Saturday, November 1, 2014

Fancy a Vibrator ...

So I was flicking idly - as one will - through Ars Technica the other night and came across this article on how the sex of ferns is determined. Oddly enough it's very democratic, the plants vote by emitting a chemical signal - a "hormone called gibberellin" - which will, depending on the concentration, cause male or female development. I am not a biologist: it's all gibberish to me, I'm afraid.

Winter is icumen in these here furrin parts, and so the chaudière - the central heating boiler, to those of you who are, being blessed with a climate where such things are unnecessary, unfamiliar with the term - decided to have a hissy-fit, and stopped working. Which is a bit of a bitch, for it is she which supplies the top floor in hot water, and I was actually rather enjoying having a shower up there. (It also, being a central heating system, is supposed to heat the place as and when necessary. That would be good.)

Especially as the shower on the first floor is kind of - idiosyncratic, shall we say - and can go from boiling-hot to tinkling ice cubes just by turning the handle by a millimetre in any of its two degrees of freedom. I will be glad when it's gone.

Whatever, we have had a series of people through to take a look at her. First André, then young M. Jullien the chauffagiste turned up the other night but had to confess himself baffled, and this moaning Robert and Réné appeared, to the great displeasure of M. le Maire, who was waxing apoplectic in the middle of the square because they double-parked - with the engine still running - alongside his car for a couple of minutes whilst they checked the address.

So Réné came striding up the steps fulminating "Mais bordel, c'est qui ce petit con?" "Je vous rappelle que je suis le maire et je mérite un peu de respect ..." - I fear that we may not hear the end of this for some time.

He went upstairs to beat the recalcitrant beast with a spanner whilst Robert and I smoked outside: the general consensus appears to be that the pump in the garage that pokes the fuel up eight metres to the boiler in the top floor has failed. Although replacing it will cost an arm and a leg I'd still rather that it does in fact turn out to be that, for the alternative is that there's a teeny leak in the pipe letting air in and if that should turn out to be the case then Cédric will just have to rip out some of the gib-board he's just put up so we have access, and that will not please anyone.

Margo's friend and our occasional dog-sitter Mimi had some shopping to do, so we headed off to Spain. Down to Perpignan, stay on the autoroute for Barcelona, and get off at the second exit for La Jonquera. Which is, like a lot of border towns I guess, an enormous strip mall.

Did you know, incidentally, that on returning to France from Spain you may, if you are in a car, have a total of 2kg of tobacco, 90 litres of wine - which would make a bloody enormous raffia-wrapped bottle - and no more than 30 litres of spirits? Pitiful, a mere week's-worth. The allowance is much more generous if you're on a bus, do take note.

I like a bargain as much as the next man, but I was not willing to buy a shrink-wrapped package of 20 Spanish cigars for the admittedly bargain price of 8€: OK, I smoke, it's not good for me but still I have my pride and smoking donkey dung that is actively trying to rip my lungs out is not for me. But I did pick up a couple of bottles of Tanqueray - the first true decadence in decades - and some proper Martini sec, which you can't find for love nor money in France. Noilly Prat just doesn't cut it, I'm afraid.

This is a good thing, as our lemon tree has five lemons on it, all of them rather bigger than walnuts which makes a nice change, which means I shall soon be able to have at least five dry martinis, each with a slice of lemon. And I may even have some left over to make some sort of dessert!

Who knows, maybe I shall be able to make goat's cheese and lemon soufflés this time without having half of them wind up on the floor, that would be rather nice. And certainly less messy.
Mimi has her comfort zone so we went a few km further south and wound up at le Mirador, just above the sex supermarket (which I suspect is there to cater for the French market), promising an all-you-can-stuff-in-your-face buffet for 16€.

(By the way, I cannot see how it is that Apple has not sued them for "look and feel", or something. Just saying.)

But we went into le Mirador instead, although I do now know where to get dubiously humouristic birthday presents. (If anyone wants a fetching number in black latex, drop me a line with the measurements and I'll see what I can do.)

Drinks are included, so along with the usual culprits of Coke, fruit juice and whatever, you have red, white and rosé on tap. Just grab a plastic jug, fill it up, add ice cubes to taste and bring it back to the table. Rinse, and repeat as many times as you feel necessary. Sadly, I was driving.

For canteen food it wasn't actually that bad, and my eyes being bigger than my stomach I couldn't actually finish everything that I'd heaped onto my plate. Apart from the desserts, all of which involved chocolate and are thus, as Frog-persons say, incontournable.

It's not a place I'd go to for touristy reasons: given that most of the cars around the place had French plates from 11 (that's us, the Aude) or 66 (Perpignan) I guess a lot of people feel the same way, and just head down once a month to do some cheap shopping, and stock up on duty-free pastis. And maybe batteries, for the marital aids.

On the way back, if you don't take the autoroute, you're more or less obliged to go through Perthus, which is so much on the frontier that the eastern side of the main street is Spanish and the western side French. God alone knows how they elect the city council, let alone a mayor, without some major diplomatic incident. Or maybe Paris and Madrid actually learnt a lesson from the Hundred Year's War and just let them get on with it without too much interference, so long as there's not too much naked dancing in the streets.

If you're looking for a bargain there are really cheap leather jackets on sale, which are probably worth just what you pay for them, but I think the best deal to be found is on Rolex watches. You can pick one up from any vendor every three metres or so, and they're guaranteed original and everything! What could go wrong?

Sadly, Margo convinced me that a Rolex would be vulgar so I rather churlishly declined their blandishments - also I had better things to do, such as replying to some of those nice Wells Fargo bank directors with aol email addresses who are offering me zillions.

For those that care, most of the photos come from Minerve. This is a small town, set above a spectacular canyon carved in the limestone by the river Brian (no, I am not joking, that's its name) and is classed amongst les plus beaux villages de France. I don't know about that, it appears to be a pretty indiscriminate accolade. Given some of the villages that get stuck with it. But it is pretty, and you can't walk more than ten metres, even out of the tourist season, without tripping over a shop selling impractical lumpenpottery or amusing cast-iron ornaments.
On the brighter side, the viaduct would be absolutely ideal in the dead of night for disposing of surplus-to-requirements corpses, should you happen to have any to hand, and there is a municipal mangonel, which could make the job rather more fun that is usually the case. A few ranging shots may be required, to avoid unnecessary distress to the riverains, so I would recommend having a few extras about.
Just saying.

1 comment:

  1. Well you obviously need to come down and help me get through our supply of lemons (dozens!), as I seem to be the only one here who will drink a bloody gin and tonic.

    ReplyDelete