Two weeks ago I came home to two men sitting at my kitchen table. One was my landlord, the other, a real estate agent.
"Paniques pas," said my ever-charming proprietaire. He assured me he was only thinking about selling the house. Thinking about it? There was a realtor sitting in Emma's chair with official looking forms sprawled where she normally eats her cereal. Don't panic? Too late.
A week later two workmen arrived to repair the roof. Today painters are erecting their scaffolding outside my kitchen window. As the place has been left virtually untouched since the mid '70's, this does not bode well. It's one thing to move because you want to; it's quite another to be evicted. While I've been assured that the local laws favour us locateurs, I can't help but be worried. It may not be our house, but it's our home.