The rain has been relentless.
It has insinuated its way under every window frame, every door, every crack in the wall. Because I have no guttering it falls in chunks in front of the house and bounces back to blacken and crawl into the interior. That's not a problem. I'm used to it now.
Hopefully, following the recent back wall render, it won't flow through my kitchen and smash off the bookcases before pooling in the hallway.
I won't have to mop and mop again the flood when the tide beats against the cracked concrete. And when I sit watching TV in my beamed sitting room and I'll still hear a slight "tic, tic" from the height of the ceiling, I'll ignore it as I ignore the smell of damp that always follows the rain.
I won't go into the attic and check the "tic, tic" until it is time to get out the Christmas decorations. Things lurk up there I'm sure. So I'll ask the cleaner who can't clean to pull out all I need and check for signs of rain damage, of mice, of, God forbid, termites and Capricorn beetles.
She'll assure me all is fine as she runs through the "grenier" and slams the door shut. Before she runs she'll fling sachets of mice poison and little bombs that will kill off any other flying creatures.
Meanwhile when I see dust under all my other beams in my old house, I'll simply woosh them away with a sweep of the hand and stop myself googling the reality. The truth is I don't want to know. I am incapable of caring for an old farmhouse with ongoing problems.
I prefer to go and lie in a darkened room with a good book and ignore all around me as insects chomp away. I do not, however, ignore the horrors that come under insurance claims in France Profonde.
Perhaps you will recall that a mega storm arrived in March; scraped all the cladding off one side of the house; played with the tiles on the roof and ripped up trees and smashed pots before departing.
Fortunately the region's officials declared the area the equivalent of a disaster zone and so, apparently, insurance companies would pay up without question.
Eventually a company from Montauban turned up; accepted the assessor's estimate of more than €3500 for the damage and told me they would return in early September.
They needed to do so, the man said, because the damage to my roof was far worse than I believed.
"Really?" said I. "The tic, tic?"
"Exactly," said the man from the company picked by the insurance company on my request.
"Oh merde. So you'll sort this out as soon as possible then? Before the winter?"
"Of course. It's vital. The roof is in a really bad state and something must be done quickly or you'll have serious, serious problems."
He took my cheque for the excess - around £250 - and promised he would return, with scaffolding, after the holidays on September 5.
So I waited, and waited. And waited.
Naturally, because this is France, he has not returned.
Today I steeled myself to phone them: I used every word in my building vocabulary. I was put through three people before I got a man who finally admitted the company had come to my house. He would not admit, though, that they promised to fix it. This year.
"But you said it was in a bad state," I pleaded. "You told me it was far worse than it looked. You promised to come out in September. So, how can I go through the winter if it is so awful?"
There was a long silence. And then a loud sigh.
"We'll try to come out."
"Can you tell me when, please?"
Another sigh.
"No."
There is no point in pursuing the claim in terms of when, as I understood it. I obviously missed the wording of the terms. It is accepted in France that when a deal is struck it does not mean it will happen in the same year it is dated.
So, although my roof is, allegedly, after the storm, in dire need of fixing, it matters not when.
The acceptance is simply that the company will fix it. When and what year is a mere bagatelle.
Tomorrow I will phone the insurance company. I know I will be wasting my time and will hang up and go and lie down in a darkened room and wonder why I tried.
After all, it is only seven months since the damage and I will be perceived as a really difficult person who is demanding something outrageous, in other words service.
And after I'm told that I am asking the impossible - service - and should be grateful I will say: OK, sorry.
And lie in a darkened room. And accept that in France one cannot beat the system.
Actually maybe one can. I am not French, so I refuse to be defeated.
Tomorrow I will phone and phone again. I will beat this.
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