It is an unforgiving, bitterly cold evening when I’m crammed in a too-small tepid bath, listening to the drip, drip, drip of the faulty tap. A bath used to be my sanctuary! My fall from grace has even affected how I pamper myself.
Shame doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Before, a Jo Malone scented bath, Aveda candle flickering, glass of Veuve Clicquot champagne and a glossy magazine would have been my treat.
Not anymore.
I’ve just pulled a Bic razor across my leg. (Me, who swore by waxes!) As the blood trickles into the water I think... deep breath... I think... here goes... about a deliberate pull to an artery and what it would do. Oh God. I can’t believe I’m even thinking like this...
I wonder how long would it take? To slip into unconsciousness and leave this world? I’m shaking; part in desperate anguish, part utterly ashamed of myself and part in sheer disbelief that I can even entertain such thoughts.
I couldn’t, though. Could I? Could I... Just then the bathroom door crashes open. I freeze. It’s Ambrose. Uninvited, he trots in, thinking he’s all that, one of my Agent Provocateur bras inexplicably dangling from his mouth. I know the deal: I’m getting ‘the look’ because I’m late for walkies. He drops the bra into the bath and then begins lapping at the foamy bath water. The prospect of one ruined bra and him vomiting in approximately thirty seconds’ time snaps me out of my morbid thoughts. As I pull his nose out, we stare at each other; he cocks his head to one side and starts licking at the tears running down my cheek.
We hope you've enjoyed these extracts and don't worry - there is a happy ending! If you'd like to read on and find out how Sam turned her life around, fell in love and married Pascal, then you can send me a PM to be in with a chance to win a free signed copy of Head Over Heels in France - Falling in Love in the Lot - or if you can't wait, you can order a copy here!
Believe it or not, I'm just like a lot of other expats who've settled in France. I still grapple with the language, I have to eke out a living via freelance work in the UK (in a 'profession' I had to carve out once I'd arrived here) and, like a lot of people, I try and make ends meet every month. It was difficult the first year and I really hope that my experience resonates via my wee memoirs - perhaps not with your good self and Alexander - but with others.
Sam, ditto the comments made by Alexander. I gorged on this type of book during the early days of my love affair with France. Whilst others onboard hakered after Wilbur Smith and Sven Hassle, my weeks and months passed by with commical tales of another life. However, they have been done now and we move on.
Hopefully our comments were not seen as personal criticisms but constructive comments.
A lot of books have been written, and written well, on this subject. This, from the extracts, is not one of them. I’m aware that Sam is a personal friend, and as such you owe a degree of protection, however, poke your head above the trench and you will be shot at!
Sam should possibly engage in some positive PR work, I wouldnt recomend Max Clifford currently. She has a lot to do in order to repair some historical clangers. Mention her name to my OH and it produces a scowl with the accompanying grunt of “THAT woman”. However I’m sure the observations of an ex matelot will not upset Sam.
Anyway, I’m off to the Bakers now. I’m sure I will pass a blue clad old Frenchman leaning over a broken down rusting 2CV smoking a yellowing cigarette whilst cleaning a fuel filter to the sound of chickens arguing in the back of his car which they share with a pile of drying old twisted vines. Once at the bakers I won’t be able to get in as Monsieur chases madam out of the shop as she longingly looks out of the window awaiting my imminent arrival. This is probably why men hate me, for being so awesome and gorgeous, and woman buy me drinks constantly.
Is there possibly a need for my wife to check my phone!
