And so -

We have workmen in the cellar, workmen with angle grinders - two days, three perhaps and they are invisible Pierre assures us and I find that thrilling. Here, in this old house, in this old village, in this ancient rhythm of birth and death and renewal, my cellar is full of invisible workmen. Who wouldn't be thrilled?

We have unearthed The Blue Book (there is always a Blue Book, one of the joys of moving in to somebody's rent-house) and it fills us with - what? Delight, of course, and trepidation in equal parts but with gusts of admiration, too, for the writer who has an innate sense of the power of Things Left Unsaid. So we learn, for instance, to pay directly for fuel replenishment and sort it out with the landlord later, because M-le-supplier-of-fuel likes to be paid on delivery, no later, and, note, it is not a good idea to make M'sieur angry. And we learn that the gas fire does not light because the instructions are in English, so good luck with that; and best of all, we learn that should the drain in the shower not be kept clear, there will be les resultats tres malheureux. So what can we do but love the place?

Paul has gone out now with Pierre to buy a second-hand car, They have very few points of contact linguistically speaking, but they are psychic twins and what they lack in coherence they make up in volubility and enthusiasm. They are fast friends already, but still I can't help wondering what they'll likely come back with. And whether or not it might need, you know,  grooming and feeding and stuff...