238 – Blogley in Auty

By this time next week I’ll be back in France. Where I’ll remain until I die. A wild slashing overly melodramatic statement I know (and almost certainly false) but a forceful way to sum up how much I am looking forward to returning – I’ve even renamed the blog and done a new logo to mark the occasion, and I’m not even there yet. (Still in rain soaked Wiltshire.)

The best part though is the thought of having a permanent bed to sleep in for longer than a week. Over the past four months I’ve had to share my dreams with residential language schools, mud clogged campsites, greasy canal tow paths, patient parents and the threadbare sofas of friends. So it’ll be nice to be finally static after travelling around like some ragged salesman flogging cheap English lessons for glasses of warm lager and diced cabbage. To finally have a place where I can once again concoct my ass blowing curries, cement my cheese/potato top-heavy fish pies into cracked ceramic dishes, kneed and bake my crusty, hard, doughy, luxurious bread rolls. And most of all cook my breakfasts exactly the way I like them – two pieces of fried black pudding topped with two large fried eggs accompanied by fried bacon, fried sausages, fried bread. No beans or tomatoes, washed down with 5 cups of strong thick coffee. Heart food, ready for another five months of chopping logs in rural France in winter.

Yes, at last, me and Elizabeth are heading off on another house sitting caper, this time to the ‘wilds’ of Tarn and Garonne in South West France near Montauban to look after a Château and a cat until next April. It’s the 4th house sit we’ve done and to be frank we could have gone anywhere in Europe this time, inundated as we were by offers in Spain, Morocco, Switzerland and Paris to name a few.

So many in fact that I suddenly realised as I scrolled down the emails, that I’ll never have to pay rent again. I haven’t paid a cent for the last three years, I thought, so why start now. In fact the whole idea of paying rent seems totally ludicrous. Especially when I can live in large country houses and castles for free. Or log cabins in Arcachon. Or sleepy French cottages in Aude. My only regret is that I never thought of it earlier. Like when I was twenty! Instead of handing over my hard earned cash (or my dad’s cash) to greasy, B&H puffing landlords. Since I left home in 1992, I’ve worked out that I’ve forked out about £30,000 in rent. When all the time I could have been living for fuck all. Agghhh! Of course, there wasn’t internet 20 years ago, but I bet there were adverts for house sitters in newspapers and magazines. Probably my fault for buying electric guitar magazines throughout my twenties instead of HouseSits4U…

A naysayer of a friend pointed out to me a few weeks ago that house sitting is in actual fact just glorified serfdom, looking after the homes of the rich. There is a grain of truth in that for sure. But no more, I told him, than being a slave to the banks in the form of monthly mortgage payments or credit card bills. And seeing as our job at the château entails looking after a sleepy cat, turning a few lights on and off, sweeping up leaves, and generally keeping an eye on the place, it’s hardly penal servitude. Far from it as I plan to write four books, a stage play and produce a full length feature film based on Blogley.

Joking aside ( I wasn’t joking about the film though – it’s happening!), house sitting is just another way of living. And one that I happen to enjoy. As I’ve mentioned countless time before, I support the theory that humans are naturally nomadic creatures and not house dwellers. Even if on this occasion, a 17th century French château is going to have to act as my cave for the winter. Naturally after this assignment is over, I’ll be going back to my roots and moving to the Sahara to live with the camels. In the meantime though, I’m going to have to make do with a five star château, from where I’ll be regularly updating my progress in Blogley in France Part V*.

*Click on the ladder styled sidebar icon at the top right hand corner of the page for further posts. There’s lots! Loads in fact! Too many most likely. Unless you’re reading this from prison or hospital, in which case you should have loads of time to wade through four years of Blogley! Or check out the short films in the film section!

bloglery in france

237 – Four Years of Blogley

It’s been four years since I wrote my first post. Which started like this:

After a two-year break, I’ve ended up in France. I’m watching the Algerians below my window holding hands and the Senegalese watching football through the windows of a bar. I live in Guillotiere, which is part of Lyon. A heady mixture of Arabs, Africans, Vietnamese, Chinese and me, crammed into a couple of blocks south of the Rhone. It’s good to be back in France. I have fond memories of my time on a farm 20 km east of Avignon when I was nineteen.’

