“Never again!” That’s what Jones said as we heaved the furniture into the centre of the study in preparation for the painters. She didn’t so much say it as breathe it from somewhere deep down - a slow, heartfelt part-sigh, part-exclamation. By the time the painters had finished taking down shelves, disconnecting the electronics and draping furniture in plastic in order to gain unhindered access to the walls, I was starting to share her feelings.
“Well,” I pointed out to her unwisely, “You were the one who wanted the house interior painted.” It wasn’t a profitable line to pursue. The point I’m trying to make is that she was quite right. The interior walls really needed attention. They hadn’t been painted, excepting a few touch-ups here and there, since we moved in nearly seven years ago. Spiders’ webs of fine cracks snaked their way around the plaster, more in fact than the painters thought were warranted by the age of the house. They have been busy filling these cracks and rubbing down before setting about the actual business of painting.
Matching the original colours has been quite tricky. That’s because the firm that supplied the paints went computerised a few years ago and completely changed their inventory. They had some difficulty matching the old references with the new colour range. Like most suppliers these days, they punched the codes into a computer which spat a cup of coloured liquid into a can of white paint and promptly set about mixing it up. All in all, it’s worked out quite well.
The painters are Nelson (son of Horacio, the local builder) and his partner, Joao. They are excellent and always in demand, which is one of the reasons that we’ve had to wait for Nelson’s services. He remains confident that the job can be completed by the middle of next week, in time for the arrival of Llewellyn and Lucia. The upstairs should be done by Saturday evening, which will give us time to get things in that area sorted out while the painters are busy downstairs.It’s not only the painters who have complicated our lives this week.
On Tuesday the man who installed locks on all the downstairs sliding doors last week returned to secure the upstairs doors. It wasn’t his day. He had barely set about drilling the necessary holes in the first door than his drill-bit nicked the double-glazing, causing a fine crack to run across the glass. Having done exactly the same thing during my amateur attempts to secure a window, I knew how easy it was. The lock man was visibly dismayed at the damage to both the door and his anticipated profits – to say nothing of the effort required to remove the door for repair or the consequent discomfort for the residents.
The upshot was that the lock man offered to return the following day and to take both the door and the window to be repaired. I agreed, swallowing my doubts about the probability of seeing him again. Nonetheless, he turned up as promised, with a mate in tow, and took away both items. (I make this sound much easier than it was.) They are due back some time next week. In the meanwhile, we are making a more generous fire at night than might otherwise have been the case.
Stop Press: Joao arrives with news that thieves have struck in Benafim during the night. A hardware shop has been broken into and a cash machine has been prised from a wall and stolen. We are astounded that thieves capable of such organised crime should even have heard of little Benafim let alone found it on the map.
But a visit to the town (to take obligatory pictures for the blog) proves Joao right. A team of workmen was busy repairing the gaping hole in the wall of the building where the cash machine had previously stood, while a host of townsfolk stood around contemplating the enormity of the crime.
Portuguese neighbours were not surprised to hear news of these events (from me). One blamed the government, another drugs and foreigners. I am sure that between them they must be right. We bumped into Idalecio’s dad, who gave us another crate of lettuces – fresh from his fields, juicy and free of sprays.
As always we have entertained and been entertained by our friends and neighbours, including dinner at Alte, which I mention for the sake of the Christmas decorations on the town church. I have little talent for conveying the essence of such social occasions and tend to duck the subject (but I should mention that our Irish neighbours went to great trouble to introduce their French tenants to the local expat community and to make them feel at home.)
Some time ago I was shot down in flames by a female acquaintance who wanted to know what the bride had worn at a wedding I attended. “A white dress,” I responded in my innocence, little dreaming how bereft my answer was of the fine detail being sought by my interrogator. Maybe it’s a Mars and Venus thing.
Jones has taken some stunning pictures of the dawn – her speciality. I note with alarm that the sun is nearing the southern solstice and will soon be heading back our way. Our weather continues misty, mild and dewy damp, with the rain we need always promised for tomorrow or the day after.
I shiver to see that tempera- tures in Calgary (where our family is hunkered down) are some C40* colder than those around here. Little wonder, I reflected, that global warming was not at the forefront of most North American minds.
Friday night we joined neighbours at Loule's Christmas fair, held in a large hall on the outskirts of the town. Basket weavers, cake bakers, medronho makers, jewellers and you name it were much in evidence. The four ladies shown here were happy for me to take their picture when I told them of the good use it would be put to. I fear that there were a great many more baskets for sale than likely buyers.
Jonesy did a little negotiating with a medronho man while I went off to buy some chocolates. One of the stall holders does a line of figs and nuts dipped in chocolate - utterly delicious. Saturday is to be devoted to restoring the upstairs section of the house and hooking up my computer equipment once again - which is why the blog is a little on the late side.
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