar was beyond the realms of our finances.

But the Frog Queen is resourceful as she is beautiful (she reads this blog, I’m no mug when it comes to gathering brownie points) scoured the web and secured a great deal on the Calais-Dover car ferry: car and four people return for a mere 85 euros (or $120.6, or £74.6, or 119.8 Canadian dollars, or 118.3 Australian dollars, or 818 Botswana Pula, or 873.8 South African Rand, or 792.2 Swedish krona, or 5 Dumdad doubloons).

So last Friday we set off for the long drive from Paris to Calais. Actually, there were only three on board as Brainbox decided to stay at home and keep the cat company. Her Royal Frogness, Princess Perfect and I were Blighty bound.

Despite pouring rain for most of the way, the drive went so well that we were very early for our ferry. We asked politely if we could go on the earlier car ferry and we were granted our wish. An hour and a half later we were rolling off in Dover.

I made sure I was driving on the right side of the road, which means being on the left in the UK. The French drive on the right side of the road, which is, of course, wrong. But I’m used to both ways although driving my French car in England means I’m always pavement side.

We swiftly entered the city of Canterbury and arrived chez our chums mid afternoon.

What followed was a weekend of much merriment, good food and wine, and a lovely time of relaxation. On Saturday night we had an Indian takeaway which was divine and reminded me how far behind Indian cuisine is in France; Sunday night we had a barbecue of jerk chicken, garlic sausages and corn on the cob among other things.

My wife and daughter also shopped until they dropped. I didn’t go with them as they were haunting girly shops. I pottered around charity shops looking for books. I also discovered Poundland (“all items a pound each!”) and bought four tins of Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie for £4. Result!

On Sunday morning we drove to Whitstable to take in the sea air. We walked along the coast past brightly coloured beach huts until we reached the harbour and town which is throbbing with activity. Many moons ago I was a reporter on The Whitstable Times; in those days the town was a drab, dead man’s gulch sort of place with a High Street of faded shop fronts and boarded up windows.

Whitstable coastline and some of its beach huts.

Today Whitstable is unrecognisable from those dreary days: the streets are crammed with shops and cafés and restaurants. The harbour is colourful and busy.

The weather wasn’t too kind to us and we had to take shelter by a beach hut as the rain lashed down. But eventually the sun came out again and we went to the town for a browse and a coffee.

My daughter and I also indulged in a 99 ice cream each. And we also tucked into some sea-fresh cockles. Heaven by the seaside.

But suddenly the weekend was over and Monday morning we were heading to Dover for the ferry. Once again, we got an earlier ferry than the one booked and we sped back to Paris in good time.

And the house was still in one piece and my son fed himself and the cat and all was well with the world.

Ah, Canterbury me manque.

FISHY BUSINESS

I forgot to mention when I first posted this that the Frog Queen and Princess indulged themselves by having a fish pedicure in a shop called Feet Bliss. For £15 each, they allowed Garra rufa fish to nibble their feet. Apparently, the experience was enjoyable for all involved.

In August, as any fule kno, Paris shuts up shop and heads for the beaches and the countryside.

I like this is as I always stay in Paris during August, which means I can park for free anywhere (traffic wardens go on holiday too) and there are far fewer people around to bump into.

The downside is that many shops and restaurants also close for the month just as tourists teem into the city wanting to spend money.

It doesn’t make financial sense but then that’s the French for you.

The other day I cycled round the neighbourhood in search of a baguette. All the usual suspects were closed.

I eventually found TWO boulangeries, almost next door to each other, open. Of course, that’s almost sublime in its Frenchness.

But, putting aside these minor inconveniences, I like the idea of a city having a vacation. Or is it I enjoy having fewer French people around? Go figure.

The world’s greatest bicycle race swept through Paris yesterday and finished on the Champs-Elysées after three gruelling weeks. But just before the end the Tour de France also went within yards of my house. All very exciting.

The race was due to pass by the top of my road at about 3.30pm but two hours before that the caravan of sponsors precedes the main event. Traditionally, the sponsors’ vans and cars and trucks chuck gifts to the crowds lining the streets and we weren’t disappointed. My wife, my daughter and I (my son wasn’t interested) waited on the pavement along with hundreds of others for the long line of vehicles to stream by.

Thanks to my cricket training I was able to catch a reasonable haul. My loot comprised of two caps, a Banette clacker, a police fridge magnet, a bag of Haribo sweets, a bag of tiny saucissons, a Festina balloon thing and an Alcatel key holder. My daughter has already eaten the sweets.

Tour de France goodies.

We then went home for a coffee and returned later for the main event. The majestic and colourful peleton hove into view and in a few seconds whooshed past us. I managed to get one half-decent photo of the front of the pack that included the yellow jersey winner, Cadel Evans, and a glimpse of Britain’s green jersey winner Mark Cavendish.

The Tour de France passes by the top of our road. The winner Cadel Evans in yellow jersey was at the front of the pack with his team.

We had to wait for about 10 minutes before we could cross the road to go home as the phalanx of cars and vans and motorbikes behind the peleton steamed through. All very impressive.

Then suddenly all was quiet and the crowds melted away. We returned home to watch the end of the tour on television.