Well after a couple of years with a blocked toilet, I finally found myself with enough money to have the fosse emptied. This is an antiquated concrete hole behind the house, that drains out into the fields. After the dreaded phone call using my best french and trying to use the correct terminology, I was confronted by a lovely french man who spoke perfect English. Appointment arranged, it was time to clear a path for the tank to get round the back of the house. This was no mean feat, the pathway was an overgrown mess of bramble and ivy with various items blown in by the wind that were now wedged firmly in the tangled forest of the unknown. We hacked and raked and finally found a way through to the little concrete slab where the excrement lurked. We uncovered the back door by removing the duct taped insulation and spending half a day searching for the key then we sat back in the satisfaction that we were all set and ready for the Fosse man.
The day arrived and the biggest tanker you can imagine turned up on our court yard. A lovely man jumped out all enthusiastically and proffered a hand to shake. I was a bit reluctant knowing what sort of job he did but shook his hand anyway hoping that I might be his first appointment. Taking a look round the back of the house, following the little path we had uncovered, he announced that he would not be able to get his lorry through and could he put a long large pipe through a window. The only possible option was through my daughters bedroom and out through the now freely opening back door. Well the look of disgust and utter outrage that came from my daughters mouth at even the idea that a poo pipe would be dangling through her bedroom window and across her bed was beyond words. 'What if the connections burst open I do not want poo all over my bedroom thank you very much', this being the cleanest bits of her deluge of objections.
The Fosse man then said not to worry I shall go around the house. This meant 10 pieces of pipe linked together to reach the dreaded hole. After he had squeezed himself into an all in one green plastic suit tied the hood tightly around his head, slipped his feet into long green wellies and place thick plastic gloves on, that covered most of his arms, he was ready to start.
When the concrete slab was removed the aroma of raw sewage was so strong it made your eyes water. The pipe was reluctant to enter the thick unyielding mass with a thick crust, the now green man looked up at me with a big smile and said 'I think it is blocked'. In the words of my daughter I was tempted to say 'no shit Sherlock' but resisted and just smiled through running eyes and nose. After some breaking of the crust he eventually managed to insert the grey pipe and smiled at me as he said the suction will begin. It was at this point I began to wonder if I should have put my waterproof coat and wellies on, but instead I stood there with the wind whipping the smell directly at me while hoping the pipe stayed in the hole and didn't escape.
I heard the large tanker crank up a notch and the pipe wobbled and shook. Eventually the thick mass began to make it way slowly up the grey pipe and travelling along the 100 metre pipe to the body of the tank. This process took a long time and after much jetting with water and more sucking the hole became visible, a deep concrete well ready to accept another 5 years of waste.
I was and still am amazed by the happy smiley cheerful man who has such a terrible job to do everyday. The smell alone would render me useless but there he was happy and cheerful, climbing out of his green moon suit and accepting a coffee.
We are now left with a toilet that flushes and you can even hear wherever you do dropping into the cavernous hole behind the house. The massive plunger that was used on a daily basis is now redundant and all that remains is for me to scrape the welded poo rings that remain under it. The water level goes down and does not rise to the top and all is well on the funny farm.
Tuesday, 15 March 2016
Tuesday, 8 December 2015
Friday, 29 May 2015
The case of the oily buttocks
So I am about to recount to you the sad/funny story of the day I trod in oil. Before you all roll over laughing, let me tell you that it was no ordinary oil, it was thick, dirty, discussing, seen better days, engine oil that my son had drained from his car a week earlier.
On my usual mission of the day I was charging around looking for things that, as usual, where not in the place they should be and having a bad foot at the moment wasn't making it an easy task.
I needed to get into the beginning of the long shed and spent some time looking for the key to it. As usual the key had done a disappearing act and I decided to go into the front workshop via the next one which key was available. This meant that I had to go through the middle double doors and by doing so I only had one back light available to put on when entering the front workshop.
So there I was clambering around in the semi dark to get to the front of the building so that I could illuminate it properly and find the item I was looking for. Hobbling on my bad foot stepping over things and round piles I saw a bowl of thick oil on the floor. Shining in the semi dark in a rusty saucepan I made a conscious effort to step over it. Unknown to me, there was another plastic pot of oil lurking in the shadow straight in front of it. I did my biggest step over the saucepan only to step down hard completely on the front of the large plastic pot. The pot did a flipping motion propelling the sticky black oil straight up the back of me. I felt the oil reach the top of my bottom and could feel it oozing down my right leg. Unable to see what had happened properly I limped on my bad foot and tiptoeing on my oily foot over to the lights so I could thrust open the big double doors at the front to assess the situation, while leaving a trail of oily puddles with each step.
