July 19, 2009
French Life
It’s that time of year again when a myriad of magazines appear on the joys of living in France appear in our house. And it really does appear to be a saturated market. Living in France, French Life, France, French Property News. You certainly have plenty to read over your croissants and coffee on a Sunday morning.
And it certainly appears to be a wondrous opportunity. Why is it that moving house in this country – or getting the builders in can be relied on to be a relentlessly ghastly experience, far more painful than having your wisdom teeth extracted without anaesthetic – but moving abroad is a joy?
Call me a cynic but I would quite enjoy reading about people’s misery being stuck in a rural idyll, miles from civilisation when the lights went out. Or some ex-pat crisis like the Sky television dish went on the blink so you couldn’t keep up with Neighbours any more.
And the French idyll doesn’t stop with overly gushing hyperbole about every village town and region that France has to offer. There are adverts for every conceivable service – including I was rather pleased to see, Hum-Busters, who will be delighted to help you overcome that overpowering stink of je ne sais quoi emanating from the septic tank.
Turning your Gallic dream into nightmare reality seems to be remarkably easy. It doesn’t matter where you end up – everything everywhere is wonderful. If you ever wondered what happened to those useless estate agents that disappeared from your high street then fear not. They appear to be alive and well and ripping people off in France.
Even the banks are in on the act. You get far more than a cash dispenser when you join some of the French banks. They offer mortgages, insurance, telephone and internet services and can even exchange your money in something called a café. All in English, on-line.
The funny thing is I have fallen for all this baloney hook, line and sinker. Once again this month I am off to France to sit by the pool, get pissed on excellent local wine and get fat on tasty local produce.
The reality is that the local boulangerie and bar will be closed; every house for miles around will be full of Brits and other holiday makers. The books I find in the rented house will be rubbish; the 5 minute walk to the local shop will be a twenty minute drive. And yes, the septic tank will indeed stink. But who cares – it’s better than working.
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