At Least Afloat

Day 56:

On Saturday, I woke late, and I spoke to my grandfather, who told me the same as my parents: I should move.

I then made my way to my boss’ for lunch. I had no idea that transport was going to be this bad and I planned my journey in a rather tight window. I always say to myself: Bella, you need to plan half an hour’s grace for yourself if you’re going to a place you don’t know how to get to. This is especially true on the weekends. Everyone wants to go everywhere in the middle of the day. Queues for the ticket machine are huge.

I wound up getting to Noisy-le-Grand train station (finally, after two buses unkindly passed me at the busstop) and, like I say, the ticket machine queue was impossible. I’d warned my boss I would be 10 minutes late. This looked more like maybe a half hour.

So, once again, we call on Uber.

It was a journey that cost me just under 20€, mercifully.

Then, realising I was 15 minutes early and empty handed, I quickly obtained a box of chocolates in the neighbourhood, and made my way back, avoiding two faux pas: Dropping in early, and arriving with no gift. My Mama raised me better than that, even if I am not the most organised of personages.

We had a lovely lunch. I met my boss’ husband and children. We talked about family history, Edinburgh, accents, and films. My boss’ husband lent me a French film to watch, which I must make my mission to, and give a review on it, too. This was as a result of our talking about Le Père Noël est une ordure, a French cult film of the 80s, which is a thoroughly searing piece of art, if it can be called that (there is much debate on this). It’s about two volunteers working at a charity helping lonely people, on Christmas Eve. Neither of them are actually interested in helping anyone, and participate only, it would seem, in the interests of virtue-signalling. Then their boss gets stuck in the lift, a pregnant protegée arrives on the run from her abusive partner, a gender non-conforming person solicits their help, and their foreign neighbour comes bearing unwelcome gifts, and all hell breaks loose. It is a film about humanity at its vilest and most uncharitable. It is the definition of dark and dirty humour. The film I’ve been given to watch is supposed to be a page from this kind of book. I’ll let you know what I think. It’s called Babysitting.

After lunch I helped my boss’ daughter with her UCAS application. She asked me some questions about the personal statement, and I helped her with filling out her form. She got most of it done that afternoon. I sat watching, feeling 17 again. I’m very proud of her and her work.

My boss drove me to near my busstop, and I thanked her many times for having me, to which she replied that it’s me she should be thanking! Whilst I may have helped her daughter with an alien application system that I got a lot of help with back at school (and Magdalen was a champion at uni application prep, absolutely), the truth is that to have a family lunch really means the world to me. I miss my own family. They all seem very happy and relaxed together, and I appreciate that they let me be a part of that for a bit. It was a beautiful afternoon weatherwise, but it really could have been raining or sleeting and I would have still been very happy.

I came home, I made pasta and tomato sauce, I washed, I made a long post about the Louvre on my Facebook page, and I went to bed relatively early, happy.

Day 57:

I woke up with probably 10 hours sleep, and I had a long call with my writer friend in Alaska. It was very wholesome. She’s coming to Edinburgh next year (hopefully!) to undertake a Masters in Creative Writing. We are going to have SO much fun in my 4th year!

Then I called my parents, who wanted to discuss travel logistics, and we had a lovely chat just generally.

And then, instead of using all this positive energy I gained, I ended up watching a lot of YouTube clips and eating lunch really rather late.

My landlady walked into the kitchen as I was having lunch. I asked her if she knew if there were any good local laundrettes, as I find myself at the end of the week without any clean clothes and the pressure to have them ready ASAP. Disorganisation on my part, but also, as I say, I still haven’t racked up the courage to demand my own laundry slot at home.

Folks, don’t compromise. If it’s in your rights yo use a facility, use it. I had this problem in my last flat, except there we were genuinely sharing the electricity bill equally. Nonetheless, at times I had to wash stuff by hand because no one else wanted to put on a wash. I don’t have a big wardrobe, so I run out of clothes fast, and I face problems, and I don’t fix them by talking. And that’s bad. Late night standing in front of the sink, or just standing in front of the sink at any time, washing stuff that isn’t even delicate with cold, cold water and wringing it within an inch of its and your hands’ lives is not fun. It’s miserable. And all that because I didn’t want to speak up. I still have trouble with that. You get scared of who you live with (probably because they know where you live…), and then heavens help you if you want to go against their wishes. I’m not strong that way, no.

