So this is where I live…I actually pay actual money to live in this space. For every one of you who think it romantic to live in Paris, showered with snails and garlic and kisses, let me convey a short riposte of reality.
Around four years ago, the shower in the flat upstairs, obviously noticing that it was way more fun downstairs at my place, decided to come down and say hi. It chose to come down via the ceiling and the living room wall, rather than using the front door like a polite shower should. It continued to pay regular visits over the course of 2 years until finally the people upstairs were legally forced to seal it in and prevent its errant night-time wandering.
Ever since, anyone who has visited chez moi has remarked upon the incredibly beautiful watercolour inked directly onto my living room wall. It was a unique mural of my own, a melting, surreal landscape, a series of brown and white markings reflecting the putrid Parisian horizon outside. Quite appropriate really, I live less than 50 metres from the Salvador Dali museum in Montmartre. With the benefit of hindsight, I genuinely miss that mural; in fact, I miss having a wall at all.
During these past four years, I’ve welcomed all number of insurance experts, architects, body corporate representatives and various residents of the building, each of them stopping by to inspect ‘the wall’. It is surprising that ‘the wall’ has never fallen on my head. It is equally remarkable that I haven’t yet died of asbestos or lead poisoning; the building is after all, over 100 years old. It was, after the war, home to a brood of pretty Parisian prostitutes; likely the last time anyone had sex chez moi.
My landlords sued the landlord upstairs and then they sued the body corporate. They even had a bash at trying to get me to pay for the damage, but I’m nothing if not a colossal pain in the arse when wrongly accused. None of it worked, their insurance finally agreed to pay for the repairs. Enter stage right, Dodgy Incorporated.
Two months ago, I was informed that the repairs, repainting two rooms and fixing the wall, would commence mid-January. I was also informed that during this time I would be required to leave chez moi and live chez my landlords’ parents for four weeks. The day before I moved, it was casually dropped in conversation that the painter, Monsieur Dodgy, and his wife, Madame Dodgette, would be living chez moi, for the duration of the repairs.
Forgive me for swearing, but what the up-your-French-fucking-arse fuckitty fuck? My initial reaction to being forcibly evicted while someone else lays their sweaty builders’ buttcrack all over my Pink Egyptian Cotton sheets was about as subtle as the red cheeks of the ladies of the night, former occupants of chez moi. Documenting said reaction in slightly more palatable terms proved easy enough. Small victory to me, The Dodgy Double would not be sleeping in my bed. Though what they did do couldn’t really have been worse.
My venerable godfather, Big Al, is a painter; he has been emblazoned with splotches of white paint since I can remember. My dearly departed father was a carpenter, as he oft reminded us, just like Jesus. As a result, I’m not completely ignorant when it comes to weapons of mass construction. I grew up in a house that was constantly being renovated and despite my lack of training I regularly helped out. I can wield a paintbrush and a cordless drill with absolute confidence. So last weekend, when I returned to my little flat on the hill, I was stunned. I could have done a better job with my hairbrush and a box of Lego.
As any lady knows, when you are doing your eye make up, you hold a tissue below your lower lashes to catch any fallout from your lids onto your cheeks. Similarly, gravity dictates that if you’re going to attempt to paint anything, the first rule is to protect the floor. The second is that you need massive lengths of masking tape. I know this, and I’m a barely qualified HR chick whose only experience painting is what I do each morning to my face. If you were making a living from painting other people’s walls, I’m guessing you’d have learned about protecting the client’s belongings at some point during your apprenticeship? I’d like to know, Dodgy McDodgerson, why are there drops of paint on every flat surface in the apartment…ironically, every flat surface except for the single wall that was meant to be fixed?
In a truly spectacular display of productivity à la française, I’ve been returned to my little flat to live in a space that is less liveable than it was when I left. In four weeks, Dodgy Destructions have repainted every room except for the living room, the damaged one. They’ve also broken down the entire wall and most of the ceiling in order to ascertain the scale of the damage to the structural integrity of the space. These architectural geniuses, after ripping off seven layers of the plaster, have ascertained that the beams need to be replaced. Dodgy PhD could not have ascertained this fact without removing the only thing that protects me from the cold, from the ancient chimneys, from all manner of dust and crap hidden in the century old walls?
Could they not have just made small holes? Could they not have used the fancy infrared things that look through the plaster? Could they not have done anything even remotely like fixing the hole and a lot less like breaking new ones?
Because it’s France and nothing is ever easy, the body corporate are now involved so everything has come to a grinding halt; the walls cannot be fixed by a company other than one chosen by the body corporate. They need to get quotes, they need architects to analyse the structure, they need to schedule the repairs in accordance with the wishes of the surrounding apartments, they need to do all of this in their 35 hr work week with 2 hours off for lunch everyday. Meanwhile, I’m living in Chernobyl!
My landlords were no longer able to accommodate me in the tiny chamber of loneliness and despair up in the ghetto of desperate youths; I had no choice but to come home. But first, adding insult to injury, I had to move Dodgy Dude’s paint kit out of my living room.
But…hold onto your paint-splattered hats, the next chapter might just be the perfect happy ending to this less than Disney adventure.
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