We drive to the airport, and I go through the long list of things that could go wrong in my mind.
We sing to his favourite tracks and hope that his small midi keyboard won't get crushed in the ryan air hold.
He is going to Aberdeen for a 10 week internship. We have tried to disguise a 6 ft 4 spindly rock star as an office worker, so his bag is full of sensible trousers and shirts.
He sits next to me in his usual extravagant garb and I wonder whether he will ever wear any of them.
He is brimming with youth and excitement and promise and all the wonder of a life ahead that could go anywhere, do anything...
There is something so touching about the unwritten page.
I drop him off at the airport.
I feel strangely happy and sad at the same time.
I turn the music up loud in the car and my favourite radiohead track comes on smart shuffle and I sob self indulgently for a little while...
At last I have evidence of what Drummer boy was up to on his recent tour of Eastern Europe, from a small bar in Prague. There are three of them with sticks but he is the one facing the camera. Two of them are sharing a bass drum, hitting with a pedal on each side, which I have never seen done before.
There is so much energy flying around the room that I am exhausted just watching it...
There has been rather a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth lately, at the top of our little green hill. In the odd moments when no-one was in hospital, the anguish of the long term has been gusting round the hill top and it's been feeling a bit nippy. Of course we all have to get old, if we are lucky, and adapt ourselves to waning powers. It is when this is combined with waning income and increasing expenses that tossing and turning starts to wear out mattresses.
I think there is something about the start of the scholastic year that induces even more stress.
The nightly chorus of voices in my head;
Will I have enough students to keep my courses going? Have I done enough preparation?
Is what I have prepared too easy/difficult for them?Will they be any good? Able to sing even remotely in tune/read music, cope with the english, able to clap on 2 and 4 instead of the dreadful french habit of 1 and 3....(I blame the accordeon myself...)
Of course, all this goes away as soon as I see how enthusiastic they are.
And last but not least, will I be earning enough or will I have to take in washing...
So far, so good.
Just as long as no one makes any more impulse purchases...
Sometimes, when it is really cold, the only thing to do is to wrap up warm in front of the fire, and practise for the synchronised chocolate eating competition...
I will tell you about it when the dust has settled.
I slept for 24 hours afterwards...it might have been a mistake to dance so much...
but more importantly, Drummerboy returned for the weekend. He played with his three different groups on Saturday night and was in need of a Cheeky Monkey today;
I was exposing my autist students to music, as is my wont on Thursday mornings, when the boy who just says “oui” took my hand, held it gently for a moment and put it to his face. Then he smelt it carefully and placed it on the crown of his head. I stroked his hair briefly and then removed my hand. He repeated the procedure, as did I, several times before I understood.
At the end of the lesson, I told one of the carers what he had done. She was not surprised. The lady who gives him a head massage in the “sensorial room” had gone to Paris for the week on a training course and he was missing her. Just like I miss Drummerboy now he has left home…
Friday night found me and Darling D at a karaoke night. And no, we don't do it regularly, it was our first time. And yes, for some reason we felt slightly embarassed and guilty... like applying to audition for the X factor. We hoped no one saw us going in there.
Our feelings were mixed when we found the place deserted. But little by little the would-be performers trickled in... and none of them were the man with the bloody lip. But I suppose it would have healed by now...
And then we were off. People were looking through enormous menus, and scribbling their song choices on bits of paper, which were then given to the bar patron. He called out a name and then the first singer approached and grabbed the microphone. There was a large screen with a digital girl dancing on it, the music started and the words crawled across the screen like slugs. A pattern was set for the rest of the evening. The song choice was invariably a "variety" slow ballad of the Celine Dion type. The voices were generally OK and then... they would do something painful...often totally without warning, but usually when the melody rose to unscalable heights and they didnt have the correct climbing equipment.
Darling D and I kicked off together with a quick Yesterday in close harmony. Then she broke the mould and sang a series of fast French songs which seemed to be mainly about chocolate and bananas. I growled my way through a quick I cant get no satisfaction, Mick Jagger's voice being slightly lower than mine...my balls havent dropped? I suppose I didnt have the right equipment either. The oddest part of it all was having your back to the public while singing in order to look at the words. I dont know if that is what usually happens in Karaoke bars, but I expect you will all be too embarassed to tell me if you do know. We did have fun and enjoyed the atmosphere..sort of. There was just something a bit strange about it that I couldnt quite define.
Drummer boy dropped by on Saturday and I asked him how he and the other students were coping with the cooking and housework. No, they dont use rotas, he said. For cooking they just try to remember who hasnt cooked for a long time and make them do it. Washing up was completely different though. That is decided by a short hand of poker. As he left to drive back, he asked me whether I had a clean washing up sponge to spare. He must have lost the last hand , I reckon...
The girls set out for Rennes so that Best Friend in All The World, who is on holiday from London, could see Drummer boy's glamorous new flat and how he is coping with his new independant life. She is his godmother and takes her responsibilities seriously.
