En France - 5 years on......................

I’ve realised that while isolated from my own country, city, and even the people with the same interests as myself in general, I’ve actually been happier, and more content with both myself as a person, my situation, and the small amount of material items which I’ve been to able to re-gather during my new life thus far.

Just an example of this is my car.

I’ve always been an avid petrol-head to some degree, and purchased my first iconic car while still living in London at around the tender age of thirty-one. It was the model I'd always wanted, suited my budget, but also met the strict aesthetic requirements I require with most things.

Upon first driving, although 11 years old, she felt like a Rolls Royce (the thought of which often makes me chuckle to myself now), and despite the meagre sum paid, which incidentally, I’d taken out a five year loan for), I drove around happily, often feeling like lord of the manor, but in a good, not pretentious way.

Finding myself in a rural French village, cut off from civilisation as I knew it, I’d turned to the internet and found a forum for car enthusiasts like myself. There were many helpful members, a few of which went out of their way to help me when having to carry out budget repairs on my non-existent salary as an artist. However, as time went on I found many members frowned upon owners of the smaller cars of the same marque.

Perhaps I was naïve to be surprised by this ‘in-house’ snobbery, but over time it began to wear me down, until I felt my Rolls Royce was nothing more than a heap of scrap. I find it ironic that after deciding to stay away from the enthusiasts my car suddenly, once more, became a Rolls Royce again; we’re now once more happily reunited.

A long-winded example, maybe, but proof of how others can ultimately influence your psyche, making a content individual question their passions, and perhaps even make them feel inadequate, sometimes to the extent of them feeling the need to cater to satisfy the tastes, expectations and approval of others, in order to be accepted into the clique, etc, etc.

Reading this, you might consider buying into this philosophy a sign of a weak-mind. However, it actually happens within most peoples’ lives if you think about it. After all, isn’t that what makes us strive to obtain certain items of fashion, jewellery, cars and maybe even partners?

If you lived on a desert island, would a Cartier watch on your wrist make you a happier man? Would a brand new wardrobe of designer clothes mean anything?

I think you know the answer is a resounding NO!

In other words, these materialist items, for the most part, are obtained to impress others, to not only fit into society, but to be relished by it.

Who is this guy?

I'll tell you..............I'm a thirty-something, originally from the heart of urban UK, but now residing in the depths of rural France.

I wasn't always an artist. I once had what I considered a great job, working for a busy corporate identity company, under the somewhat dubious job title of, 'Project Manager.' I say dubious, as it was a title given to me when I'd one day asked my boss:-

'What's my job title? Everyone I know seems to have one, but what's mine?'

'Well,' he said, 'Let's think now..........................................How does project manager sound?'

'Sounds good to me!' I replied.

Of course, I really bought into this new status, despite being just one of two employees! The other two were my bosses, both joint directors of the company.

However, I was in charge of organising all incoming work, answering phones, working on monthly accounts, and most importantly, instructing and chasing-up a fleet of nationwide based, sub-contractors, which more or less listened to me, if they wanted our company to pay them. There were many other duties, but they’re far too dull/embarrassing to bother mentioning. What I will say is, it often felt like I was running the company single-handedly.

After five years a generous pay-packets and bonuses, the company went into decline, and I could see them losing money. I remember a year passing with hardly a new contract coming in, and it was certainly written on the cards that my job was in imminent danger. I did some detective work and found a redundancy payout would barely make one month's rent on my studio appartment (with shared bathroom). As a side note, the upside to this minuscule apartment, or should I say, room, was it’s sought after location which made it kind of acceptable, I guess.

To cut a long story short, unable to gain an interview for a new job, and fearing my the security of my current one to be pulled from beneath me, I'd made a snap decision to move to France...............I was single, all my friends were married with kids, and rarely kept in touch, and anyway, even if I did eventually find new work, buying a house in the UK as a singleton was near impossible.

I had family I could stay with across The Channel, and planned to set up a business selling my art (I'd had two eBay sales to my name at this point, selling 2 of 4 abstracts I'd created), and as art was the only way I could make money from very little capital, it was really my only option.

What better place to be an artist, than in romantic, bohemian France!

The plan was set, and giving in my notice to my surprised bosses (who I’m sure were hiding their surprise) had set it in motion.

Look, why the hell are you doing this?

Right, I’ve decided to keep an online diary of my daily struggles, successes and thoughts for the future. I’ll endeavour to keep it as succinct as possible, and in the interests of health and safety, please be careful not to trip over the sarcasm you’re bound to encounter from time to time, and that is often misconstrued as me being a miserable, intense individual, instead of the black humour intended.

Why write online?

I find it relaxing to write; if I want to explain how I feel on such and such a day, I can just forward my blog to whoever; sometimes it's good to air your laundry in public, albeit anonymously; maybe the experience will be therapeutic.

And anyway, there’s not much point hiding my thoughts away in some dust-covered diary that’ll never be read! I’m hoping my ramblings will interest someone out there in cyberspace, strike a chord with a faceless individual in a similar situation, or even just kill a few idle moments while your waiting to be put through to whoever (don’t you just love automated answering machines?).

To be continued…………………………….