Life as an Imminent Emigrant

Cosmo's guide to the French language

I've been working my way through back issues of French Cosmopolitan magazine this week, in an effort to improve my language skills.  I don't know if you've noticed, but in many of the petrol station shops off the autoroutes they sell packs of three old Cosmos for about one euro, and my partner-in-emigration (hereafter to be referred to as Squidge, for that is her name, sort of) seems to snap them up each time we fill up with gazole.  Consequently, we now have lots of them scattered around our cottage in England.  They are excellent for learning unusual abbreviations and slang, but I do wonder whether knowing all the linguistic tips for capturing and holding on to my dream man will be as useful as knowing the word for plasterboard, for instance.

In addition to the swathes of Cosmos, we also have a number of post-it notes stuck to the walls around the cottage, in strategic places where we often cast our eyes, such as around the bathroom mirror.  That sounds a bit narcissistic, but you know, it is a wall you spend more time facing than you might think!  So each morning and evening, we gaze upon a wall of yellow, upon which are scrawled black marker translations of words like 'wave', 'rock' and, er, 'dwarf' (these were considered important by Squidge; I suspect she may be taking drugs), and after a few days, you do become familiar with the French words. 

Last night, over a gin and tonic or two, we got the map out and plotted our October househunting route across the Pyrenees from Rennes les Bains to Cauterets.  The realisation that we could conceivably be putting an offer in on a place within two months was hugely exciting, and for once I felt none of the usual accompanying trepidation.  For the first time, after a year or more of distractedly looking at houses to get a feel for prices, we are now looking at houses we could realistically be making offers on in the very near future.  Where once, when things were merely theoretical, I was looking at heaps of rubble proclaiming them to be full of potential, I'm now, after realising the imminence of it all, looking at new-builds thinking, 'hmm, less likely to saw my legs off in this one'. 

Since deciding to embark on this whole project, I've read numerous magazine articles in which people give the reasons for their emigration.  It's odd, but the driving force for many, possibly even the majority, seems to be a negative one.  There is just the teeniest bit of smugness about those insightful British emigrées who have seen 'the writing on the wall' and jumped ship, suggesting that Britain is doomed and that France or wherever is a faultless nirvana.  Which writing?  High unemployment?  Nope.  Prohibitive business start-up charges?  Nope.  An unfashionable language?  Nope.  Excruciating Europop?  Nope (well, ok, occassionally).  Britain is an absolutely brilliant place to live (seemingly much better than Poland, at least!), and I'll miss lots of things about it, but in my case I wanted to do what we're doing simply for the challenge and the adventure.  And ok, the cheap booze.  And proper mountains.

If the price I have to pay is to look at myself in the shaving mirror each morning reciting the French word for dwarf (le nain, by the way, but you knew that), so be it.  

Right, I'm off to get a proper-sized birth certificate.

A bientot.