The first room that we saw was a clear demonstration of Drummer boy's life skills...it belongs to another less fortunate boy who must redecorate it.
First things first, the collection of beer mats has been carefully arranged.
A further demonstration of Drummer boy's life skills: Girlfriend is not only roadie and chauffeur, she is now secretary as well, and is responsible for his personal administration. She has won a permanent place in my heart for organising the purchase of a very heavy box of Belgian chocolates for my birthday.
After this brief interlude, the real reason for our visit to Rennes emerged... The Sales.
The sales were nearly over, but I happened to know of a little antique shop where secondhand designer clothes are sometimes available. A strange change came over BFATW, her nostrils flared and she dived into the clothes rails like a woman possessed.
She had seen something very attractive in the shop window, which turned out to be exactly her size, with a nice sensible low heel, so that she can walk up and down mountains in them...
Oh, I forgot, she lives in London...
And, luckily, there were two of them...
After such excitement, there was only one thing left to do...an ice cream...
Drummer boy has been lusting after the wild blue yonder, the big bad world and life, the universe and everything.
He is 18 after all and he has been able to drink legally for 48 hours. I dont know about voting...he has an English passport and we are domiciled in France, but he has his own priorities.
He is an adult... No expense has been spared to equip Drummer boy with his every furniture need, especially second hand fringed sofas.
His father is resting after piling all of Drummer boy's new(ish) belongings into a ritualistic pyramid, ready to transport to his appartment in Rennes where he will party study at university.
Desperate measures are resorted to, in order to cram the very last necessity of Drummer boy's student life into a confined space. Yes, he must have a kitchen cabinet as well as a chest of drawers (an object unheard of in french furniture circles)
The strain is too much for some, and they are forced to take a break, whilst others soldier on...
Drummer boy bravely tries to hide his misgivings at launching himself into the unknown.
While I wonder whether the tottering pyramid will manage to complete 90 kilometers...
I came back home this morning from tracking with the dog on our usual cliff top...and the front of the house was alive with flowers and bees. I love the way this bee is sprinkled with pollen. (click on the photo to see)
The house looked as though it was wearing a corsage, and the well was draped with flowers. Note the traditional duvet airing on a rare sunny day!
And here are the boys, two of whom are for the pot in a few months, if we keep our nerve...
Today is Drummer boy's 18th birthday. He is moving out to his appartment in town next week and then he starts university in september. He is ecstatic and overflowing with life and newness and energy, and all that youthful sort of stuff that I vaguely remember.
There I was, minding my own business, in the studio, at the top of the house, out of everyone's way, playing the piano, like you do...
The door behind me opened and I heard a strange muffled gargling noise. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something that was very wrong.
I turned round and screamed blue murder. Very loudly. For about a minute. Because I saw this:
My Sweet H has been working with a theatre company that used these costumes, and he persauded Drummer boy to come and model one for me...
On the 21st of June, there is a Festival in France called La Fête de la Musique. It was originally launched for amateur musicians, to enable them to play music without the organisers having to pay performing rights to composers. All over the country municipalities hire professional musicians (without having to pay performing rights) to boost the feel good factor of their electorate without it costing as much as it usually would. On Saturday night we went to watch Drummer boy perform with his two groups, in rapid succession, and on different stages. He plays a style which is energetic, to say the least, and by the end of the second performance, he was sick dizzy and cramping from lack of electrolytes. Just in case you fancy a look, here is drummer boy on Saturday in the process of dehydrating. Fasten your seat belt and away we go.
After this we wandered about St Brieuc, investigating the different stages which had sprung up overnight, like mushrooms. The very fact that there were so many created some entertaining soundscapes. When passing from one musical zone to another, there were often interesting overlaps if you stood in exactly the right place with your head in the right position. Techno alley was the best. There was a line of café restaurants, the street was closed, and every third establishment had its own rival DJ and turntables.