For those who have never read Blogley, it goes on in the same vein for the next four years. It’s all pretty self explanatory. The only thing that baffles me though about the entire blog is the very first line.

After a two-year break, I’ve ended up in France…’

A break from what? A break from travelling? A break from teaching? A break from working? A break from living? It’s curious, because I’ve never done anything continuously for two years, so how could I be taking a break from it. Whatever it was though must have been worth it, because the blog has grown to 150,000 words covering 237 posts.

In truth, I don’t know why I write it, or even what it’s about. I simply enjoy it. It takes time, but it’s time well spent. Sometimes it gets frustrating because I can’t get down exactly what I want. But that’s another reason to do it. After every post I’m a slightly better writer even if some of the posts are intensely boring, I say that myself. I mean who cares about pool cleaning. Remember those ones?

I could question if the time I give over to the blog is worth it. But then I would start questioning a lot of things. Like watching films, or listening to games of football on the radio. The hours spent cooking meals, worrying about work or being angry about politics. Talking to Elizabeth about story ideas for books and films that will never be  made or written. Running from point A to point B for exercise. Drinking red wine in the evening because it tastes so damn good with Stilton cheese.

If I questioned all of the above, I’d have nothing left except to go to sleep every evening. And even though I enjoy sleeping, I’m not going to make it my hobby. Golf is a hobby. I like getting a bath, but it’s not my pastime. I write because I enjoy it and I think about it all the time. It’s not a hobby.

When I was at the farm in Queaux, I wrote a novel and it was the most enjoyable thing I’ve ever done. Getting up at seven every day to sit in a cold room looking out over desolate French countryside writing about a character called The Mighty Quad in a book entitled The Return of the Mighty Quad. I haven’t done anything with it – it’s still in front of me here – but it was worth a year of my time. And I would do it again. The Return of the Mighty Quad II is a real possibly.

Me and Elizabeth are off back to France at the end of October. Best thing that’s happened to me in four months of being in England. Where exactly is still in the pipeline, but there are a number of options under consideration. If things had worked out differently, this would have been Blogley in Milan. But things went wrong at the last minute and so the next destination for year five of Blogley is undecided. Naturally when I know, I’ll write a blog about it.

236 – A Four Day Walk Along The Avon Kennet Canal For Absolutely No Reason Whatsoever

There is a gap in my summer posts. In July I went for a walk along the Avon Kennet canal. I was going to write about it after I got back but forgot. Only to be reminded of it a few days ago when I found the shaky film footage of the trip on my camera. Prising the half rusted memory card out of it, I ruthlessly edited it down in a vain attempt to make it look exciting. Which was hard, as nothing happened during the entire four days. Except for a brief run in with a canal boat owner over a dog, sheltering under a bridge from the rain for two hours, and visiting a Long Barrow. The rest of the time I walked, ate, drank a few beers, and slept. Below is a short film of this epic trip.

235 – Blogley in Marrakech

This week I find myself in Marrakech teaching English to engineers at a phosphate mine 10kms north of the city. It’s hot. About 35 degrees, but it doesn’t seem to bother me too much. I’ve camped out in enough shitty English weather to appreciate searing heat, even if I have to work in it.

When I got back to my apartment at the end of my first day, there was a selection of dried fruit and nuts laid out for me that I wolfed down in seconds. This was despite eating a massive plate of salad, grilled lamb, steamed chicken, poached fish, gratin dauphinois and crepes for lunch.

