Inquest

Whilst I was busy stirring things up for my nefarious Uncle last month (here) the inquest was reopened, and we finally got to the bottom of Anna's sudden death.


No one in the family could believe that Anna had died, (here) and (here) it was a complete bolt from the blue, and everyone was left reeling with the shock of it.


Of course we'd all been speculating for months on what on earth could have killed her but not one of us guessed the truth.


Apparently Anna, a moderate social drinker with no sign of any liver damage or drink related illness, had quite simply drunk herself to death.


For reasons best known to herself, on her last day on earth Anna decided to drink so much alcohol that she poisoned herself.


Now that really was a shock for us all. We didn't see that one coming.

The Kindness of Strangers

News reaches me today, (via the boulanger, as usual) of a retired local couple who went out of their way to help a stranger and are left counting the cost.


It all began in the early summer when there was a knock on their door and a young English woman, (Gina) explained that she'd been travelling through France with her three children and her "van" needed repairs.


The mayor, and the Gendarmes, had both told her that she needed to get it off the street where she'd been parked up and so, as they had a massive garden, would they mind if she brought it through their gates and parked it until she could arrange the repair?


The van turned out to be a converted lorry, and in the fullness of time it transpired that Gina had no money, and as she'd been earning her living belly dancing around the cafe tables in the towns she passed through, the likelihood of earning enough money to get the lorry roadworthy again, appeared slight.


The weeks turned into months, Gina went to work in the evenings leaving the three children alone in the van under the supervision of the eldest, fifteen year old, girl and then Gina would return in the early hours of the morning, more often than not, with a friend.


Good news came eventually. Gina had arranged to get a lift back to England.


She intended to present herself and her children at the first Social Services office they came to when they hit England, say that their caravan had been blown into a ditch and that they were homeless. Social Services would then have to organise accommodation for them and give them a grant for all the household items that they would need.


She would not be coming back for the now derelict lorry.


Her reluctant hosts now have to either live with a decaying eyesore at their gate or pay to get rid of it.


The more I see of people, the more I like the cat.

Telethon

This dratted broken wrist is just about driving me crazy!


I hate that I can't do my sewing, or play the cello, blow drying my hair is a nightmare and left handed cooking and baking is just plain hard work.


However, (and thankfully) before my accident I made loads of these little drawstring bags filling them with English Marks and Spencer's chocolate money, as a our contribution to the Telethon "sale of work" fundraiser held in the village yesterday.


We had the "guess the weight of the turkey" competition, a raffle, a bottle stall, lots a frantic accordion music, glasses of wine and macaroons for the adults, face painting and sweets for the children.


Ours is certainly not a wealthy community, far from it, but everyone there, (and it was packed) was doing their utmost to help those less fortunate than themselves.


Having been back to England recently and seen the rampant commercialism, the shops packed out with masses of stuff and everyone staggering around with bags and bags of designer clobber, yesterday was a complete joy.

A Vendre

One of the saddest things I come across living here in France is the "selling up" sale.


The "we've escaped to France" dream usually takes about two years before the rose tinted lunettes come crashing to the ground, disenchantment sets in and before you can say, "sit on motor mower for sale", the A Vendre sign is up on the wall and grand plans are being made for the return home.


If they're lucky the escapees can sell their homes quickly and get back to England with enough money to relocate, but increasingly, those who came to France when the pound was riding high are really feeling the pinch now, and with some estate agents actually declining to take any new business because they've got too many unsold properties on their books, things are looking bleak for anyone trying to sell their French property.


I got a telephone call last night about a couple with two young children who've been living here for three years.


David is an electrician who did everything by the book when he moved his family to France. He registered his business, paid all his cotisations and taxes, made sure that he had his Siret No. and has worked tirelessly to generate an income to support his family.


Now whereas in England, to set up a business one simply buys a telephone and a desk and then gets cracking, the business taxes in France are crippling and all the artisans we've employed over the years have complained that everything they earn in the morning goes to the French government, and what they earn in the afternoon first pays for any overheads and bills, and what's left, (not very much) is what they live on. David and his family have certainly not been living high on the hog.


He's had no work now since June and having sold their possessions to supplement their income and not being able to sell their house, they've got themselves into a financial mess and quite simply, have nothing left to sell.


With an offer of some employment in England, they've decided to just lock the door and leave, except they've no money for the ferry.


Last nights call was to tell me that there was a collection being made to raise the ferry fare and for some Christmas presents for the children.


I was delighted to contribute. If anyone deserves the help, they do.

And at Last, Some Good News.

A telephone call from Alexander this week.


He's my one and only child, (his birth was the stuff of nightmares,
here and here) and we've always got on well together. It helps that we've got the same sort of logical brain and sense of humour, and although we aren't sloppy with each other, we're close.


I always felt that with only having the one child I was just muddling along because I'd had no other children to practise on, but he's been a cracking lad, and he's turned out well.


He rang me this week to tell me about a spectacular triumph at work and I was delighted for him. At 26, he's got the promotion of his dreams and beat 14 other canditates to get it.


He works as part of my favourite UK store's central computer team and he loves it so much that I swear that he would go to work even if they didn't pay him.


After the hellishness of November it was wonderful to get some good news at last.


PS He also sent me some of my favourite English chocolate bars to cheer me up.

Result

I went to see the Doctor and explained the situation and Sir Prancelot has been taking his new medication now for over three weeks. He'll be reassessed next week.


There has been a remarkable, all-round improvement.


His psoriasis is beginning to fade, his memory has improved and although we've had some days when his anxiety levels are just too much for even his medication, he's happier and much more relaxed.


I've also set him up with his blog. I got all the old black and white photographs from his childhood out of the attic and we choose one a day. I scan it in, upload it onto his blog and he writes about it.


All the old memories are fresh in his mind. He looks back on photographs of family holidays, sledging in the snow, playing cricket on the beach with his cousins etc. and he's able to remember everything about the day so clearly, then write with lucidity and affection.


I tell him that it will be a record for his children and grandchildren but it also gives structure to his day and keeps that once remarkable brain working.


There is one small problem. I agreed not to divulge Sir Prancelot's family history of suicide to the Doctor but I've come to the conclusion that he needs to know.


I'm wrestling with my feelings of disloyalty and also, if I'm totally honest, questioning my motives. Am I doing this for Sir Prancelot's benefit or because I'm tired of being the decision maker and want someone else to share the load.


I do hope that it's the former.

Hell Hath no Fury

And so, with the appointment having been rescheduled, the occasionally deranged Sir Prancelot set off for his rendezvous with the young and giggly Dr G, and having endured the horrors of the tiny waiting room, (coughers, sniffers and stinkers in very close proximity) he came home clutching the obligatory carrier bag of pharmaceuticals, four massive boxes of herbal relaxants.

Yes, herbal relaxants! Now, this just didn't make sense. Homeopathic medication prescribed for what was clearly, as far as I could see, something fairly serious.

So, it transpired that instead of Sir Prancelot explaining that he was covered in stress induced psoriasis, that for inexplicable reasons he was often on the verge of tears, that he was regularly so anxious that he couldn't stop himself from trembling, that there was a family history of suicide and there had been occasions when he was talking complete and utter nonsense, he'd given the Dr the sanitized, stiff upper lip version of events and told him that sometimes he "felt very low".

Now I have been much lauded in the past for my saintly qualities in coping with the "my life is complete crap" scenario, so I am ashamed to report that I screeched like a banshee, scored a hat trick by managing to use the F word as a verb, noun and adjective, and had the biggest row I have ever had in my life.