Cowboys and Indians

Sadly this post is not an exposé of rogue builders or even call centre workers in Mumbai. Nope, This load of old nonsense is yet another tale (yawn) from my life in France - unexpectedly dragged to the fore by my discovery of Baccus’ excellent 6mm Pony Wars range.  Hopefully it’ll give you a chuckle even though it’s (as usual) at my own expense.

Now then. It’s well known in my family that I've been mad since I was a teenager, though these days it’s known as chronic depression and anxiety. It wasn't talked about much back in the day since it carried a stigma second only to being born in Birmingham (which I was). Times change of course; fashions come and go. Lately; depression and anxiety seems have become the new rock n roll - and, like being born in Birmingham, has developed a sort of strange caché all of its own. (What do you mean you haven't watched the Peaky Blinders?) Anyway - let’s get it out there, I was both nuts and social distancing way before it was cool. A trail blazing trendsetter, if you will.

The inevitable outcome of such a diagnosis was that I'd been on meds of one sort or another for a good long time, and probably would be still if it hadn't been for a strange confluence of events that followed our move out to France in late 2014. 

The Département we moved to was entirely agricultural and very sparsely populated, (since anyone with youth, brains, or talent had left for the big city at some point during the 1960's). 

The farmers that remain in the area are all tighter than a gnats chuff and while a doctors appointment to discuss mental health problems would cost 25 euros, a length of rope to hang themselves in an empty barn would only cost them 15. For a true Cruesois that's a total no brainer.

Wow, that got dark real quick didn’t it! *

Unsurprisingly my new doctor had lots of experience sorting out hip replacements but not a lot in ministering to the partially deranged. When I left his Cabinet de Médecin I had a prescription whose daily dose of tablets looked not unlike a Woolworths pick 'n' mix. The side effects listed on the boxes were daunting and included diarrhoea, breathlessness, migraine, hallucination, heart arrhythmia, etc etc. 

The plus side seemed to be that I would no longer be in the clutches of an existential crisis, the minus that I might have to pay for that inner calm by having a heart attack, a blinding headache, or s***ting myself to death. Maybe even all at once! Choices, choices.

I've already chronicled some of the early domestic disasters that followed in the wake of our move out there on my old blog, but suffice it to say they went someway to diverting my attention from any "issues" for a while, (being permanently frozen, suddenly penniless, isolated, and faced with a massive building project you are singly ill equipped to deal with can do that it seems). Faced with a barrage of problems I had to put being nuts on the back burner, however the first small period of calm in the Summer of '16 brought all of my ongoing mentalism straight back to the fore.

I'd nipped into the village of Crocq (pronounced crow - if you were struggling with it) to pick up some groceries when the sudden desire to sample a fly trodden eclair from the ville's sole boulangerie popped into my head. Sadly the old crone who owned the joint was never in a rush to respond to the tinkling bell and I was forced to wait impatiently for her to contemplate abandoning Belle and Sebastian on her black and white TV out back. (Nothing and no one ever moves quickly in the Creuse).

The boulangerie in Crocq. Sorry about the crowds. It’s not always as busy as this.

The aforementioned meds helped numb any irritation I might have felt and for some perverse reason the longer she kept me standing by the counter the more I became resolved to passive aggressively wait her out. The otherwise empty shop was as quiet as the grave, apart I gradually realised, from a faint clip clop clip clop coming from the street outside. Naturally I turned to see what it was and through the large plate glass window I saw this...

Yee hah.

Yeah. A ruddy cowboy. Rifle in saddle holster, neckerchief, coiled lassoo, the works. 

I stood and watched as he continued slowly past the window, then suddenly heard... "Monsieur?!"

The crone had parted the beaded fly curtain to see what I was after. Adding to my confusion she showed no sign of having seen anything unusual. Making my excuses (incidentally I suspect the same éclaire may still be awaiting purchase - six years on) I hurried outside to find the street was empty.

Whoa. 

There were no smelly deposits for the roses, no bits of straw. Nothing. No sign he had ever been there. I was totally non plussed.

About a week later I was standing in the builders merchants at Giat when it happened again. The shop was empty and the assistant had gone out the back to look for some pipe fittings I'd had on order. He was rummaging around in the stock room when the main door opened and in walked...

Hold on tharr Bald Eagle.

Yup. A full on Native American Indian. Feathers, war paint, moccasins, you name it. He nodded in acknowledgement then went off around the ailes and out of sight…just as the assistant came back with my pipe fittings. 

I gestured towards the shelves and tried to mime wearing a feathered headdress but assuming I was unhappy somehow with what he'd turned up with the assistant went back to check he'd picked up the right parcel. 

Which was when old Indian chops reappeared, of course. 

Apparently unable to find a wigwam or whatever native Americans want in a builders merchants he swanned back off outside with nary a bye your leave. 

There was of course no sign of the bugger when I left.

Greatly troubled I recalled the potential hallucinatory side effects of my tablets and immediately gave them the elbow. After a long and harrowing cold turkey period I eventually settled into my current new (non) normal.

Three years later, in the summer of 2019 I was clearing out the attic prior to our move back to the UK when I found a bundle of local freebie newspapers I'd been keeping to use as fire lighters. Mostly full of adverts they never got read but the one on the top was from 2016 and on the front page were two chaps I had no problem recognising. 

It turns out that the Cheyenne Bar and Restaurant in Aubusson had been having a promotion of some sort and had hired actors to tour the local area in order to stimulate interest.

The Cheyenne bar and restaurant in Aubusson. Source of all my woes. We’ll some of them at any rate.

My how I laughed.

Not.

Toodle ooh

* Mental health problems are of course a serious issue. I use humour as a weapon in my fight against it and no offence is intended to other sufferers by my flippancy. These days I try to ameliorate the problem with exercise sunlight and music. 

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes.

This hauntingly beautiful track helped to take the edge off recently. Close your eyes, (not if your driving for Gods sake) and give it a listen.

Over to you Sophie.