My apartment has two floors, three bathrooms, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a lounge, a courtyard, and 41 lights switches. Which is insane, and is like having a small hotel to myself. When the security guard showed me in on the first night I asked him who else I was sharing with. Thinking of course that I would be sharing with other students or teachers.

He looked at me. ‘It’s just for you, Sir?

‘But,’ I said pointing at the stone steps. ‘Where do the stairs go?’

‘That’s your lounge, kitchen and veranda.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I replied trying to look unimpressed as though I stayed in luxury Arabic villas every week.

He left smiling and I ventured upstairs stepping out onto the veranda area which was bigger than the flat I had in Lyon. I then wondered if they had got me mixed up with a company executive, the teachers’ quarters being in a ditch in the desert where the camels live. But clearly not. This was all mine.

However, I didn’t have time to admire my bedrooms, or lounge, or the ludicrously thick cotton bathrobe. It was nearly half past two in the morning and breakfast was at 7.30. Teaching started at 9 and I hadn’t prepared a thing. I showered, dived into bed, set the alarm and then dived out again five hours later shaking the clock.

‘Are you serious?’ I said to it. ‘Morning already? I’ve only just gone to bed.’

It was a tiring day, but nothing fifteen espressos couldn’t fix. And a swim afterwards in the pool was a nice reward for arguing with 15 Moroccan engineers for six hours over minuscule (and irrelevant in my view) elements of the English language. Back in my apartment I was looking forward to dinner.

The food at the residential teaching college in Wiltshire where I work is good, but this is a step up. It’s the top of the ladder, the bit where you reach the roof and are knocked to your death by a sudden gust of wind. It’s that good. Fine Moroccan lamb, beef, chicken, fish, salads, cakes, sweets, plus hot soup for breakfast.

Yes, hot soup for breakfast, when the temperature is already 27. Great idea. The same concept as drinking tea in hot weather and not cold drinks. The body starts cooling itself down when the soup hits your stomach, so when you go to work you’re feeling cool. And if you’re wearing beige chinos and light brown slip on shoes like me, very cool. In fact if I got lost in the desert, I would never be seen or found again. Just effortlessly blend into the scenery like a camel. Found four years later, the sun dried remains of an Englishman still holding a folder marked English for Mining Engineers.

The city of Marrakech itself is hard to comment on at this point. I had two hours free one evening and was driven there by one of the company chauffeurs and had exactly one hour to look around. I pelted it round the old Medina ignoring the snake charmers, spice sellers, tour guide pushers, watch makers, jewelry vendors, English Premiership replica kit sellers, and took in as much as I could. Then I waited by the main Mosque for the driver to pull up and drive me back to the compound. I’m leading an odd life at the moment, I admit.

Tomorrow I return to England. To Bath. Where I’m told it’s cloudy and rainy. Great.

blogley in marrakech

224 – A CV of Sorts

A few nights ago I started thinking about all the jobs I’ve ever done. I got so obsessed with it, that I dived out of bed, poured myself a carafe of wine and wrote them all down.

They say that a league table at the end of a football season doesn’t lie. The best team won and all of that. Ditto my CV. It wasn’t lying either. Sitting on my coffee table at three in the morning staring back at me like a piece of code. An ancient scroll in an unknown language waiting for me to decipher.

‘What does it all mean?’ I shouted. ‘Where is it all leading me?’ Glug glug.

The first thing I thought was, is there a pattern? Not really. The only thing being that I quit teaching English in 2003 and then took it up again in 2011. Most of the other jobs in between have been a mix of menial indoor and outdoor jobs that I’ve either resigned from, got fired from, or left at the end of contracts. Most I’ve hated. The rest I’ve tolerated.

The only ones I’ve vaguely enjoyed were the ones with free alcohol, or where I’ve been left – totally and utterly – to do the job without some dick breathing down my neck. A rarity.

My job history is chequered that’s for sure. But what does that mean? That I haven’t done the same job for a long period. Or that I’m incapable of holding one down. Or that I’m lazy. A loose cannon. Or perhaps it’s just that I enjoy doing lots of things for short periods in different places because it’s the only life I have?

