As much as I fantasize about being one, I’m not the kind of girl who hops a train to Paris twice in one week. But there was a method to my madness. I’ll try to make this long, boring story even longer and more boring.

We had decided to rent a magnificent apartment here in Semur. While it was straight out of a Parisian film, chevron floors, 13 foot ceilings, fancy French mouldings, the practicalities left a little to be desired to say the least. But like a politician in a brothel we were so seduced by beauty that the downside seemed trivial. We were about to sign a lease when a friend of ours just happened to say “I know a guy who has a house here coming up for rent, I’ll call him”.

So I was prepared for the usual letdown of French houses. They’re always drop dead gorgeous on the outside, all stone and shutters and gravel courtyards but one step inside and voilà, la catastrophe! Twice now we’ve encountered the much desired indoor dog doodie area. Quelle horreur!

But this little house was a miracle. Sure, super tiny but well designed and newly renovated (Neil step away from the hammer) with two, count ’em, two toilets (divorce team, stand down) and the tallest shower in France. And to top it all off a completely private terrace and little garden with a fantastic view. All for less than a one bedroom apartment in downtown Halifax. Jackpot!

The house is owned by 3 Parisians so off we went loaded down with reams of papers to audition for the role of renters. One owner clearly thought we were a safe bet. The second, just off the night train from Rome, was harder to read. Their impressions of us would be offered later to the third owner who was in Vienna. Of course she was, what do these people do? Anyway now there are three more people in France who know every detail of our lives down to the last dollar.

See I’m not used to all this being judged worthy mess. What a sorry sight, two middle aged people who have bought and sold 10 houses between them checking their email every 5 minutes to see if they’ve been granted the title of tenants. I’m happy to say we made the cut. I knew this whole moving to France idea was genius (which means it must have been mine). I was ecstatic, swirling about in joyful rapture until a dark wave of reality swept over me. I’m moving. Again. Psychiatrist heal thyself…