Unthinkable Staircases

Well, after two weeks in France I can safely say I feel physically fitter than I have in a long time – Something which has come about due to a combination of manual labour and some fairly vigorous walking, as my dad seems to have chosen one of the hilliest parts of France to live in. Not that I’m complaining. After a rainy start, the weather is now much better than back in the UK. I’m sat in the sun in a t-shirt as I write this, being observed by a couple of curious lizards perched on an old bread oven.

My Reptilian Overlords

My dad and his partner have a nice little set-up here. There’s the old house in the process of renovation which was last used by a carpenter in the 1960s, a little farmyard area with the bread oven and their camper van currently parked in it, a small field to the rear and an older farm-house, which I’ve dubbed the “Fallout house” due to its incredible state of disrepair and all the amazing artefacts to be found within. Most people wouldn’t give a toss about the bottles and tins still with their decades old labels and old-fashioned ceramic electrical fittings, but I’m in my element. Best finds so far have to be an old art Deco cigarette lighter (sadly beyond repair) and a box of coffin fittings, complete with ornate “The power of Christ compels you!” cast-iron cross. Given that most of the roof and upper floor is now turning to soil in the basement, I’m sure there are even greater treasures waiting to be discovered…

France. France never changes.

We’ve been on a couple of outings – My dad’s partner has returned to the UK to arrange transport for the last of their things and flew out from Carcassonne airport a little way to the south. This enabled me to take in Albi, Castres and Carcassonne, though the latter we spent barely half an hour in due to a torrential downpour. Albi is a nice town. Stunning views of the river valley and very characterful architecture – It boasts one of the largest cathedrals made of some of the smallest bricks I’ve ever seen. Last weekend my dad and I visited Najac and Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val. Once again, fascinating places which just bleed history from their walls. I especially liked Saint-Antonin’s artistic atmosphere – Hardly surprising with its inspiring setting. I don’t think my jaw will ever cease to drop at the number of beautiful old properties lying empty in this part of the world that can be picked up for a song. For 30k and a little hard work you could have yourself a nice town-house, a shop or a country retreat the likes of which would set you back well over 150k in the UK, even in a similar dilapidated condition. Britain is currently trying to bring in a tax on bedrooms – in France you’re only taxed on rooms which AREN’T bedrooms. Predictably, the French just put beds in all their rooms.  I do start to wonder why Britain isn’t empty.

This or a run-down council estate in England? Tough choice.

Lovely as this all sounds, there is of course still the looming reality of my situation, which is the fact that I have no income. Despite the greatly relaxed pressure on my finances due to having hardly any bills to pay (I can’t quite believe how long a small amount of money lasts now) I still look with longing at the bookshop windows and the upcoming DVD releases I had my eye on. And how I miss my car (not to worry readers, Scimona is safe in the care of my uncle – One day we’ll have an adventure together, probably to Saudi Arabia or Iran, the only places on Earth where I can afford to fund her drinking habit). I know now more than ever that I can go without these things, that I don’t need them. But I’m not ready to live the self-sufficient lifestyle of my dad – I’m still part of the material world and I do still want these things, but that realisation feels like a much stronger position to come at life from. I do think “What do I want?” is one of the most important questions for an individual to ask themselves, because it’s the one that determines how they act from that point forward. It’s one I’ve never had much luck answering, but these days I find myself less drawn to the grand world-changing ideals and more to simple pleasures.

I’ve got my eye on the house at the top of the hill.

On one hand the material things I want aren’t difficult to obtain – I don’t desire great wealth and could easily live off a modest wage and still afford myself a few luxuries. It’s the experiences for me which are harder to acquire. I have a tendency to get very tired of places, jobs and even people after a little while (no offence intended to my few long-standing friends – You’ve proved both tolerant of and tolerable to me, traits which make you pretty exceptional people). I would, if I could, probably travel forever. Perhaps some day I might find a place, a profession or people I can tolerate for longer than a couple of years, but then again maybe not. I’m not particularly bothered either way, because aside from slowly chugging towards the Coal Sack on the Galactic Railroad, I don’t believe there is any other destination for me. In many areas of life, it seems many people tolerate a journey they don’t enjoy believing they are headed for a better destination. The most contented people seem to be those who enjoy the journey as much as the destination. I appear to fall into another category entirely and one which little appears to have been written about – That of those who enjoy the journey but not the destination. When I reach one stop on life’s journey, I soon find myself thumbing through the timetable to know when I can leave for the next…

