Mardi 16 Juin 2015
Diluvian rain 16 degrees
Having been totally shocked at the price of the painting quote on the house which the NZ ladies are buying, I asked another painter to come around and look. He is an English guy and we know him well. He arrived and I didn't recognise him as he was heavily disguised with the silver beard and moustache. I haven't seen him for a while. Painting for a living seems to have taken its toll - unless of course, he has given himself some highlights. His wife was with him. A tiny sprite of a woman, full of energy who attacks the French language with much gusto. She was very impressed by the house. TT her husband took some time to measure up and check all the rooms and then they left and I treated myself to some rum and raisin ice cream and a petit café. That certainly perked me up.
I popped in to the new brocante and the delightful lady came out to chat. She restores furniture and was shabby chic-ing a pair of evil brown doors. She is always hyper. I attribute it to the paint fumes and had to lurk by the door. She is looking for somewhere else to rent so I suggested the Australian people's place and she is interested. Back home and checked emails and the phone rang and it was my notary and she said hello in a high pitched voice. Not good.
The compromis for the house that my colleague sold for me when I was on holiday is set for this afternoon. The seller's notary had obviously only looked at the dossier this morning and had asked for more paperwork, including written approval of the conditions of the compromis from the buyer. My notary was wound up. I rang my colleague and he was out on visit and it was tipping it down and he said shit many times. I got home and rang and emailed the buyer and he sent over the email.
Not having a clue where the seller's notary is, being over 75 kms away and in the middle of a city, I had arranged to follow the sellers in their car. The rain was heavy. The lady was faffing about and they had words. Finally we set off and he didn't drive too fast (I am in aged Renault thanks to OH going off with my lovely smart newish car) and we got to the auto route. It was horrific. The rain was coming down like a power shower. Visibility was bad and people were driving like lunatics. I now regretted having the coffee. My heart rate was matching the windscreen wipers. At long last, we got off the motorway and headed into town.
The problem with following someone is that you have to adopt their driving methods if you want to keep up with them. The seller introduces me to 35 minutes of driving like a French person. I felt I had aged about three years. At one point, I am sure we were in a bus lane. There were buses and us. We arrive at the notary's office and it is full of hot, bored people then they go out of the waiting room and we sit down and the electric goes off. I really, really hope that they have printed out the compromis because I am not coming back over here again. Twenty minutes pass. Reception is deserted and some more clients come in and mill around. Fifteen more minutes pass. My notary still hasn't turned up. Finally, the seller's notary appears and says come upstairs. He doesn't apologise for being late. Black mark.
We had just sat down and the electric had come back on when my notary arrived. The sellers notary turned to her and said, do the buyers speak French. My notary turned to me and I said no, but the contract had been fully explained by my colleague. So, said the sellers notary, they do not speak French. You would do well just to answer the question I asked. I glanced sideways. The sellers were glaring at him. He read through things at speed and then the sellers signed. He didnt even mention the email that we had bust a gut to get hold of this morning. He then said we would need to have a professional translator for the Acte de Vente. My notary said I was fully bilingual, as is my colleague. He laughed dismissively. He is such a knob. We came out and the sellers left and my notary said 'il est penible lui, quoi!' (he is a right pain). Fortunately the rain had stopped and I drove back tranquille.
Very tired. Finished up the pizza and read 'Narrow Dog to Wigan Pier'. Didn't appreciate before that Terry Darlington is a one eyed madman (periodically)