A week in France can be very good for the heart and very bad for the arteries.
What’s bad for both is attempting moving house.
Back from hols in the good Gallic countryside, in a friendly corner of extended Normandy called the Mayenne, I am facing a new week that I always knew could be a bit of a mardy / merdey one. For, in principle, this is the week we move house.
In principle, it will be the first time that Momo has ever been unplugged and relocated. In principle therefore, it is the week I say goodbye to the blessed Arnewood Studio.
Ripping the needle from the swelling Elgar as heartfelt reflections rise on this matter, I am instead facing the tiny and desperately boring matter of whether I should or should not book people to help us stand an earthly chance of moving our entire worldly life to a new space on Friday.
And still we don’t know if we can exchange.
Oh dear Lord how can something so dull be so freeeeeaking teeth-grinding?
Never mind a week of smelly Camembert and two bottles of fab French blonk a night, my heart’s more likely to arrest trying to stay chilled about HOW BLOODY LONG ALL THIS IS TAKING WITHOUT US KNOWING IF WE REALLY ARE GOING TO MOVE BLOODY HOUSE OR WHETHER SOME FREAK BLOODY THING WILL STOP US AT THE LAST BLOODY MINUTE.
Readers in Pakistan may wish to send me, by return, letters and messages of perspective-giving, to help take my mind off the sickening introspection.
Meanwhile, I am apparently charged with being creative today. Retakes for a couple of score ideas and a magazine and some websites or somesuch to be looked at.
Think I might just get back in the car and keep driving.
Because if people call me back today and say we’re actually completing our ruddy Vente on Vendredi, then the semaine’s insanity will really begin.
It’s 8.30am and I think it seems reasonable to have a drink to help my mental santé.