Mustering the support staff

Looking down Tackleway to the sea - the Shoebox is the house by the lamp-post, with the blue front

When you move country you forget that it's not just a question of switching residence: there's a whole network to re-establish.  It's only after three months that I begin to feel we're getting there.  I'm not talking about friends and acquaintance: it starts with the need for tradesmen - electricians, plumbers, joiners etc. - and the places to shop for daily needs - a decent butcher, vegetable shop and  supermarket.  But where do you go for shoe repairs? or dry cleaning?

Then there's the question of personal maintenance - the doctor and dentist and - last but not least - a decent hairdresser (less a problem for me, since it's a once-over with the clippers, than for Paul with his flowing locks).  But there's also the osteopath, the acupuncturist and - ideally - a decent masseur. 

And that's just us: there are the dogs to consider as well: registering with a local vet; finding a decent shop for leads, beds etc.; and then locating a groomer and a dogsitter.

We now have a pair of cleaning ladies who come in each week to give the Shoebox a once-over; the fishmonger is beginning to know me; and the dogs are delighted with the canine hotel we've located when we're away for the night.  As I say, we're getting there.

But the formation of new networks goes with nostalgia for the old: our dear cleaning lady, Agnès, our electrician Bruno, and the ever-charming Dr Picard, to name but a few of the people we became fond of during our stay in Ribérac.  It's not absence, but familiarity, that makes the heart grow fonder.  Out of sight, perhaps, but never out of mind.

Antony Mair

 

Waiting for that groomer!