I was also reminded I needed to pay the rent, which I now have. That, on my part, was a shocking misplacement of priorities, ‘cos I knew I needed to do something about it on Friday, and then it completely slipped my mind. I don’t have a standing order on my English bank account, and I haven’t been able yo set one up in my French one as I don’t have access to that online yet. I paid via PayPal this time, as we’ve managed to sort that without incurring any fees on my landlady’s side.

In any case, it looks like this month may be my last there.

I spent the next two hours looking for where I can purchase an apparently ridiculously niche item (Irish linen handkerchieves – I mean, come on! I’m in Paris, for goodness’ sake! You’d think they’d have that sort of thing.). Yes, I did procrastinate. My mum texted me to ask if I’d gone to get my laundry done yet. She had a point. I collected my stuff. I went.

I had another brief exchange with my landlady on the way down. “Oh, so you found something!” “Yeah.” “Which one?” “[Insert address]” “In my student days …” “Me too.” “The car isn’t in your way, I hope?” “Oh no, it’s ok, it’s ok, thanks.”

And I turned and left, irritably, realising I hadn’t even said bye.

My parents called me again at the busstop. I told them what had happened with some shame. I said, It’s probably not that big of a deal, my conditions – She’s really nice, the travel is a real pain in the neck, though. My parents reminded me, though, that I can’t easily cook, do my laundry, or make any noise – These are stifled living conditions. So I continued looking for flats on the bus. I also told my parents I’d check in with my colleagues and our company lawyer come Wednesday, when he’ll be there. The fear at the moment is that, with giving my notice early, and with my having a track record of not paying my rent on the 1st of the month (as stipulated in my contract), I may stand to lose my deposit. I need to figure out what are my rights.

If there is anything I have learnt about lodging with people, it’s that you need to learn what you may be signing yourself up for very much in advance. It is stated in my contract that I am required to be quiet during the work hours of my landlady. There you have it. It is also asked that noise be limited between 10pm and 7am. Now, “limited” is the key word here.

You see, what can one do with floorboards that creak at the settling of a particle of dust upon ’em?

I rode into town with my big, big bag of washing – effectively all of my clothes, and some towels, some bedding. I got off at the wrong stop. Fortunately I didn’t have to walk far.

If you’ve never been at an automatic laundrette, it works like this:

You go in with your bundle of washing. You find a washing machine, into which you put the contents of the bundle. You put your washing powder or your liquid into the relevant drawer. Then, you go and pay for machine number X (the number of your machine). And afterwards, you can set the machine for white, coloured, delicate, woollen, or synthetic washing. You press “Start”. It goes. You can disappear for the duration of the cycle.

I had just under an hour. I went in search for dinner.

Having discounted the rather undiscounted option of the steak restaurant some 20 yards away, I wandered over to La Guinguette FMR, the place looking out onto the Marne I’ve wanted to try since I saw it, adjoining the wholefoods shop Vrac de Terre.

It was lovely. You go into the garden, the kitchen is a little building outside. They take your order at the kitchen, and you take a small device which flashes and beeps when your food is ready to collect. You pay. You have the choice of sitting outside, or inside a tent which was undoubtedly an outside sitting area during the summer months, but has been transformed into something of a Savoyard chalet for the winter ones. Everything is warm colours or green, and there are lights and false stoves everywhere. Watercolours of the mountains festoon the walls. I’m not one for the Hallmark holiday, but the Christmas tunes that evening were actually ok. It was wholesome, not even remotely in the sickly sweet sense that pervades the packaged definition.

On the recommendation of the waiter I ordered a raclette, and I went for a Malo mocktail (containing blueberry). I expressed my concern to the waiter and chef that I was in a bit of a rush. The delight I have at the rapidity of the cooking and service can only be matched by that which I have for the meal and drink. It was superb. And very decently priced.

Then I rushed back to the laundrette. My washing still had 10 minutes – I had planned too well! I sat on a handy nearby chair and texted a friend. Then came the matter of drying the stuff.

The process for drying is similar to washing. You deposit your washing in a drum. You close the door. You pay for your tumble dryer by its number (mine was 32). You set your temperature to Warm, Hot, or Very Hot, and start the cycle, which lasts 10 minutes. If you need to dry it some more, you have to go and pay again. I had to repeat this cycle thrice on Hot (I wouldn’t dream of Very Hot – I did wash some synthetics).

So, half an hour gone, and it’s an hour before closing. I unloaded my dryer slowly, folding each item. I felt I had the luxury. Nobody was clamouring for my dryer behind me. My bag was still more than full, but I managed to bundle it off to the busstop.

Again at the busstop I spoke with my parents. Once again I was reminded I needed to talk to my colleagues and our lawyer about my rights. Honestly, at this point, my landlady could have my deposit without my fighting for it. I am very tired and fed up and just wanting to go.

