“My daughter has moved to Nice you know,” was a phrase I was unfortunate enough to hear escape my mother’s lips when I was back in England a few weeks ago. One day I will be brave enough to try to explain to her that Hubris Tempts Fate, that Pride Leads to A Fall.
We’re living in Nice for six months and no more. It’s planned that way, otherwise we’d have to register residency and pay French taxes, which are a crippling expense. I have this premonition that when we return home in the summer, the response will be: “Oh. Didn’t you like it then? What went wrong? Never mind, best buy a house in Nottingham.”
We do like it. A lot. We like the fresh air and the windy sea front and the constant sunshine and not being cold even though it’s only March, and the Parma ham eating/overconsumption of cappucinos/Dionysian red wine drinking… I don’t think either of us want to leave.
