Le Plombier ou Le Pompier?

The word for plumber in French is plombier, and the word for fireman is pompier.  They sound almost identical apart from the odd consonant when taken out of context.

The reason this is of significance is that my kitchen tap is leaking.  It needs a new washer I think, but I am hesitant to take it apart and fix it myself.  My landlady, Mdme Choux is currently in Les Etats Unis visiting her daughter and grandchildren, so instead I informed the lovely Rita and her husband Bernard.  They promised to send their son to check out and fix, but it did not happen.

After finding out how to turn the water off (Mdme Choux has left notes for nearly every eventuality), and taking advice from a NZ male of my acquaintance, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  So off I went to Le Bricolage d’Aix.  Bricolage means DIY  in French.  Never let it be said these pages are not educational.  The store is no Mega Mitre 10, but it does extend to many dark and mysterious corners.  In due course, ignoring the many tradesmen in overalls, and noting that the assistants were ignoring me,  I found the kitchen tap section.  There was a selection of new taps on display, and a stand with a thousand different types of washers, including packs with a range of sizes.

Not surprisingly, I was confused.  I thought I would buy one of the multi-choice packs, notwithstanding they cost almost 10 Euros (not cheap).  Then I made a friend.  A very elderly French man, with a bad case of Parkinson’s shakes, was also examining the washer stand.  When an impatient man towing some sort of case around the store nearly knocked him over he remonstrated.  I conveyed my understanding and sympathy, and we were simpatico.

We both stared at the washers for a while longer, then I said, “mais lequel?”  He offered to help, but of course he spoke not a word of English or Franglais.  So I explained about the leaking robinet dans ma cuisine, and said I thought it was similar to one of those on display.  He had an idea.  We would take apart the display model, see what sort of washer it had, et voila.  Indeed.  But, I said I thought we might get into trouble.  “Pfft”, said my friend.  But I am not sure it is quite the same. “Pfft”, he replied, clearly determined that his plan was the answer.

So we took apart the display tap, his hands shaking so badly I had to do most of the work, checked out the washer, and he proudly handed me the similar pack off the stand.  I did not dare refuse his advice so I screwed the tap back together, thanked him graciously, and went off to pay for the washer.  I hope he went home and told his wife that he had helped a young foreign woman out of a tricky situation, and that he got a glow from it.  Of course the washer did not fit and the tap was not fixed.

Having lost all interest in being my own handyman, and slightly afraid I would muck it up and cause a flood, I called Rita again.  Could she come take a look at the leaking tap when she let the cleaning lady in?  Yes, of course she would.  She was sorry, Bernard had to go  into hospital, and she had forgotten about the tap.  “De rien, no problem”, I say, “I will see you at 3 o’clock.”

One of the consequences of this was that I met the cleaning lady for the first time.  Turns out she is a gorgeous 20 something called Erica.  The other consequence was that I ended up buying the Aix en Provence 2018 firemen’s calendar.

Rita examined the tap.  Yes, she agreed it was leaking and needed to be fixed.  This time she really would send her son to fix it.  And if he could not, she would arrange for a plumber to come.  All good.  Problem as good as solved as far as I was concerned, and I got out of their way by going off for my walk.  By the time I came home a couple of hours later a new puddle had formed on the kitchen floor, but otherwise the apartment smelt wonderful and was spotlessly clean, with my every possession rigorously lined up in neat piles as usual.

I settled down to eat my dinner (leftover chicken and potatoes – nothing exotic) and my intercom rang.  That means someone is standing at the entrance foyer door trying to get to my apartment.  I answer, “Bon soir”.  As usual back comes a torrent of French that I do not understand.  I explain that my French is limited, and suggest they have the wrong apartment.  Mais non, il est un pompier d’Aix.  That is what he actually said, but of course what I heard was plombier.  Aha, I think.  Rita has given up on useless son and sent a plumber around straight away.  How amazing they come at 7 pm at night,   I think, as I dash downstairs to let him in.

The man standing in my lobby is about 35, well over 6 foot tall, swarthy, and gorgeous.  Of course he is.  He is a French fireman.  I discover this when he takes out the calendar he is selling door to door, and explains to me that I am under no obligation to buy it, but it is for charity.   Ok, easy mistake to make.  So then I have to invite this strange man up two flights of stairs and make him wait at my front door while I fish about for 10 euros to buy the calendar.

It would never happen at the Isaac!

Oh, and before you get any ideas, a French firemen’s calendar is not filled with half naked pictures of men in compromising positions with a fire hose.  No, quite unlike NZ, it is filled with wittily set up photos of fully clothed firemen going about their business.  Proof below.   Not an inch of skin showing.

The tap is still leaking.

I wonder what the plombier will look like?