Hooray for Bollywood!

Was thrilled this morning when new DVD arrived – How to Find Enormous Joy in Bollywood Dance. Or something like that - my latest way to get fit-ish without noticing the effort.

There have been other attempts – bike, trampoline, hula-hoop, skipping-rope… to name but seven. And recently George and I took up yoga, urged into it by an enthusiastic devotee who no longer has a bad back.

In fact I did try it fifteen years ago, when the agonising slowness put me off – now that suits me perfectly. Specially the lying down imagining a little cloud floating round one’s bits. Although George and I don’t always recognise the bits in French, particularly when they dim the lights and you can’t see anyone else’s. Unfortunately, the flotation-tank tranquility of our first lesson was constantly interrupted by my stage-whispered hints to George: “Left leg UP!” “Arms above HEAD!”

Anyway, it’s great how it makes you feel very bendy and three feet taller, so I sent off for a yoga video for extra practice. Various Bollywood ones came up while searching on yoga, and when you think of those terrific films like Monsoon Wedding and Guru, you can’t help wanting to try the dancing and be able to do that amazing disjointed thing with your neck.

So, the DVD came today and on first run-through I’m only slightly discouraged. There is no doubt that for anyone with arms like a swan’s neck and the grace of one gliding through the water, it would be easy.

Oh well, at least I can “draw a circle with my bottom” as the Bollywood star suggests, (that's always been handy), so the hip movements are a doddle. Probably the next step should be to discard my generous joggers and buy some shimmery fluid pants and some hand jewellery – being dressed more the part must help.

Or maybe I should try tennis.

♫ And the grass is as high as... ♫♫

... the eartips of a slightly worried cat doing his morning rounds.

But wielding the enormous mower is George's job as luckily, I'm far too fragile. In fact, he's wielding it right now, and I've poked about a bit this morning in our quite colourful kitchen garden, ie the small bit outside the kitchen. So, we're okay for another six months, then.

The past few weeks have been splendid - things are growing but not rampantly, bees are buzzing but not fearsomely.

We're actually a little wary of bees since the Bee-Trauma. Soon after we moved here, these little bumbly creatures discovered not only the joys of our attic, but also the thrill of squeezing through crevices in the ceiling and frightening the hell out of us. Bees are wonderful, but not when bombarding us Hitchcock-like all over the house. Well, except for the grubby space under the stairs where we keep the emergency bucket, but that space ain't big enough for the both of us.

During our first months in France, domestic problems (specially anything to do with plumbing) were made worse by not knowing who to call. So with the bees we did what we always did then and panicked round to our very nice neighbours. They went to fetch the Pompiers, who deal with everything from raging infernos to tetchy cats stuck down a hole.

As for the bees, the Chief Pompier took one look at our frenzied hordes and said he'd come back later. Apparently bees are not so angry in the evening.

Meanwhile, however, George had an unfortunate accident involving his left eye, the metal rod of a chair-back, shards of glass and lots of blood. So that day we met not only the Pompiers but also the SAMU - you phone them when you're having a medical emergency and they are GREAT.

Calm and friendly, they patched George's eye and lowered my hysteria level enough to let me chase the ambulance to the nearest hospital - ranting away to myself, gnawing fingers to the knuckle, thrashing about trying to find the hazards button, but Driving. When we finally got there, George was as calm as they were, so they thrust me into another room (softly cushioned) and locked me in.

Anyway, they removed the shards, stitched him up, and let us out. And lo! When we got home, the bees had gone. Our neighbours told us that shortly after our departure they had surged out of the attic in a huge droning swarm, and shot off up the road.

Maybe they weren't having as much fun without bombardees, or maybe they couldn't stand all that gore in the washbasin.

Rabbits we have known

Gave the rabbit a toxic-powder dousing this morning. It's to keep his fur beautiful and free of tiny creatures, but he hates it so we don't do it enough so he looks like an old carpet. A happy old carpet, though.

We've had house-rabbits for years because they're funny and fiendishly clever. We used to have one who slept across our bedroom doorway all night, popping up and downstairs to his litter tray as necessary. When the cats first met him, one of them took a swaggering swipe across his nose and he bit her briskly and deeply on the ankle. Since then, rabbits reign.

