"Have a wonderful holiday", they cry. "Lucky, lucky you, weeks and weeks in the sunshine with nothing to do". Little do they know.
It's bigger here and dustier too. There is grass to mow, weeds to weed, pots to water, back-breaking green beans and bolting rocket to pick, and people will keep coming to stay. Not only do they expect a clean bedroom, clean sheets and towels and to be fed fairly regularly, but they want to talk - at me, all the time.
They want to tell me all about their fascinating lives while I prepare lunch for twelve. They tell me how much their house is worth, and all about the local schools. Their children, who are either brilliant or have dyslexia, eat all the croissants at breakfast, never say please or thank you, and never carry as much as a spoon out to the kitchen.They ask how easy it is to transport "the doggies" back and forth to the UK (look at the DEFRA website, you twat). They ask me about Cognac and the local wine and think it funny that we drink rosé in the Summer. They ask how much the house is worth, and are bemused when we tell them we neither know nor care. They take a bottle of water from the fridge, drink a quarter of it and leave the rest under the bed for us to find a week later.
They also find it jolly nice to sit on a chair in the garden, while their hostess prepares yet another meal. Later, they might be jolly helpful and load a plate or two into the dishwasher. And it never dawns on them that we might have anything else to do.
They like to visit us because: a) it's on the way to lots of places; b) we have hot water; c) we can take them to "charming small Cognac producers" and "quirky local restaurants" and, most importantly, d) we speak French and can, therefore, smooth their path through tricky moments when they can't even summon up the courtesy to say bonjour.
I love coming here. I love this part of France. I love our house and garden. I love all our French neighbours. I even love most of our visitors. But please note: a holiday is a few days of relaxation without any responsibility, which is why, for me, THIS IS NOT A HOLIDAY.
Frankly, I can't wait to get back to Blighty for a rest.
MM
P.S. There are honourable exceptions to the above. They know who they are.
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7 comments:
Next year, complain loudly to everyone (except the honourable exceptions) that work / medical problems prevent you from your annual holiday. Whinge. Weep.
Then go anyway.
Oh, how the mother of my children -who, upon arriving at the house in France, will have hidden her father's microwave in an upstairs cupboard, before setting about welcoming the arrival of constant stream of friends - will be raising a glass of rose in sympathy with you.
MonkeyMother, this does indeed sound egregious!
Speaking of which, I've just spent the night - evening, morning - minding the 5-month-old baby of a friend of my oldest teenager, including sole overnight care! Plus making a chocolate cake in three parts (flourless sponge, chocolate mousse, whipped cream), a roast beef and roast vegetables, as said teenager is about to turn 18. I'm just sitting here for a sec; I'm about to get cups of tea for the teenagers to wake them up, and for my elderly aunt who has fallen aspeel on the sofa, and make up the baby's bottle, so they can all come and eat all the food I've cooked.
I'm on my way. Have the rosé chilled, will you?
(Naturally I meant "asleep." I don;t know what "aspeel" is.)
O, I know exactly what you mean!
A certain visitor to our home, decided it was ok to raid my fridge each morning for a picnic, to save their family money on food for their days out! While I, recovering from major surgery, was trolling off to the shops (a 34 mile round trip) to re-stock said fridge, daily. Grrr!
Yes yes yes. I sympathise muchly.
Living in France myself, the constant stream of visitors in the summer leaves me exhausted and broke.
They forget that I work full-time as they sit up late, laughing loudly on my balcony as they drink my rose.
Ha! That's why you should do as I do and live somewhere no one in their right mind wants to visit. Of course it means a fair amount of general unhappiness and all of that what with loathing everything outside my door and all... maybe I need to rethink this brilliant plan.
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