When the double doors opened and the light flooded into the room I could see the extent of the disaster. There was oil everywhere and I was covered right through to my skin. I hobbled back to the house angry, upset, sniffing back tears of annoyance, while shouting to everyone what had happened. No rushes of help or any kind of emergency was shown by the family. All I could here was laughter and disbelief that I had done something so stupid.
I peeled off my clothes and put them into a plastic bin bag and tiptoed into the shower where I cried while I covered myself with bleach, Ajax, Flash, soap, shower gel and washing up liquid in an effort to remove the oil. All I ended up with was a black oily right leg, a black oily right bum cheek and two black oily feet. Oh and I forgot to say The shower has been turned black and no amount of bleach can remove it so I am reminded every morning of this wonderful event when I take a shower.
It has taken around three weeks for my skin to replace itself and the oil is still on the floor in the front workshop as I cannot bring myself to clean it up yet. I can see the funny side of it now by the way, which leads me to the moral of this story is, if you do an oil change do not leave the oil in the shed!!
That's all for now from the sticky black Funny Farm.
Monday, 27 April 2015
Its that time of the year again
Well here we go again, tomorrow is my Birthday. I will start the day by falling out of bed, grabbing my glasses and staggering out to make breakfast. Then, after my shower, I will be rushing to the vets with three little kittens to be sterilised. I then have to take my father to NOZ to buy a straw hat for the summer due to the fact he left his one in a restaurant in Brittany last year after a visit to the little boys room. I then have to try and get over to pick up some fence posts. The next job on the list is clearing out the dishwasher and filling it up again, feeding all the animals and spending the usual 30 minutes having a coffee with Dad.
After that I then have to make lunch for my son who comes home so hungry after a morning of mucking out loads of horses. My thoughts for the afternoon is trying to cut the grass growing very tall around the fence with a pair of scissors.
I will probably try to squeeze in a spot of washing and if I am lucky I might get to watch another episode of Hart of Dixie which is a wonderful box set I am watching on Netflix.
So my Birthday looks like it will be a real doozy of a day and I possibly won't feel any older than I already do.
Happy Birthday Me
Balloons and bunting on the Funny Farm
After that I then have to make lunch for my son who comes home so hungry after a morning of mucking out loads of horses. My thoughts for the afternoon is trying to cut the grass growing very tall around the fence with a pair of scissors.
I will probably try to squeeze in a spot of washing and if I am lucky I might get to watch another episode of Hart of Dixie which is a wonderful box set I am watching on Netflix.
So my Birthday looks like it will be a real doozy of a day and I possibly won't feel any older than I already do.
Happy Birthday Me
Balloons and bunting on the Funny Farm
Saturday, 25 April 2015
Portrait News
Just thought I would share with you what I have been working on. Just a couple of my latest portraits.
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The beef burger test and stirrups
Well what a fun few weeks I have had. As the lovely RSA finally agreed another year of health care and as usual it just leaves me 6 months before it has to be renewed again so I am rushing to get all my health checks done before it expires.
First on the list was a mammogram or as my dear Mum used to call it the beef burger test. This nickname aptly describes the extent of the squash flatten and spread you go through with this test.
Unlike the UK, in France you do not have two nurses for every test and you are led into a tiny cubicle no bigger than a postage stamp to de-robe. Left standing in a 2ftx2ft room with nothing on you wait patiently for something to happen or someone to come and get you. Finally you are led into another room with no windows in the middle of the building. The lady jabbers on in medical French some of which I just answered no to without fully comprehending what she had said. You are then forced into this machine while she tugs and pushes, pulls and squeezes you under these transparent plates. When totally satisfied that she has most of you upper half wedged onto a plate she then shouts out 'do not breath'. The plates then come together squashing your breast and most of your shoulder stomach and side until you think it might come unattached. Holding your breath while marveling at how you never knew your breast could become a metre long and half a metre wide you continue to hold your breath. She then shouts to you to breath again and you take in a long breath while watching the plates depart from one another and your beef burger breast then makes an effort to regain its original shape! This happened 4 more times and finally she said just sit there and wait. So there you are again with nothing on sitting waiting in a room with no windows and wondering who decided on the various colours on walls (orange, green, blue). Suddenly a man in a white coat bursts through the door and tells you to put your arms above your head and put your elbows towards him and he proceeds to pummel and rub your breast in all directions until satisfied that he could feel nothing. In a blink of an eye he says wonderful and disappears leaving you actually wondering if it really happened or not.