But the thrills were not yet over. On Sunday afternoon, we went off to another amateur event for Darling daughter to show off her piano playing and singing skills at the Beatles jam. When we arrived at the little bar by the river, it was nearly empty and the atmosphere was strangely cold and strained. A large beefy man sat glowering at a table outside, with a bloody lower lip and his dreadlocks in disarray. This was the star performer (a drummer and singer) with whom the patron of the bar had been rehearsing for some time. The patron muttered “catastrophe” at us, as Darling and I took a seat at a table as far away as possible from Bloody lip. We were joined by a guitarist with long grey hair and lively blue eyes who turned out to have driven a long way to the event. He informed us that there had been a bar room brawl and Bloody lip had been hurling chairs at a human target. The guitarist felt that the honour of a lady was at stake, but wasn’t too sure of the details. At this point a police car screeched to a halt next to our table and two gendarmes made their way smartly into the bar. Our ears started to flap and my concern for darling d’s safety was completely over ridden by nosiness. Bloody lip was taken aside to a little bower next to the bar with another rather smartly dressed rock and roller who would have done well in an Elvis impersonation contest. People blew into machines and their personal medical supplies were examined. Finally, the gendarmes left as the rest of our family arrived. Bloody lip was free to hurl chairs again. The bar started to fill up. Darling d recognised a young man from her class who arrived bearing a bass guitar, and her tune was changed from “I don’t want to perform, shall we go home now?” to “I think I might be able to play In my Life on that keyboard even if it isn’t a piano!”. Bloody lip took his place at his drum kit for a few songs. My Sweet H and Drummer boy announced that they would have to leave again soon and if we were going to perform as a family, it would have to be NOW. Bloody lip grudgingly ceded his place and we performed a couple of songs. Our reinforcements left and Darling and I were alone without protection. We huddled up with our new friend, the guitarist with the blue eyes, and one of my singing students, a lady who didn’t really have the qualities needed for a minder. Bloody lip snarled back to his drum kit and we bravely sang along from our table in full and rather good voice though we say it ourselves. BUT we didn’t sing along well enough. At the end of Hey Jude, there was a parting of the ways, structurally speaking, which left Bloody lip alone singing to his solitary drums. He threw aside his drumsticks and charged our table. We braced ourselves for the impact, but he shot past us out of the door and disappeared. Darling performed In My Life as a duet with her bass player and our table spent the rest of the evening singing up a storm with the patron and our guitarist, and we all lived happily ever after… Here she is giving you a taste of what you missed (you may be relieved to know that it is a little more relaxed than Drummer boy’s efforts)
It has been a strange spectator sport for me, watching a relationship develop between siblings...because I never had any. We only children are supposed to be a bit peculiar (or so my sweet H says), because we are used to being on our own, playing on our own, spending hours without speaking, being self sufficient. Whereas I think that all of you, with your sibling rivalry, social skills and interdependency, are rather odd and difficult to understand.
Why does my sweet H love talking so much? Sometimes he follows me from room to room, unwilling to stop the flow. Is it some hangover from sibling competition when he couldnt get a word in? He is one of six children, and the second youngest, so I somehow imagine them all in a little nest tweeting loudly to be heard.
You need siblings to learn vital life skills like how to avoid washing up. My technique is unpolished and involves disappearing upstairs to my computer. But the dishes are patient and they will wait for me. I don't mind, at least I don't have to cook...I can, but there is usually something I would prefer to be doing...on my own.
But most importantly, I think that siblings teach you to argue properly and to stand up for yourself in the Machiavellian plotting that underpins everyday family life. Now, my sweet H tells me that I am only too good at standing up for myself, but I think that must be part of the arguing technique he learnt in his nest...
On Sunday morning we were all ripped early from our slumbers to drive for an hour and a half to Carantec on the northern coast of Brittany. This was preceded by the following conversation: My sweet H : You can’t wear that sweat shirt, it isn’t smart enough. Haven’t you got a shirt? Drummer boy : What do you mean, smart? I don’t have any shirts. My sweet H : Here, take this. (Hands him a pale blue shirt. ) Drummer boy reluctantly takes off his enormous rather fashionable very grubby grey zipper sweatshirt with the hood lined with white fake fur and various suspect little holes in the front of it. My sweet H : And this. (Hands him a black sweatshirt with no designer label on it which is the right size) Drummer boy puts on shirt and sweat shirt. My sweet H continues his inspection and his eyes arrive at the crotch of Drummer boy’s trousers and stop right there. It is at knee level. Drummer boy is 6 foot 2 inches tall. It is a long way from his real crotch to his false crotch, probably… My sweet H closes in and a brief tussle ensues. Shirt and sweatshirt are raised to reveal the belt of the trousers clenched tightly underneath buttocks and half a metre of boxer shorts proudly on display. After five minutes of intense bargaining, trousers are hoisted further up the mast and a compromise is arrived at with belt just on the hip bone. My sweet H : Can’t you do something with your hair? Drummer boy : I’ve washed it… Girlfriend, chauffeur and carrier of drum kit has requested that Drummer boy should grow his hair to enhance his image as a rock god. It is, at the moment, at an intermediate stage, too short to tie back but very thick and like a hedge trimmed by an unskilled topiarist to resemble a helmet. We were running late. My sweet H took the corners quickly and was reminded that the dog is often sick when this happens. A bad tempered silence filled the car, punctuated by snoring coming from Drummer boy in the back seat. He was delivered finally to his place of employment. He was to work for two hours in a restaurant to see whether they will employ him for the summer period after his BAC exams. He has played drums for money before, but this is the first time that he has come up against the real world of work.
After two hours of wandering on beaches and a nice meal in another restaurant not too far away, we returned for him and found him sitting on a step shivering in his coat, his shirt a crumpled ball in his hand. “How did it go?” “Well I spilled a bottle of wine down my shirt, but they lent me another one. Oh, and I knocked into a table and everyone’s drinks fell over.” “Did you get the job?” “They said that they would call me…”
I am an ex-Londoner living in rural Brittany, France, for the last 18 years, with my family and far too many animals and wood stoves: these ramblings, some of which are cross, are about life in the countryside, and how to cope when your high heels are replaced by clogs.
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