We’ve been gradually selling off items in the house, mostly furniture and big things; the couch, the dining table and chairs, Gregory’s weight bench and boxing bag, things like that. Then there’s those little things; small lamps, decorative storage boxes, canvas prints, things that I figured we’d end up giving away, I mean without a yard sale, nobody is going to buy it… or so I thought.
On Saturday morning, Gregory and I returned home from a café and croissant date to find our neighbor waiting for us, her head out the window. She told us that a friend of hers wanted to come and see what we were getting rid of. We said that there wasn’t much left that wasn’t already promised to someone but if she really wanted to, sure.
That afternoon the two of them arrived and whirled about the house like dervishes. They pointed to everything, “Is that for sale? Is that?” But you know, in French, “C’est à vendre? C’est?“
We ended up selling things that we hadn’t even considered selling, things that I figured would be passed on to Brother-in-Law when we left; a set of faux leather boxes, a pair of banged up metal chairs, the coffee machine, and a large print hanging in my kitchen. My neighbor’s friend even said she’d be back to take the floating shelves off the wall. When they left I sat there stunned, clutching the €50 and counting my blessings. I hoped that somehow my good fortune could be transferred to the French rugby team.
If you follow European rugby you know that France had a disaster of a season last year, A DISASTER. A lot was hanging on Saturday’s opening Six Nations match against England, it would set the tone for the tournament. Normally we like to watch big matches in a bar with other fans but for an England and France match, I can’t. I get far too emotional (and by too emotional I mean, shouting, and pacing, and jumping up and down, oh and did I mention shouting). England and France are age old rivals in everything and winning the match is très importante. And being that Ireland is the other team I support when I’m not supporting France, winning against England is always a big deal to me… you know, payback for the 800 years of oppression.
The match was a nail biter… thirty-two seconds in and France scored a try. We freaked the eff out. At only twenty-two minutes in, the score was 16-3 for France and I was badly in need of oxygen and a Xanax. But then in the second half, England looked like they had shotgunned a case of Red Bull in the locker room because they were back! Nervously I paced about the living room watching one French fumble after another, and then with only four minutes left in the match and England ahead 24-19, I began to feel the sadness and disappointment wash over me, it wasn’t a nice feeling. But then if by swirly, sparkly, magic, a very unexpected thing happened… France found their je ne sais quoi again. A shiny, new nineteen year old, straight off the bench scored a try, and that was that. France won 26-24 and my house shook with happiness.
And then in a most unlike him, most unexpected way, Gregory declared that we should go out to celebrate the wonderful, unexpected day that was. So we went out and hit the town! (Not exactly, The LPV doesn’t really have a ‘town’ to hit, we hit the restaurant down the road, but in my old age, that’s all the ‘town hitting’ I can handle).