I visited my friend’s family for Christmas again last year, which is in Amiens, northern France. Prior to one of our many large, mandatory, well-provisioned, family dinners, we were tasked with driving into town to pickup Grandma’s sort-of boyfriend (it’s complicated). Marcel, the charming chap, invited us to come a little early to have a pre-dinner whisky, which we gladly accepted. As we chatted (via hand signals and our mutual translator), he showed me around his cute little French apartment. Everything seemed perfect to me and felt somewhat akin to how I imagine my pad might look like one day when I’m an old bachelor.
Here’s what I admired:
– The town square was only 1 block away, perfectly positioned for finding beer and food.
– The fridge contained only condiments, yoghurt and butter (of course; he’s French).
– The freezer was well-stocked with frozen meals (because what 80-year old man wants to cook).
– The bedroom was spartan and undecorated like a nun’s quarters.
– The wallpaper and furniture was completely old-school (because why replace it if it ain’t broken).
– The wardrobe had everything grouped and stacked with a label for every pile.
– His shirts were stacked by neck size and labelled appropriately (though I can’t remember why he needs different ones).
– His numerous ties were laid out in a rainbow, to enable easy matching to the chosen shirt.
– A few shelves were dedicated to remnants of his techy days e.g. old telephones and switchboards.
– The place was decorated with a few nice wood carvings and paintings from friends.
In summary, he lives in a simple but well-organised flat in the centre of town and knows how to impress the ladies. When I look at Marcel, I see my future.