All the Days of Dolores

Let Them eat Toast

2011-11-23T19:01:00.000+01:00

Last week Food Writers and Critics were thrilled by the long-awaited launch of ‘Britain’s cheapest lunchtime meal’ – after aeons of in-depthest research by the Royal Society of Chemistry (RSC), this can now be revealed as THE TOAST SANDWICH!

Here’s the recipe:
Ingredients
2 slices bread and butter
1 slice toast
salt and pepper to taste
Method
Make sure toast slice in the middle

The amazing thing is that the recipe is not new! It was created and published 150 years ago by Mrs Beeton in her Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management – And here is her original version:

 Toast a thin slice of bread
 Butter two slices of bread and sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste
 Place the toast between the two slices of bread-and-butter to form a sandwich

No margin for error there - you can see why her recipes were so successful. Personally, I swear by her Rice Pudding…

So, you may ask, just how cheap is this 'cheapest lunchtime meal'? Well, the cost these days of the Toast Sandwich is estimated at 7.5p, and energy value at 330 calories.

If You can create a cheaper alternative, however, let the RSC know at once, because you might win a £200 prize! (How much does a 3oz tatoe cost, I wonder)… Although you'd spend a goodly dollop on cooking it, probably...

Various thrifty suggestions have been proposed to make the sandwich recipe even more appetising: why not add an egg; a sardine; a slice of courgette…? say the chefs.

And mine own tasty addition... a dollop of tinned tomato (I love those), or three or four baked beans. And an exciting smattering of paprika or nutmeg or basil?

The basic recipe could probably benefit from a tantalising Something after all – as highlighted by one of the comments received: "Well I just tried this and it was the most boring, tasteless sandwich I've ever eaten!" Bit harsh...

I've been trying to remember what I used to eat in destitute bedsit days - Mothers Pride was certainly a favourite. But I could only dream of a toasting implement. My brother apparently once made pepper soup (to boiling water, add ground black pepper). Not only was it unsatisfying, he reported, but it tasted bloody awful.

Anyway, here is a Homage to Toast by (hell's teeth - he looks young!) Paul Young in 1978. On what one can only assume is some strange children's tv emission. Great hats, though

Cat Worrying

2011-11-03T18:42:00.004+01:00

Does your cat worry? Does it get tense… ? Nervous headaches?

Or is your cat just bonkers?

Recently we were out gallivanting all day and half the night – (I know - call us WILD!!) – so feeding times were in disarray.

Arriving home we found Mulder-Cat glaring at us from the top step, the protest giblets of a vole arranged at his feet. Scully, trapped inside with only KittyCrunch to nibble, burst to freedom as we let ourselves wearily in. We found that she had enthusiastically emptied her bladder with only her head inside the covered cat tray: ‘Looks nice in there – think I’ll have a pee…’.

But why? She’d never done it before – did she have something on her mind; had she drunk too much KittyMilk and not quite made the little jump required? Was it retaliation for being shut in or – most terrifying – was she… Confused?

After all, the cats are fifteen now – brother and sister twins. Wikipedia says that’s 76 in cat years. And that a cat’s expected lifespan is twelve to fifteen years… have they been reading it too?

In fact Mulder has always been confused. Not incontinently - he just forgets everything he’s ever learnt…

His morning patrol begins with an ecstatic Surge out of the back door then a screech to a halt as a leaf settles close by… A tentative sniff and poke of every plant pot, step, and car wheel - if he’s not careful, any one of them could take a bloody big swipe at him!

Both cats have always been rationally scared of things like traffic… Or the vacuum cleaner - I mean who wouldn’t be concerned about a voracious roaring tube that could have had my flaming ear off, that could!

Next door’s new puppy was also understandably scary - it got into our garden and bounded joyously after Scully to say Hello. D’you know, she’d never managed to climb the maple tree before… And it was a Hell of a long time before we could make her let go.

But recently, they’re scared of anything, including us – getting them to come across the threshhold for FOOD is like trying to entice them across a lake of piranhas. Have they forgotten who’s been feeding them for fifteen years? What do they think we’re putting in it – fur-balls?

We started to wonder if there was an evil spirit in the (very spacious & comfy!) room we shut them in at night so they don’t wake us up. We’d usher them in and they’d shoot up onto a table, or perch death-defyingly on the mantelpiece. (Did anyone ever see that film of olden times where they force a maid back into the attic with the fearsome phantom? Our cats had that same stricken look).

So, they chose to stay out, and during the whole summer we only caught fleeting glimpses of them as they snatched a quick bite from under the outside table. Didn’t they Love us any more…? (‘Course not – they’re cats).

A couple of weeks ago, though, the night-time temperature dropped to zero. We noticed them hanging around on the steps as darkness deepened, doing the cat equivalent of nonchalant ball-kicking – 'well… if you really want us to come in I suppose…'

And once I’d achieved that first Grab round the throat and Haul into living room, they remembered all their old habits! One on my knee, one on the floor by the radiator, the brush-before-bedtime, the consoling tin of tuna after worming…

It’s been wonderful – real cuddly pets again - perhaps we would take them when we moved after all!

And then they go and Spoil it All by crotting in the conservatory plant trough. I'd just RePlanted that plant trough!

Actually, anyone have shed-space for a couple of daring vole-hunters...?

BUY me!

