One of the things I really like about working for the Stephen Joseph Theatre is that we are playing in repertoire, which means that sometimes, quite randomly, we get time off. Actors normally do 8 shows a week and work six days out of seven (panto season is the exception, over Christmas it's not unusual to do 20 shows and work eight days per week. I'm exaggerating less than you think) so a three day weekend is a rarity and a delight.

How delighted was I to discover I had one of these coming up on August 5th! Ladies and Gentlemen, I have taken a double dose of carbon footprint denial and booked my flight home early Friday morning.

I am going to catch up with the excellent work Paul has been doing in my absence. I'm not expecting that much will have moved on as I know that Paul took Nikki and family to the UK for their holidays (lucky them!) but I know that he has stripped back the crappy wood round the windows and re-pointed:

He's also stripped back the rotten flooring in the attic. The good pieces to be recycled as oak shelving, rotten pieces to be stored in my sentry box and burnt on my woodburner. When I get it. The floor joists appear to be in excellent condition but he's given them 3 coats of xylophene just in case any future nasties get any bright ideas about coming to stay.

My bathroom will hopefully be finished, I may have a new floor in the attic and best of all, I get to see the father of my baby and decide what colour to paint the nursery.

Baby??? Nursery???

Sorry, rather sprung that one on you from nowhere, didn't I? More later, I've got a show to open...

Weekend Terrors

It's all a disaster. I've been hopelessly miscast in the show. My American accent is terrible. My portrayal of an intellectual lesbian writer unconvincing and sometime today, or tomorrow, or even Monday morning, I'm going to get a call from the director (he's a nice man, he'll do his own dirty work) saying that they're really sorry but they've made a mistake and they'll pay me to the end of the week but they'd like me to leave now as my replacement will be arriving to be measured to see if she fits the fabulous Ossie Clark suit they've found on ebay for tuppence.

Can they do that? Can they only pay me til the end of the week? I reckon they can, but they'll have to bypass the equity agreement and go straight for trade misdescriptions: Your agent said you were good and you're so not. "Excuse me m'lud, this actress is blatantly not fit for purpose..."

I won't be able to pay the mortgage, the Little House will be re-possessed and will stand empty for 25 years until the xylophene protection wears off and then it will be eaten alive by capricorn beetles and woodworm.

I dreamed last night that it had a huge swimming pool and I was tying myself in knots over how to maintain it. Won't be my problem now though, will it? All my teeth are going to fall out so I can't even play the trumpet, my family friends and agent will all disown me for being useless and I will end up sad and lonely in the workhouse.

Or I could just get over myself, take the dog to the park and learn some lines. Hmmmm.

HELP!!!

Time is running away with me. I have so much to do before I start rehearsals for 'Marlene' in Scarborough and can’t see how for the life of me I’m going to get it all done. I feel like I’ve done nothing but the HHs who came round yesterday tell me I’ve done loads.

I’ll be happy if I can get three coats of Xylophene on all the timbers in the place and get all the shopping done so that Paul doesn’t have to spend half a day wandering round Castorama and can get on with the clever stuff like making my chimney look less like a precarious brick banana and more like a sensible enduring smoke-conduit.

Monday sees me wandering round Castorama, then Leroy Merlin, then Casto again comparing prices and quality in the company of a long-suffering friend who not only makes sensible suggestions about baths, but also helps, albeit a little reluctantly, to transport them. It.

The bath question vexes me for at least half an hour but when it’s a question of paying an extra €50 and having a larger bath that doesn’t look cheap and nasty, I eventually agree it’s worth it. I mean, I’m hardly going to be changing it on an annual basis, am I?

But still. My timbers scream out for treatment. No matter how much pastis I drink, the 25 litre tin of xylophene is not going to miraculously distribute itself in three coats over my attic beams.

The walls are still covered in black blooms from when the condensation fairies got trapped inside the house because somebody closed all the double glazed windows too tightly.

The back door to the courtyard is still being held shut by a piece of weaving my mum did on the Isle of Arran; that I would like to re-instate as a scarf/belt before I leave.

I have no time to see anybody, to sleep or even eat. It's all a disaster. The house is going to fall into the cellar and the woodworm are going to hold a party as the dust settles on my decomposing body.

The Bank, The Satnav & The Missing €2,400

THINGS THAT ARE GREAT

The Vision

I have been tying my brain in knots trying to get a master plan together that will enable me to use Paul’s superior building knowledge to full advantage whilst I skip off to the Stephen Joseph Theatre in Scarborough to play at dressy-ups. Today, with the help of Andy D, that comes to fruition. More about that later.

Cut Price Xylophene

On my way out of St Leonard along the Bujaleuf road, I pass a Briconaut. Such is my obsession with all things renovatory, I cannot resist stopping and looking at power tools and paint and the like. Inside they have the tipetty-top kill-all-insects-and-anti-fungal-into-the-bargain Xylophene for a mere €31 for a 6 litre tin. I buy 3, hoping that the local builders yard will give me a refund on the Cecil on the grounds that the name is not scary enough. Hmmm. If they don't, I will have spent €200 on woodworm treatment.

THINGS THAT ARE A BIT RUBBISH

Payback time at the bank.

They’ve given me my mortgage and in return I know that I am going to be pressured into taking out their package, which will include a bank card, cheque book, insurance for these items, internet banking, £400 overdraft facility… and for these privileges they are going to charge me, yes people, CHARGE me, over €100 per year. When I empty my purse and show Mme Faury my array of free UK plastic, she is gobsmacked. However, if I don’t take out the package, it all costs a lot more. I hate it. €18 per year for internet banking??? Tant pis.

Road Closures.

I’m a bit wrong footed when I get to the bank because a journey that should take me half an hour has taken three times that. I’m bowling along through rural limousin loveliness when I’m hit by a yellow sign. Route Debarré. Bollocks! I don’t believe it but yes it’s true, they’ve closed the road exactly at the only point I can cross the river to get to St Leonard de Noblat.

Satnav.

Useless useless bloody useless! People who know me know my view on Satnav. I know my own view on Satnav. So why oh why do I choose to rely on it?! When the road closes, it recalculates then spends the next hour telling me to turn round and go back the way I’ve come, whilst I end up at Feytiat before I have the good sense to stop at a garage and buy a bloody map. My view on Satnav is, for those who don’t know me: Invented for people who can’t read maps and deserve to be lost.

The Dodgy Notaire:

Whilst at the bank I get sight of a statement that says that the bank have paid just over €30,000 to the Notaire. Remember him? Scary teeth and a dodgy dye-job? Well I got my maths O level and it doesn’t take a genius to work out the following:

Cost of house: €24,000 (yes really)

Agent’s fees: €3,000 (I’m in the wrong job)

Notaire’s Fees: €3,000 (are orthodontics tax deductable in France?)

So what the hell has happened to the €2,400 I paid as my deposit?? After the bank, I head straight for the Notaire’s office. Access to him is restricted by three female pitbulls so I’m frightfully polite and ask to see the relevée de frais du prêt as I think there may have been une erreur. They are frosty in the extreme but do as I ask, and from the adjoining office I distinctly hear someone say: ‘Merde!’ Suddenly the atmosphere thaws and they are being extremely nice to me. What name would I like on the cheque? I ask for a transfer electronique. There’s no bloody way I’m driving all the way back to St Leonard, map or no map.

Actually, this should really be in the ‘things that are great’ column as I totally kick ass, in French, and get my money back.

It’s all good.