This being a London journal, it may seem wrong that I’m writing this from France. Though judging from the voices heard in the street and the supermarche you could be forgiven for thinking that this is an extension of Barnes or Camden – middle class London sur Loire.
Of course we, the well connected ‘art class’, or ‘poor bourgeois’ are staying as guests at a little chateau. You know, belonging to the French version of the Sitwells: bi-langue, cultivated, impoverished aristocracy. Where you’d have rare patterned wall paper in Bloomsbury, you have regal printed fabrics stretched over the walls in the Touraine – ‘far more practical than that paper don’t you know, what with the movement of old houses cracking the plaster, paper and paint work,’ says Madame de la Chateau. I’ve a mind to try it myself on my return to Beaten Towers. I’ve had long discussion about the practicalities of this with Madame – grandmother to several perfect children. She’s between chemo treatments at the moment. So right now she’s darting about tending the plants on the estate, boring her bright blue eyes into anyone who’s interesting enough, and sporting country chic attire – crisp linen, blue jeans, white wig (of the cancer kind, not 18th century). I think it best I should bleed dry the font of knowledge before she’s too ill to talk. I’ve noticed with my father that he doesn’t want to engage, and I’m sure this is because of the treatment. For him it’s either the tour de France, Heartbeat, or Friends. He won’t talk, he must watch TV – I sympathise – who is more interesting than the telly?
Mr Beaten is the Fonz of the chateau. He’s doing it all. One grandson is desperate for revenge on the tennis court, whilst the other clamours for help in transcribing some fusion, and Pere de la maison is happy to discuss contemporary French music any time.
This leaves me at something of a loss. I’ve nothing to do! I can’t swim – too wet. I’ve done all my sewing, and please would someone take me to Petit Bateau for some faire du shopping before I go bloody mad? There’s only so much French rural bastard idyll I can take.