It doesn’t really matter does it? It’s just a CV. It means nothing. Nobody nails it to your coffin at your funeral with a ‘See Me’ written on it, ‘Could have done better’, just as you’re about to be shunted into the fires of eternity.

I’m not worried about my CV in the slightest. In fact I’m quite proud of it. It’s rich and varied. It illuminates my personality, shows off my character, demonstrates my abilities as a human being, not a machine. Whether a prospective employer would think the same is totally and utterly irrelevant. Because the question I’m asking myself is this:

Would Philip Ogley employ Philip Ogley? And as I’m the boss now. The answer would be a definite and conclusive yes.

The CV of Philip Ogley (now aged 41)

 July – Aug 1990 – John Smedley Ltd – Labourer

July – Aug 1991 – John Smedley Ltd – Warehouseman

July – Aug 1992 – Chesterfield Council – Dustbin man

April – Aug 1993 – MAFF, Mansfield – Field researcher (potatoes)

April – Aug 1994 – INRA, Cavaillon, France – Field researcher (peppers)

April – Aug 1995 – Zeneca, Bracknell – Field researcher (barley)

Sept 1996 – March 1997 – Students Union, Nottingham – Barman

July 1997 – Aug 1998 – Boulevard Sound Systems, Nottingham – Sound engineer

Nov 1998 – Mission beach hostel, Australia – Hostel hand

Nov – Dec 1999 – Hockley Organic Restaurant, Nottingham – Commis chef

Aug 2000 – Nottingham Language Centre – EFL teacher

September 2000 – Papa Language school, Trikala, Greece – EFL teacher

Oct 2000 – June 2001 – Cambridge School of English, Warsaw, Poland – EFL teacher

July 2001 – Nottingham Language Centre, Nottingham – EFL teacher

Sept 2001 – Jan 2002 – Centro de Lenguas y Estudios, Granada, Spain – EFL teacher

Feb – May 2002 – BRNC, Dartmouth, Devon – EFL Teacher

May – July 2002 – Southgate Hotel, Exeter – Barman

Aug 2002 – Aug 2003 – Globe English School, Exeter – EFL Teacher

Feb – April 2004 – Devon County Council, Exeter – Data Entry Clerk

April – Sept 2004 – Pavani’s Italian, Exeter – Sous chef

Sept – Nov 2004 – La Finca , La Vega, Venezuela – Field Researcher (watermelons)

Dec 2004 – May 2005 – Cafe Rouge, Exeter – Waiter

Aug 2005 – Pizza Express, Exeter – Waiter

Aug 2006 – Bristol City Council – Telephone Clerk

Oct – Nov 2006 – Bristol Novelty, Bristol – Warehouse picker

Jan – May 2007 – The Bristol Advertiser, Bristol – Editor

Aug 2007 – Aug 2008 – The Royal Mail, Bristol – Postman

Oct 2008 – Sept 2009 – The Bristol Flyer, Bristol – Barman

Nov 2009 – Feb 2010 – The Mighty Miniature, Bristol – Bookseller

May – Sept 2010 – Gibbs Catering, Bristol – Driver and caterer

Nov – Dec 2010 – Haines Xmas Trees, Bristol – Christmas tree seller

March – July 2011 – Communicaid, Bristol – EFL Teacher

Sept 2011 – June 2012 – Linguarama, Lyon, France – EFL Teacher

July 2012 – August 2012 – IFIS, Bristol – EFL Teacher

Sept 2012 – July 2013 – Linguarama, Lyon – EFL Teacher

Sept 2013 – Oct 2014 – La Jouachere, Queaux, France – House sitter

March 2015 – Cetradel, Bordeaux – EFL Teacher

Jan – May 2015 – Villa Tosca, Taussat, France – Pool boy

June 2015…?