When we came to France we had two. They hated each other because we had been wrongly sold a baby male to keep the existing male company when his female died. Naturally the old male took great offence at this pointless interloper, and they spent a year ripping each other into bloodied pieces.

However, our move to France involved an agonising ten-hour drive with two cats and two buns in the back of a very tiny car, George and I snarling at each other every time we got lost and me hyperventilating my way down the wrong side of the road. When we finally got here the rabbits were too miserable even to heave themselves out of the travel-boxes.

But next morning... they were so thrilled to have come through this hideous trauma together that they fell rapturously in love, and were inseparable till the elder died last year.

We've decided not to get another, so Final Bun spends a lot of his time companionably doing whatever we're doing. Every so often he flings himself on his back with eyes closed and legs waving in the air - a sure sign of bunny delight.

He likes it when we do it, too.

Village Shops

Did the village shops today. Before we arrived in France, I had this dreamy vision of strolling down each morning for our daily baguette and exchange of cheery repartee in the bar. This was not immediately the case - I was so embarrassed at the inadequacies of ancient school French that I wanted instead to stroll down to the river and jump in it.

However, the enormous warmth and encouragement of just about everybody we've ever met here made our plunges into conversation a heck of a lot easier. Several years on, we still make ludicrous mistakes but nobody minds and I don't get anguished. Now we confidently gabble away to captive audiences in the butcher, baker, bar, grocer and post office, unstoppable until they manage to back their way to the door, or just fall over in a deep trance. (We have a similar effect at parties).

The shopkeepers have always been so kind in helping us to integrate - "The Annual Dinner Dance is coming up"... "Don't forget the Bike Ride on Saturday"... . What's best in the village shops, though, is the masses of advice we're given: what's in all the wonderful breads, who grew these rosy apples, and as for the meat... the butcher only needs to start on "what to do with beef cheeks" to induce a bombardment of age-old family recipes from all the other customers. We've tried every one - after a few hours of festering, beef cheek becomes succulent and flavoursome and a definite favourite of ours. (Ghastly though the idea was when first confronted).

They are generous in their praise of English food, too. The baker told us all the family really liked George's Christmas Cake, and yesterday couldn't wait to show off a "traditional English Easter cake" that someone makes her every year because she loves it. (There are two or three other UK couples in the vicinity). I had no idea what it was, so she made enquiries and today informed us its name is Hot Cross Bun! Good Heavens - I always used to buy supermarket special packs of shiny cellophaned clones - how was I supposed to know the real thing is sort of brown and lumpy?

Anyway, off to assemble some of these fresh provisions into lunch.

The Joy of Eating

Breakfast in the conservatory for the first time this year. Streaming sun, bursting tufts of blossom, bluetits battling away over the grease-blobs in the maple tree - Enormous Joy!

Apparently you shouldn't feed birds in the summer in case they forget what they're supposed to eat and become bloated fat-burger addicts. Soon, then, we'll have to settle for the sight of the worms being heaved elastically out of the soil and snails being smashed against the path until their shells explode. Nature IN THE RAW!

Anyway, enough of the gore. We'd never had a conservatory before - we were lucky that this one was already built when we bought the house four years ago, because it's such a great room. From spring onwards, that is. In winter it's a constant minus 20C and is useful mainly to pin the cats down and stop them bouncing their sodden and splat-covered feet all over the settee.

We've had friends round for two lunches in there during globally-warmed-up March. At least, the first was warm. The second time, people looked horrified at the prospect of leaving the cosy sitting room and asked if they could have their coats and cardis back. They bravely persevered when we brought two more heaters in, and once they could control their quivering cutlery, tucked in to Rosbif and Yorkshire Pudding with gusto. Not to mention Spotted Dick.

George and I love to cook French-style but it's good fun dishing up English stuff sometimes, specially if the guests have never tried it before (so can't compare). The first few times were pretty scary, though. Specially as our home layout is open and all kitchen traumas are shared graphically with people who are going to have to eat the results.

But all you have to do is wimper or start wacking yourself with a ladle, and someone is immediately at your shoulder with handy hints and a tissue. Did you know, for example, that a 1Kg joint of beef only needs 20mins at 220C? I'm sure in the UK I'd have left it in for about a day and a half. (We compromised and did 30mins and it worked beautifully)!

I know - Why don't we open a restaurant?