13th March 2016

Frank Sinatra sang It's so nice to go travelling. Judy Garland sang Over the rainbow....
When I wrote Pensioners in Paradis I told of the joys of moving to France. Oh the sunshine, le bien manger and la qualite de la lumiere. And it was all those things and more. But, 11 years later I'm older and wiser.  In all that time it's been like a wonderful, extended holiday, enjoying all the material things of life.  But, what of the immaterial, the spiritual, the inner contentment, the feeling of home? Gradually, petit a petit, I've felt a growing feeling of loneliness, and a strong feeling that people were visiting for the place rather than to see us. We've met some nice French people over the years but somehow there's been a lack. We've been living in a tiny, English bubble in the middle of a foreign land. But once recognised, how on earth to correct it? UK property prices were all against us, Bruno's still (at 13) fighting fit and certainly couldn't live in a flat. Well, at last I've found somewhere where bungalow prices are low and, a stroke of luck, if we sell our house and large back garden separately - the land price here in Gaillac is much sought after - it's just enough. So, yes we're on the market. Watch this space as the saga unfolds.
.........but it's so much nicer to go home.

30 August 2015

So much trouble in the world, yet programmes like X-factor return. The usual screaming voices singing songs without melody.  Where was the exquisite Sinatra phrasing, the Fitzgerald soul, the charisma?  I listened in vain. In the '50s my mother would drag me to distant cinemas showing Al Jolson in the Jolson Story. Electricity crackled when he sang.  A few evenings ago we went to the Abbeye in Gaillac. Our friend, professional singer Martin St. Martin, gave a 'Sous les Etoiles du Tarn' concert organised by Entente Cordiale in support of cancer research. The setting was lovely, high above the tinkling waters of the Tarn. A full moon gave a rosy glow to the ancient pink brick buildings, but it was the music that enthralled.  Martin even dedicated one song to me, the one that turns my knees to jelly:  '...wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you....'  Now there's a melody. Even Him indoors liked it, and he's difficult to please. And then Piaf's La Vie en Rose. Wonderful. A message for Mr. Cowell:  stop pandering to youth's foolish notion of stardom. Find the next Jolson/Sinatra/Presley/Piaf. Now that's what a lot of us want to hear.