A few weeks ago I got a bit of unexpected news which knocked me back a bit. I had applied for, interviewed for and been offered a job. It had got to the point where I had been sent an employment contract, company pension information, visited the workplace twice on their invitation and been given items of uniform, so I could perhaps be forgiven for presuming it was now a pretty sure thing. Turns out it wasn’t, because it seems my prospective employer either decided they don’t like the fact that I was signed off sick before I left my last job or my previous employer had a change of heart since I left and gave me a bad reference. The cause didn’t really matter – A week before I was due to start a new job I found myself in a situation I certainly hadn’t planned for.

Now, for the last few months I had been sharing a flat with my sister – She had space and for me with no employment it was an economically sound move. But she was due to leave for Australia in May which created a problem. I was anticipating that with my new-found income, I would be able to take over the lease on her flat. However, being notified less than a week before I was due to star my new job that I would in fact NOT be starting a new job created a fairly urgent problem. Many thoughts occurred to me – could I persuade the landlord to take me on even though I would have to collect housing benefit? It’s likely I could have done. It would be less hassle for him to find a new tenant and the rent wasn’t particularly high. I considered this option seriously, but I had to think about what to do, how to tell people. I needed some time to myself to clear my head.

Two days after receiving the news that my new job wasn’t, I set off for an early morning walk about 7am. I had wanted to go for a drive, but it had snowed unexpectedly in the night, the roads hadn’t been cleared and looked pretty treacherous (especially for a 40 year old RWD car not in possession of particularly responsive brakes at the best of times). So I started to walk. I was angry. Why had all my plans fucked up like this? I was dreading telling the Jobcentre. I was dreading telling my sister. To tell them positive news and to actually feel like I was sorting my life out a few weeks ago and now to have to turn round and tell them no, actually nothing is sorted and I have to start again made me feel like  shit. I felt like I had drawn from life’s deck the misplaced Monopoly card  ”Go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect £200″.

It started to snow again. The snow got heavier. Eventually it was coming in so fast and horizontal that I could no longer look up from the ground. The world to me at that moment was nothing but staring downwards, freezing cold, at a blank sheet of white. All I could feel, all I could think getting louder and louder in my head with each step, with each passing second, was one thing:

I Have Had Enough.

I had enough of applying for jobs I don’t even want that wouldn’t bring me any sense of fulfillment in my life, simply because those are the jobs I have experience in and those are the ones the Jobcentre expects me to apply for. I had enough of being dependent on a system which regards me as a statistic. I had enough of sucking up to potential employers and lying to them because I know that’s what would most likely to land me a job. I had enough of playing their game. I had enough of the place. Like a museum exhibit preserved and sanitised for future generations but no longer alive. The fishing fleets and sailing ships long gone, the Wetherspoons opening next week along with four more cafes for the coach parties of old ladies. The rows upon rows of beautiful little houses, all beige-interiored holiday lets with quarter-million price tags. I had enough of this way of life.

So I decided right there and then, as I leant on a railing overlooking a grey sea obscured by blizzarding snow, that I had no desire to stay. So my sister gave notice on the flat. I put my things in storage and packed a tent and sleeping bag, a change of clothes, my netbook, camera and phone. I booked a £28 flight to Rodez in France with Ryanair and on the 24th of March, I left England.

I am, until Nigel and the UKons get their way, a European Citizen. This gives me the right to live and work anywhere in the EU – Why not take advantage of that? Why not use the situation as an opportunity and do something different to what I’ve done before? Why believe there’s only one way to live, as sanctioned by society? So here I am, living in a tent in the South of France as I help my dad renovate an old farm house. And now I’m free to find something to do anywhere, without being tied to rental agreements, Jobcentre appointments or utility bills. I feel enthusiasm again to do what I really enjoy, which is to write. And now I have something to write about because I have a story, or at the very least my story has a beginning. Let’s see where it goes.