Читать книгу Our House is Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 21

There were many times when I felt conscious that I was playing to perfection the role of a mad foreign woman tackling a massive renovation in a foreign county. Marie-France had given me a pair of traditional blue work overalls made of a strange light material and with a zip up the front. I knew they were ripped and becoming more so every day. Yet, without a mirror in our petite maison, I couldn’t fully see nor fully realise the state they were in until I saw the photos when I got home. Let’s just say I was mortified when I saw how terribly torn they were in completely unacceptable places. I was also not at all happy with Stuart for allowing me to dash out of the house to meet roofers and other artisans when they came to give us quotes. No wonder their eyes nearly dropped out of their heads.

Most mornings I was up before Stuart and, after my petit déjeuner of muesli and fresh strawberries from the markets, I would dash around le jardin with a pair of secateurs, trying to tackle anything in sight that I could possible manage by myself. I was very conscious that anyone watching would observe a truly demented person, randomly running around, pulling ivy off the barn wall one minute, the next tackling the ivy engulfing the silver birch, the next deadheading the roses. I knew what I was doing but couldn’t seem to stop myself. I just wanted to make every single minute count and get as much done as possible in our limited, precious time. As soon as Stuart woke up I would dash back inside, make him a cup of tea and then tackle my next job in the little house. However, even the simple act of getting breakfast was challenging: our only surface, the table, was cluttered with packets of food, paperwork, tape measure, tools, notebook camera, pens, our two bowls, two mugs and some cutlery. One of our first purchases was a filter coffee machine, the type found in most French homes, as neither of us can function in the morning without our two cups of café. This was placed precariously next to the small kitchen sink. We were grateful to at least have a sink and basic bathroom. When you have to, it’s amazing how you can get by without all the things you take for granted at home and how you can manage to juggle everything. I got it down to a fine art of having the water in the machine and the café in the filter ready to switch on as soon as I got up, and the two bowls we owned and the two spoons lined up ready for petit déjeuner. Time, time, time … there simply was never enough of it.

As for where I found the reserves of energy for sixteen-hour days, I simply don’t know, considering at home I’m often in bed by 8.30. Every single day I was fuelled by a burning desire to get as much done as possible. And as for the lists, well, our days were devoured by endless lists.