Once again I missed the last stop on the bus as there was no indication of us reaching the terminus (there is usually a sound and announcement, and this is not the ordinary terminus I stop off at). The result was a cold, miserable 20 minute walk in the dark back to my lodgings, bag over my shoulder, cutting off the blood supply to my arm. I hadn’t even my earphones.

So I put my phone on the quietest setting, put it to my left ear, and listened to some upbeat and homely tunes that way, to get me home.

My landlady texted me to ask if I was alright. I said I was on my way, and I wasn’t far. I got home. I called my parents to say I was back. Our trip to Savoie is booked. I’ll be joining them when they collect me from my lodgings on the evening of the 15th.

I was in bed before 11.30pm.

Day 58:

Well, this morning I took he later bus (7.19 rather than 7.09), got stuck in traffic, and, worst of all, did it with no ticket.

I used the last yesterday, and I jumped on the bus, pretty sure I didn’t have the change to buy one from the driver (they only take cash!). But I thought, I have the IDF Mobilités app now, and I know I can get a ticket from there.

So I set that up, and it said the ticket would download to my phone storage.

There was no ticket downloading to my phone.

I panicked, and tried to buy a ticket via SMS. That didn’t work either. Oh gosh.

So, effectively, I stole a bus trip. All the while I tried to figure that out, seated, I had deprived a child of a seat. She and her mother and sister had got on a few stops after me. I was so darn absorbed and panicked and angry that I had not a shred of decency until I realised there was no more could be done for this ticket. I got up, ashamed. I offered her my seat. We told our youngest sister, my sister and I, that everyone gives way to the less mobile and the elderly, then we must give way to children, then ladies, and, only afterwards, gentlemen.

I managed to find another towards the end of the trip and to do one lesson of Gàidhlig. Today I learnt about cutlery and revised locations and how to ask them. “Càit a bheil an fhorca?” – “Where is the fork?”. It’s here, in the road – It’s where I either give up or keep fighting. Giving up looks attractive, I’ll be honest. Yet I don’t owe anyone pretty.

I took the RER to work. The weather was miserable, and I wanted to get to work as early as possible.

At breakfast, in our kitchen, I had a sweet thought first, which gave me a few tears, and then a torrent of bitterer ones followed afterwards when I joined my boss in our office. She comforted me, saying that I was very brave, and that I had holidays to look forward to. I didn’t cry hideously or for long.

We had to unpack our delivery of champagne flutes today, wash them, and just generally start setting up for the event on Wednesday. I laminated and cut out the puzzles today. It was very therapeutic. Lunch was very nice today, too. I went out and got ramen, and we talked about languages and the difficulties in learning them with some of my colleagues today, and about theatre with another.

I explained what was on my mind to my best friends over text on the journey home. Both said that my situation sounds like a nightmare and hopefully I can find somewhere else. When I got home my landlady asked me if I was doing well, as I didn’t seem so this morning. I was tired, I said. I lied. We had some conversation about her work, and I asked, incidentally, was I still being audible when I cooked, during her consultations? Apparently I am, but not too badly. And in the mornings?, I asked. Oh, also, but she said she needs to get up anyway. Am I just being tolerated, is that that? No, I have enough of a motive to go with the distance. Ca suffit.

I went upstairs, knowing I was late to the first YPAG session this evening. Whilst I waited for the next one, I decided I would do something I haven’t done in a while – I watched something. I watched an episode of Rab C. Nesbitt, the first one of Season 1 – Work. It was darkly funny, and very good. Well, I watched most of it, and then it was time to join the call.

It was a good session, and productive. A lot of concerns were raised and addressed. I was glum at the beginning, and my mood picked up at the end. I stayed behind and had a nice catch-up with the researchers and the game’s writer, and ended up telling them about my situation. I also talked about my blog. The writer said he had also written a blog once, and that it was a good coping mechanism. It was a nice chat. They said they hoped everything works out.

Having finished the episode of Rab, on a poignant and philosophical, and finally just kick*** note, I set myself to finish this blogpost, and, alas, write more anxious explanations to one of the men I love most in this world. Gah. I wish I weren’t as worried. Worry breeds but worry, and I am so done with that. I am quite literally feeling sick of it.

And there you have me.

I am posting this, and I am going to bed.

I have come to essentially the end of my tether, but know this: There’s life within me yet. And, if you relate to any of these words, and you’ve read this far, there’s life within you, too. Keep on fighting for what’s right, folks. Peace out.