Land of extremes (of hot and cold)
Every so often, hubski reveals his French side to me, built up over 15 years of overhearing people in restaurants whingeing at length about the shade of their tights or the noise of the air-conditioner. Which reminds me, of course, what a very good move it was to bundle him out of there before he started buying French pop-music in a non-ironic way, or two lambswool jumpers at once (one for wearing, one for shoulder-draping and believing oneself the apogée of BCBG chic). Or voting for Le Pen.
He's on the phone from Germany, where, in his cute, newly-naturalised French way, he's being sorely tested by the German penchant for making up rules and then sticking to them ('Hitler had an easy job with this lot'). The conversation moves to our new house. He wants to know where the water meter is (does he expect me to know that?). By the way, he asks, all casual-like, does the bath have one tap or two? I say, two, I think. One for hot, and one for cold.
Hubski switches to English for dramatic effect. It's to let me know that he is displeased and I should prepare for a telling off. 'Oh no, Francesca. (weighty pause) That is bad. Veery, veery bad.' I can feel that I'm expected to apologise. But what for? Why should I be blamed for my country's indifference to mixer taps? That I come from the land of freezing right buttocks and scalded left buttocks? I refuse to take responsibilty. Noone consulted me. Blame Mr Amitage Shanks.
Our new house, although I love it, has rotten window panes, no central heating and no room in the kitchen for a dishwasher. But he doesn't care about that, oh no. We didn't move early enough. And now I have to live with the fact that my husband is too French to stir the bath water with his bare hands.
He's on the phone from Germany, where, in his cute, newly-naturalised French way, he's being sorely tested by the German penchant for making up rules and then sticking to them ('Hitler had an easy job with this lot'). The conversation moves to our new house. He wants to know where the water meter is (does he expect me to know that?). By the way, he asks, all casual-like, does the bath have one tap or two? I say, two, I think. One for hot, and one for cold.
Hubski switches to English for dramatic effect. It's to let me know that he is displeased and I should prepare for a telling off. 'Oh no, Francesca. (weighty pause) That is bad. Veery, veery bad.' I can feel that I'm expected to apologise. But what for? Why should I be blamed for my country's indifference to mixer taps? That I come from the land of freezing right buttocks and scalded left buttocks? I refuse to take responsibilty. Noone consulted me. Blame Mr Amitage Shanks.
Our new house, although I love it, has rotten window panes, no central heating and no room in the kitchen for a dishwasher. But he doesn't care about that, oh no. We didn't move early enough. And now I have to live with the fact that my husband is too French to stir the bath water with his bare hands.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 3:09 PM
4 Comments:
Yeaah....I remember now...Back in France "we" (I mean me myself) had ONE tap with TWO handles for mixing water...No big deal however...The real problem is that in our bathroom the "trendy" clover-shaped Victorian styled tap makes me think that it was soo good in 1890. And no big change is on the way: they still sell the stuff at B&Q. I will have to install two Bauhaus style taps, when I am proficient enough in plumbing..
So are you going to change the taps? I think the dishwasher problem is far more pressing. What are you going to do?
I have solved the mixer tap problem quite brilliantly by buying one of those plastic shower attachments that fix onto the taps (the kind that our grannies used to have). A fiver from Sainsburies.
Until I get a six figure publishing deal or the government nominate me as their 'intercultural relationship tsar(ina)' that is going to have to do.
I can cope with no central heating, but no dishwasher....? Nooooooooo...
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