The Only Day it Snowed

On the evening of 22 February 2006, JC and I went out for a “welcome to France” drink and we also walked the 10 minutes or so to Rue Ste Catherine, my street-to-be, just to have a look. The whole area was made up of narrow, cobbled streets, only wide enough for one vehicle and every single turn or corner was pretty much 90°. I couldn’t help wondering how the Hell the massive lorry I’d seen 2 weeks earlier in Leeds was even going to reach anywhere near the apartment, let alone find a place to stop for a couple of hours so that all my Worldly goods could be hauled manually up two storeys of wiry spiral stairs. It was one of those times when, instead of thinking like that, you just have to believe that, as much as it might be difficult, disruptive, delayed and frustrating, it’s going to happen somehow or other for the simple reason that there isn’t any alternative. It has to happen.

As planned, I was sitting on the windowsill of the property agent on Rue Nationale at 8:15 the following morning, waiting agitatedly for Mademoiselle to arrive there to give me the keys to the apartment as, at 9am, I had an appointment with a large truck. I had a notion that today would be difficult but, at least, the sun was shining and I was on schedule, in the right place at the right time.

Mademoiselle was also timely enough. At about 8:40, she showed up, grinning as always. During my meeting with her in the January, (during that preparatory week I’d spent in Lille), even with my very stumpy French at the time, I’d managed to have her in fits of laughter (and, yes, some of her laughter was at me rather than with me but who cares? She was sympathetic to my needs either way so “job done”). She handed me my new sets of keys and I duly signed on dotted lines. If I didn’t want to be late and, thereby, miss the impossibilities of getting the lorry into place, I had a very brisk 15 minutes’ walk ahead of me.

It started to snow. A sunny morning transformed itself into the only day in the whole of 2006 on which I would see snow in Lille.

Somebody up there obviously loved me.

Mademoiselle then turned my luck a little by offering to drive me to the apartment. Chivalry set aside for the moment, I accepted on the first offer. It wasn’t so much avoiding the walk which appealed to me. It was more the idea of having someone French “on my team” so that, if there was nothing but negativity when I got there, at least she’d be able to use her lingo and local knowledge to work out the best way around the problems.

We arrived at Rue Ste Cat and I was amazed to see that, not only was the lorry already there, but they had also managed to remove, mechanically, some of the ever-present iron bollards from a section of the street and the lorry was neatly tucked away, off the road, in nobody’s way at all. Nice! Ok, so it was abandoned – there was no sign of anybody who belonged to it but, what the Hell? Inside it would be all manner of furniture and bags and boxes and, if my little run of gentle luck was to continue, the stuff inside the lorry might even turn out to be mine as opposed to the Worldly goods of the Von Eddolhofens from an hour or two up the road in Holland.

The crew were quickly tracked down to a nearby purveyor of sausages. A Brit in charge and two local boys. I was still trying to imagine how a fridge-freezer and a washing machine were ever going to make it up those spiral staircases. I put it out of my mind and all 5 of us went up to the flat. If this blog is a soap opera to you, you might recall that I’d only spent about 5 minutes in the apartment in the January before deciding it ticked all the boxes. Here I was again, just over a month later and, this time, I’d brought my real self with me. I still liked it a lot and I was already plotting what would go where.

I decided not to go back downstairs with the three guys and I thanked Mademoiselle and told her I’d take it from here. She left and I took a subtle glance out of the kitchen window, down onto the street below. I wanted to judge the mood of the three guys. They hadn’t seemed phased when they were up here and, as I looked out, the Brit was whistling contentedly and the two French guys were sharing a laugh…. despite the snow.

I decided to do the “pretend you’re busy reading something in one of the bedrooms” routine which is very effective when trying to keep out of removal men’s way and I thought I’d just wait for the “Sorry, mate. There’s no way this is gettin’ up them stairs”……

About 45 minutes passed and I kept wandering out into the living room from time to time to answer those “Where shall we put this?” questions and to have a quick look at which items they’d already managed to get up the stairs. I felt really guilty at the thought that these nice guys were struggling with my stuff whilst I was doing nothing but I still kept well out of it. After just under an hour, the snow had stopped and every last thing had already been brought up here. Fridge-freezer, washing machine, sofa, bed…. the lot. Up a spiral staircase barely wide enough to allow two people to pass on it. Was I more relieved or was I more impressed? About equal, I’d say and, as much as the Brit was a dour sort, the two French guys were still joking away between themselves. That felt bloody good!

I filled in a few “all present and correct” forms and off they went. As much as I knew that they wouldn’t always receive a cent as a “tip” from a client, I still felt like the €20 note I’d made sure the French guys saw me give to the Brit was nothing compared with how pleased I was at what they’d done and the lack of any fuss at all surrounding their job. They were absolutely superb and nobody should ever use any other company for a job like that….. ever!

Naturally, I decided to give myself a “relief gap” before I even thought about any unpacking and bed assembly etc. I did, however, decide to track down the kettle, a tea bag, some milk and a mug……….

You can take the boy out of England but you can’t take England out of the boy