Fading Memories

We are finally, as so many have remarked "living the dream" or at least it all seems like a dream as we sit in the complete silence of the French countryside, broken only by the occasional graunching sound of our water pressure pump bursting into life when we least expect it.

After another day of shopping we actually moved aboard, pinching ourselves as we had our first meal, made the bed after a fashion and really we should be asleep but we aren't. It's like the night before Christmas except that we're still stirring even though the mice have long ago nodded off. The boat is bigger than we remembered it, and the more we poke around the easier it's going to be to live with it "as is" for quite some time.

Sure things need doing, and the engine is a bit rattly, and today we've noticed that it doesn't actually have a muffler, which isn't going to be all that cool for our neighbours when we have to run it occasionally to generate electricity, make hot water or heaven forbid, actually go somewhere, but what the heck, we're here and we'll worry about all that when it stops.

Among our other purchases today we bought a sewing machine. It was very economique you see, and came in a damaged cardboard box. Even thought it was priced at about two thirds of it's normal retail price Mr Cora saw fit to throw in a steam and dry iron which probably not coincidentally also had a damaged carton.

One's thoughts may possibly turn to the question of how we might utilise two very clearly electrical appliances when we don't have any thing that even vaguely resembles electricity, but since this is a dream it probably doesn't matter, I'm sure it will work out in the end.

We have proof that it's a dream. On a whim, as if to pinch ourselves awake, we checked our receipt as we packed said items into the car and discovered we'd been overcharged by exactly 50€, a hefty sum but even if we could not sort it out, the machine was still a bargain. Armed only with trepidation we approached the service counter with machine, iron and docket in hand.

The gentlemen behind the counter was dressed the way that people in authority are, and although he spoke perhaps even less English than we do French, when we explained our predicament by waving our arms in ever increasing circles, and making sounds that resemble a dozen vuvuzelas in full song, he immediately saw the gravity of our situation. He asked for our names, and wrote them down on a piece of paper on which he made three official thumping sounds with rubber stamps, and then reached into the till and refunded our money without question or delay. With a great smile he said "I'm very, very sorry," and wished us well.

I know it's just a dream, but why can't the girls in Woolies treat us like that?