June 14th - It never rains, but it pours

My optimism re John’s stomach was short-lived. By Wednesday, it was clear that whatever it was was not going to go away on its own. A doctor’s appointment was required.

One of the questions we have been most frequently asked since moving down here is, “But what if you get ill, how will you cope with the French medical system?” Good question, as not being able to communicate with doctors is frequently sited as a reason for expats, particularly the elderly, selling up in France and moving back to Blighty. Which is a shame really, as even the most feeble attempt to speak French is often rewarded by a doctor’s willingness to speak English. Experienced doctors are, after all, a well-educated bunch, and many will have spent time studying or practicing abroad. In fact, as our GP pointed out, most medical terms work in any language – albeit in reversed word order – and “ouch” requires no translation. We left his office with a reassuring “c’est rien méchant” and a prescription for another medicine cabinet’s worth of anti-spasmodics.

Though we didn’t like to believe it, we had both harboured a nagging doubt that Friday’s dinner had, in some way, been to blame. We wondered whether anyone else was suffering. Awkward isn’t it though. One doesn’t exactly want to ring one’s hostess and ask, “Is anyone else suffering from a stomach bug?” It just doesn’t sound very polite. But then, if dinner had caused John’s upset, wouldn’t I have also been affected? We needn’t have worried. It looks like it was just coincidental timing. Five days after John’s symptoms appeared, I too have succumbed. At least, in my case, we had a good supply of drugs to nip it in the bud.

This week has been a bit of a washout, and I am not only talking about our health. In one way it is lucky that neither of us have felt like venturing out much. The weather has been appalling.

We were watching television on Wednesday evening when John noticed one of the cats flicking his paw at something on the floor. This kind of dismissive paw flicking is a classic sign of feline displeasure, and John looked down expecting to see something nasty – possibly of feline origin – on the carpet. What he actually saw was a large pool of water. A very large pool of water. I went to fetch a mop.

Somehow the torrential rain was soaking through a 2ft thick stone wall and into the electric meter cupboard (!) before collecting behind the panelling and seeping out onto the living room floor.

The problem turned out to be a blocked downpipe. Remember Laurel and Hardy, the comedy duo who turned up to fix our roof the same day in December that John’s mum arrived for Christmas? At the time I remember being a bit confused by their explanation of the tile cleaning process. Perhaps this isn’t so surprising when you know that the French word for foam is mousse and the French word for moss is … mousse. M. Buret said that the product he was using would foam up when it rained to kill the moss that was causing our tiles to lift and slip. What we hadn’t bargained for was that the dead moss would be washed off the roof and into our gutters. The tiles might be clean, but the rain was now gushing over the edge of the gutter and streaming from the multiple fractures in the downpipe. This water was then being channelled into the house via a large crack in our damaged crépi or roughcast render.

With the rain showing no sign of abating, we had no option but to raid the linen cupboard for towels to soak up the wet. Assuming that the whole show was put on for their exclusive entertainment, the cats amused themselves for hours, repositioning them all over the room …

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