My second test was the dreaded cervical smear test, which is usually done in a clinical area with two nurses and over in a second. Well this is France so I go into town to find the place which isn't a purpose built building but a little run down house with a small door in need of a paint. I tentatively ring the bell and walk in only to be greeted by a long dark hallway with nothing to direct me to the place I need to go. Getting up the courage I walk along the long dark corridor, turn the corner and find a little lady sitting behind a desk. Relieved I ask, in my best French for an appointment and hand her the letter from my Dr. She tells me to take a seat and there I sit for 30 minutes. I then get called in to an office where a little man in a red suit and cap, red cheeks and a yellow tie is sitting. He tells me to sit down and then goes into fast paced french asking me all sorts of medical questions none of which I understood. After a while he gives up and tell me to go into the back room and get undressed!! I was just expecting to get an appointment and was getting the picture that I was about to have it there and then. Not being prepared I was wearing my best knickers which had no elastic and were held up by good will and a hole in the side where the seam was falling apart. Whipping them off quickly I sat on the table, he came in still wearing his hat but now with the added bonus of some purple rubber gloves! Sticking my legs in the stirrups he got to work. Every few seconds he stuck his head up from between my legs with a massive smile and sticking his thumb in the air as if to say everything's OK!!! He then told me in his best English that I was a very good menopausal woman! The strangest appointment I have ever had.
I do wonder what the French would think of the UK's rules of always having a chaperon when having any kind of examination as it clearly isn't an issue here.
Never a dull moment living on the Funny Farm.
First on the list was a mammogram or as my dear Mum used to call it the beef burger test. This nickname aptly describes the extent of the squash flatten and spread you go through with this test.
Unlike the UK, in France you do not have two nurses for every test and you are led into a tiny cubicle no bigger than a postage stamp to de-robe. Left standing in a 2ftx2ft room with nothing on you wait patiently for something to happen or someone to come and get you. Finally you are led into another room with no windows in the middle of the building. The lady jabbers on in medical French some of which I just answered no to without fully comprehending what she had said. You are then forced into this machine while she tugs and pushes, pulls and squeezes you under these transparent plates. When totally satisfied that she has most of you upper half wedged onto a plate she then shouts out 'do not breath'. The plates then come together squashing your breast and most of your shoulder stomach and side until you think it might come unattached. Holding your breath while marveling at how you never knew your breast could become a metre long and half a metre wide you continue to hold your breath. She then shouts to you to breath again and you take in a long breath while watching the plates depart from one another and your beef burger breast then makes an effort to regain its original shape! This happened 4 more times and finally she said just sit there and wait. So there you are again with nothing on sitting waiting in a room with no windows and wondering who decided on the various colours on walls (orange, green, blue). Suddenly a man in a white coat bursts through the door and tells you to put your arms above your head and put your elbows towards him and he proceeds to pummel and rub your breast in all directions until satisfied that he could feel nothing. In a blink of an eye he says wonderful and disappears leaving you actually wondering if it really happened or not.
My second test was the dreaded cervical smear test, which is usually done in a clinical area with two nurses and over in a second. Well this is France so I go into town to find the place which isn't a purpose built building but a little run down house with a small door in need of a paint. I tentatively ring the bell and walk in only to be greeted by a long dark hallway with nothing to direct me to the place I need to go. Getting up the courage I walk along the long dark corridor, turn the corner and find a little lady sitting behind a desk. Relieved I ask, in my best French for an appointment and hand her the letter from my Dr. She tells me to take a seat and there I sit for 30 minutes. I then get called in to an office where a little man in a red suit and cap, red cheeks and a yellow tie is sitting. He tells me to sit down and then goes into fast paced french asking me all sorts of medical questions none of which I understood. After a while he gives up and tell me to go into the back room and get undressed!! I was just expecting to get an appointment and was getting the picture that I was about to have it there and then. Not being prepared I was wearing my best knickers which had no elastic and were held up by good will and a hole in the side where the seam was falling apart. Whipping them off quickly I sat on the table, he came in still wearing his hat but now with the added bonus of some purple rubber gloves! Sticking my legs in the stirrups he got to work. Every few seconds he stuck his head up from between my legs with a massive smile and sticking his thumb in the air as if to say everything's OK!!! He then told me in his best English that I was a very good menopausal woman! The strangest appointment I have ever had.
I do wonder what the French would think of the UK's rules of always having a chaperon when having any kind of examination as it clearly isn't an issue here.
Never a dull moment living on the Funny Farm.
Thursday, 26 February 2015
My latest Portrait
My latest portrait, should have been completed before Christmas but unfortunately, due to winter illnesses, was not completed until January
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