The sale of our French house is almost complete when disaster strikes. I live by the maxim: when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. But what if life surprises you with a clogged drain, an overflowing septic tank, and a smelly water ballet in the kitchen?
A battalion of French craftsmen arrives to combat the disaster. They don’t need coffee and they don’t want to talk. They actually want you to read the newspaper quietly, but I’m just not baked that way. I see them disappearing up to their waists in the tank and the kitchen cupboards, where they mumble ‘oh la la’ and ‘c’est pas possible’. Then they make long calls.
While I search the dictionary for the translation of ‘gooseneck’ and ‘water pump pliers’, the realization dawns that no lemonade can be squeezed out of this lemon. Nothing is more difficult than to acquiesce in your own utter futility.
