Friday, September 08, 2006

lead us into temptation

I read a po-faced article in a British newspaper today, offering 'sober advice' to anyone thinking of buying a home in France. Entitled ‘Lead Us Not Into Temptation,’ it gave the following advice:

‘Make a detailed list of what you really want from your foreign bolthole: essentials and ‘optional extras’; why you are buying - and crucially, what your budget is. Do not deviate, whatever temptations are put in your way.’

Does anyone really buy a house in such a cold-hearted way? In the year that I have lived in this wonderful country I have met many Brits who have bought houses here - and none of them came armed with a list. Instead, they simply fell in love with the house, the village or, better still, a French person.

I was not planning to buy a house when I went to visit a friend in a small village in the Poitou-Charente one weekend. Instead, it was a case of fate handing something to me on a plate. This is how it happened:

On a writing course in Yorkshire I made friends with a journalist [let's call him Dave because he is no longer speaking to me, for reasons you don't need to know right now]. We met on the first night, while he was unpacking his car and I was reversing mine into a stone wall. It broke the ice as well as my rear light.

That evening he had talked about the house in France that he had just bought; and that he was hoping to turn it into a writing retreat. Shortly afterwards, I received an e-mail from him.

‘It was great meeting you the other weekend,’ it said. ‘I know this is a little random but I’m going to be at my house in France for most of August. Why don’t you come down and visit? all best, Dave.’

By coincidence I was going to be in Paris the following week on a work assignment. So I typed back:

‘In Paris next week for work. Could take the TGV down on Friday afternoon. Would love to see your house. Best, Mimi.’

The reply came back immediately. ‘Great. Let me know what time you’re TGV gets in at Poitiers and I’ll pick you up. Weather here gorgeous. Best, Dave.
PS: Does this mean you are now flying short-haul?’

I was thrown by his cryptic sign-off. Flying short-haul? It sounded like secret code for something illicit. Then it dawned. I typed back:

‘Dear Dave,
I am not flying short haul or long haul but stationary in London, writing a feature about shopping in Paris. I think you might be mixing me up with another Mimi, the blonde-haired BA stewardess!
best, Mimi P.

How embarrassing to have responded so eagerly to an offer that was not intended for me. I heard nothing for a few days and then a sheepish reply.

‘Hi Mimi, oops. I feel really bad about this. I did mean the email to go to the other Mimi. But I would love you to come down anyway. Bring your laptop and maybe we can do some writing. I have got another writer friend staying who has just had his third book published. Maybe he can give us some advice. Look forward to seeing you, Dave.’

I know I should have been too embarrassed to accept. But he had invited me in Yorkshire, I was going to be in France and I did want to see his house. Shamelessly, I typed back the time of my TGV’s arrival .....

copyright: mimi pompom 2006