The Mairie

Apparently, according to Jeff, who seems to know a thing or two, we should really announce ourselves to the Mairie, pronounced Maree. Jeff says the mayor, Monsieur Coq, does not like the English, does not speak English and can be remarkably rude. When Jeff told us all this, we didn’t really believe it, but the truth turned out to be somewhat more strange.

Monica thought she should dress up to go and see the mayor and insisted I wore a suit and tie. I told her my suit and tie wearing days were over, but she insisted. But that was easier said than done, because we haven’t finished unpacking and I had no idea where my suit was. I was a bit grumpy about this and did a sort of desultory look. I couldn’t find it and said I thought smart casual would be okay. I got one of those looks women can give when they think men are being feeble. Of course, she located the suitcase with the suit and tie in double quick time, so off we trotted to the mairie. It felt like first day at school.

I had no idea what we were going to say to M. Coq and was still in a somewhat tempestuous mood when we arrived at the building that houses the mairie. Monica said that all we had to do was introduce ourselves, shake his hand and tell him how much we liked the village.

He wasn’t there, of course, but a very fierce woman with extraordinary red hair - out of a bottle, Monica said from of the corner of her mouth – shouted at us to wait. So we waited.  M. Coq eventually turned up after twenty minutes, looked us over, spoke to the fierce woman with red hair, and beckoned us to follow with an imperial wave of the hand. He ushered us into his office, indicated a couple of hard chairs and took up his position behind a vast desk. The first thing that struck me was the gigantic photograph of de Gaulle on the wall behind him. It was then that I also noticed the enormous lobster in a large tank across from his desk. It was completely mesmerising and I was only brought back to reality when M. Coq spoke. “Vous êtes Monsieur et Madam …?” Monica, with her excellent French, told him we’d just arrived in the village and wanted to present ourselves. M. Coq, whose voice, gravelly and basso profundo, is redolent of long sessions of brandy and cigarettes, grunted, got up from his chair, ferreted in a cupboard and thrust a large carrier bag at Monica. “Pour le triage,” he said, waving his arm to signify we should take the bag and that the meeting was over.

We got home rather shell shocked, Monica still clutching the bag. I still have no idea why he gave it to us, why he keeps a lobster in a tank and why he still has a photo of de Gaulle above his desk, where he should have a photo of the current president. But then, as Jeff said, French mayors are a law unto themselves and you must never get on their wrong side. Point taken.