How difficult is it to do nothing?

The bright orange flickers behind the solid oven door in the kitchen looked to be up to the task. The thermometer, unmoved at 13.9 degrees Celsius, stated otherwise.

We had had notification of this power outage three times previously with three subsequent reprieves. So, I was mildly optimistic that life on this cold winter’s day in the mountains would again be uninterrupted.

Nonetheless, cautious, and not at all interested in testing my spartan capabilities in freezing water, I showered early, ran the dishwasher, and set the washing machine to finish before 8 am--the scheduled electricity cut-off time--then boiled the kettle and filled a thermos ready for an instant morning coffee (not my first preference but ‘faute de grives on mange des merles.’)

 

This time, however, the notice was spot-on. I hot spotted my phone to my computer and started work as normal. Bzzzz, the battery exhausted-blackness stopped me mid-sentence, a couple of hours later. My phone, already on low power mode, was threatening to following suit. I’m a problem-solver, I thought. I’ve got this. There must be a solution.

 

Perhaps I could sit in the car with the engine running as it re-charges my phone? Ugh. Out of cars this week. To the angst of its owner--me--one of our cars had happily taken up residence at the mechanics four weeks ago and seemed to be happily living out of home with no thought of resuming co-habitation with its parents. Wait, was I still talking moving vehicles here? Its sister (of the mechanical kind) had left home at 5 am on its way to work this morning.

 

Neighbours? Nuh-uh. They’re in the same powerless boat.

 

Hmm. Can’t work, can’t study Italian online, can’t type up a quick blog entry … what to do?

 

Soothing rom-com or documentary set in Italy on Netflix? Whoops. Please forget that I even mentioned that energy reliant device.

 

Walk the dog? Walk to a café? That would be a most satisfactory option if my back hadn’t sent me into spasms yesterday. Hopefully, that inconvenience will disappear less stealthily than it arrived.

 

Food? I knew there was an answer. Standing with the fridge door ajar, I peered for a long minute (old habits die hard) into the semi-darkness. “Yay,” I cried out. “I spy some, hmm, cold soup.” Not a wonderful winter warmer. But Catherine, I reasoned, calling on my latent warrior inclinations, there is more than one way to plumer un dindon, d’éplucher l’abricot, de plumer un canard … (After all, I’d rather not fouetter un chat.) I have an old-fashioned, wood-burning stove at my service.

 

What now, I wondered after I had taken a flight of fancy to our proposed Italian future courtesy of my chunky bean and orechiette soup. Ah yes. I am midway through a beautiful story. I can read. And hanging tightly onto the banister, I hauled myself step by step to my bedside table, grabbed my tome and gingerly redescended, accepting the illusory invitation proffered by the cloudless blue winter’s sky to settle on the deck outside.

But, concentrating so hard on concentrating, concentration evaded me and instead of forcing the delectation of exquisite prose, I plucked my bookmark from pages already consumed ready to tuck it back in place.

 

For my mum because I love her.

 

That--the single line on an old florist’s card serving as my marque-page--did it. I was officially distracted. But motivated too. I re-positioned myself at my desk, and searching unsuccessfully for digital confirmation of the number of hours I had left to endure before technological re-connection, threw a look over my shoulder at the microwave. Shrugging instead, I opened a notebook, picked up a pen, and started scribbling.

 

PS Stoking the fire assiduously, I have managed to get the room temperature up to 15.4 degrees Celsius.

 

Note to self: Should write freehand more often as my scrawls are becoming increasingly hard to decipher.

Catherine's books for purchase:

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s