Neighbours In France Are Just As Disagreeable As Anywhere Else In The World…

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Chickens, France, French, funny, Humor, Humour, Life, Neighbours, Relationships

 

My next-door neighbour thinks her neighbour at the back and to the right set her garden on fire.

He didn’t.

It was her neighbour at the the back and to the left. It’s his holiday home and he was cutting the grass and decided to burn it – as you do – to get at the weeds. It got out of hand, he set my neighbour’s grass on fire, and then promptly packed up his car and legged it back to Brittany with his wife.

The neighbour at the back and to the right didn’t burn her grass.

What he did do was cut a hole in her fence in order to cut down a plant on her land that he said was toxic.

My next-door-neighbour is not happy with the neighbours at the back.

I know all this because for the last three days it’s been like world war 3 in the gardens around us with accusations flying left and right.

There was an attempt to bring me into this as the neighbour at the back – the fence-cutter – alleged that I had had enough of my neighbour too. ‘The Englishman is going to explode at you as well’ was the exact phrase used.

I was quick to assure my neighbour that I wanted no part in this, was not on the verge of exploding, and would prefer to remain ‘Switzerland’ if I could help it.

It’s been great for my French – I know so many more gros mots than I did.

We have now reached the point where the neighbour at the back and to the right is erecting a much higher fence, in order to avoid talking to my neighbour.

And she is now selling off a large number of her chickens as she fears they will be killed by the neighbour at the back (and to the right).

As for the neighbours that fled to Brittany? They have yet to return.

Hey, it’s not all sunshine and roses here in France.

Positive Outcomes Of The Corona Virus Lock-down…

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Corona, Coronavirus, Health, Life, Neighbours, News, People, Relationships

 

I saw something quite lovely last night. I’d gone for a run, and as I reached my hour’s limit I headed for home. As I entered the lower end of my street and rounded the corner I was greeted by the sight of four of my neighbours, all stood on their individual doorsteps, well over 2 meters apart, each with a large glass of wine in one of their hands.

They were all in high spirits as they enjoyed their apéro, chatting and laughing away, one of them even gave me an ‘ooh la la’ as I jogged past, and they all bid me a good evening and a how do you do.

Now I know most of the people on my street, and this group is not one I’ve ever encountered out and about, and if you saw them individually you may not put them together. They had a distinctive ‘Breakfast Club’ feel to them, as though they had sought each other out during difficult circumstances, and were forging new relationships.

I’d like to think that when this is all sorted out – whenever that may be – and we can all  emerge, and start to resume some semblance of a normal life again, that there may well be new, lasting friendships, created by this virus. It would be ironic if this thing that is isolating us all, and keeping some of us apart from our nearest and dearest, actually made us reach out to people that were even closer to home, perhaps people that we’ve never talked to, or socialised with before – maybe even people who live right next door. One can but hope, eh?

The Dangers Of Giving Nicknames To Miserable Neighbours…

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angry, cultural differences, France, French, funny, Humor, Language-Barrier, Manners, Neighbours, Relationships

 

So since moving to France I’ve made an effort to get to know, and get along with, my new neighbours in our village. We live in a block of six houses – kind of like a row of terraced ‘cottages’ – and by and large everyone is nice and friendly.

 

With three exceptions.

 

I have taken to calling these three exceptions Chicken Head, Turtle Head and Bland. Chicken Head and Turtle Head live together, in the house next-door-but-one to us. Bland lives on the house at the opposite end to us (we live at the other end). On many occasions have I said hello, good evening or tried to make eye-contact with these three, but have been met with grudging replies or, if I don’t make the first move, nothing at all. A stark contrast to the other neighbours.

 

Being the petty-minded person that I am (hey, I’m a big enough man to admit I’m a small man about some things) I have taken this personally and given them the above monikers. Why those names I hear you ask? Well it’s a straightforward case of ‘if the shoe fits’. Thus Chicken Head has a head like a chicken, Turtle Head has a head like a turtle (maybe more like a terrapin, actually, but that doesn’t roll of the tongue as easily) and Bland is, well, bland.

 

It wouldn’t be so bad if they were all rude and ignorant in their own individual ways, but they do it together. Yes, in a threesome or, as we are in France, a menage a trois. They only talk amongst themselves, which is unfortunate as they both have children and one of them is in school with my son, in the same year. She’s absolutely adorable, and very friendly, so thankfully the miserable-gene seems to have skipped a generation. But still it’s doubtful my son will be getting invited round for play-dates.

 

At first I thought it was just me, maybe they don’t like the British. But then I observed their behaviour with the other neighbours, and realised they were just very ‘cliquey’. Oh and did I mention Bland is pregnant? At least that’s what my partner thinks, I personally hope she’s just fat. Why hope? Well because she smokes like a chimney, and I refuse to believe in this day and age, and with already having a child, that she would be putting herself before this new life.

 

But yes, she may be pregnant, and the only man she spends any time with, in fact all of the time with, is Chicken Head’s husband. That’s not to say that it’s just her and Turtle Head, they aren’t ducking away to do their seedy business, at least as far as I’m aware. No, it’s always all three of them, all of the time.

 

This ambiguity over the possible-pregnancy’s possible-parentage has also  led to them being collectively labelled as ‘The Sect’. I wouldn’t risk the wrath of the internet by putting up pictures of them, I’m not that small a man, but believe me when I say, this is not a sect you would want to join. Unless small, bald men or round, sturdy ladies is your thing.

 

So yes, I have given them these nick-names, and have clearly been using them with a bit too much abandon. This was brought home to me last night, when the kids and I were out at the front of our house in the glorious sunshine, just messing around on bikes. After finishing work my partner joined us, and we were sat chatting with a girl who lives next-door to one of the aforementioned neighbours (they have a swimming pool but, this young girl informed us, they don’t let her play in it as ‘They have enough with their own daughter’, nice people, eh?).

 

It seemed like this mention of the neighbours was enough to call them forth because, like a trap-door spider, one of them popped out and immediately began puffing away on a cigarette.

 

My son pulled up on his BMX in front of us, and maybe a few yards away from where the  miserable neighbour was stood, smoking away. ‘Daddy, daddy’ he called out to me ‘Look, it’s Chicken Head!’.

 

Things to note: 1) in future don’t use your secret names for your neighbours in front of your kids and 2) be grateful they don’t speak a word of English*.

 

 

*I hope