2011-10-18T11:24:00.001+02:00

Sought-after location; beautiful, quirky yet cosy cottage feeling (no trace of the abattoir); recently fitted kitchen; lovely relaxing garden with chalet/workshop; fantastic conservatory; en-suite to master; three reasonable bedrooms (well, wouldn’t want to boast…); dual-aspect bathroom with plumbing, talking-point kitchen…

Last week, we viewed 27 such properties in four days in our quest to buy before the chuck-out date on the one we’ve just sold (utterly charming, two multi-functional cellars and some very attractive gravel). After nine splendid years in France it’s time for a new adventure in an unexplored part of the Old Country. And this initial exploration has revealed a friendly, bustly place we love already.

Agents’ details are fabulous these days aren’t they - floor plans, photos and street views, but at the end of a Nine-House day, you can easily forget which one had the handy-hatch-through-to-kitchen, or the fire that was welcomingly lit. (Yes OK – well it worked)!

So I started scribbling surreptitious notes on the details as we went round, like a burglar making an inventory… owner was reading in deckchair;

couple watching X-factor on big-screen TV; hideous sheep wallpaper; outside loo - filled up with lawnmower…

Later we couldn’t decipher these essential reminders at all, so have probably made an offer on the wrong house.

There were of course, some properties you couldn't forget, like the haunted one (rumour has it that ghosts abound in the vicinity). This particular phantom had been a solicitor, apparently, and can be glimpsed on the stairs – certain members of the family have refused to sleep upstairs for fear of his ghostly legs.

The agent related this calmly and neutrally, but said that by law, they have to tell us. Surprising, I thought – and it made me wonder if before leaving the parental home, I should have divulged the seances we used to hold in Mum and Dad’s dining room - SOMEthing was pushing that glass…

(I might mention here that I searched youtube for ghost-on-stairs clips and frightened the Hell out of myself - hence somewhat unsatisfying yet appealing sketch of blue man holding ball of fire, but with nice Wispy Legs).

Another vendor was selling because of divorce - perhaps her heart wasn’t in it when she said, ‘Oh yes – that forest across the road is going to be built on soon, with a Whole New Estate! Have you got cats, by the way? They’ll love it here – loads of cats. And rats…’

I'd definitely like to put in a word for the agents we met, who were delightful, dynamic and diligent. And their Secret Lives were fabulous: we met an ex prison governor (who would have thought that the most realistic prison drama is Porridge?!); a singer/dancer/actress; an eight-stone female bouncer who bounces by wordly persuasion - it paid well at uni and she loves it; and a horse dentist!

But possibly the most surprising agent was the one who'd won the office prizes for selling, who surrendered his free time to phone us or drive us round, who worked frenziedly to find exactly what we wanted and then, when he delivered us to a house, said Absolutely Nothing as we looked round. He stood silently watching us with neither smile nor frown nor utterance - it was most disturbing... In fact I think his presence may one day linger on in the odd property or two...

And oh god - we're moving at Christmas!

That's 37 centimes sagely spent...

2011-09-15T17:25:00.012+02:00

Last Sunday was the annual village brocante - car boot sale. The village is blocked off to all evil through-traffic, and every street is packed with stands selling the entire contents of peoples' attics and manky old cupboards, and all their children’s cherished hoardings.

Does anyone else find this slightly embarrassing? I mean, it’s OK at an anonymous Field Brocante, but to gaze lengthily at the personal belongings of neighbours and village acquaintances and then Reject them muttering ‘Heavens...since five this morning? Well ... bye then!’

Of course brocantes are always more fun if you have an objective... our general aim is Something that brings a chortle, but this year George’s additional goal was a French Monopoly set. Evidently not played much in this village...

We found several million jigsaw puzzles and plastic men-in-cars, though, and a Poker Kit that I was tempted by. (Not sure why, as Beat Thy Neighbour has remained the zenith of my card-playing skills). Unless Cunning was included in kit form too...

Suddenly I spied a red, Chinese-dragon-covered parasol – quirky, decorative and jolly handy in these final days of stifling sunshine. Acceptable price of two euros. And what a delight when the threatening drizzle became a drenching downpour, and my parasol turned out to be made not of paper but of… something… rainproof!

How proudly I twirled my beautiful brolly twixt stalls being frenziedly covered in plastic. How we Chortled when we got home and discovered the beautiful blue bit was actually Paint once lain in…

I scooped up a handful of French paperbacks by an author I didn't know but who sounded detectively interesting. You learn really useful phrases from such reading – ‘His body lay sprawled in the bath, brain splattered across the tiles…’, or ‘What! - That guy's still hanging around the neighbourhood?’ Doubled my party banter…

After a goodly time wandering, we were contemplating the bar or the refreshment table on the square when we walked into It! Hanging from the fence behind a stall of bottle tops and postcards was a black thing of finest netting. Topped by a black coolie hat from which dangled wisps of material, interlaced tassles and beads – all, blackest black - the Thing seemed to be shaped into a long tube – what could it be?

A lengthy Lobster Pot, I mooted boldly… or something you might get Changed Inside on a beach? (wearing the coolie hat); Mourning Dress, perhaps – elegantly concealing all expression of grief; how about an avant-garde Party Outfit?

None of these – it was of course a moustiquaire! (Not, as I kept calling it, a mousqetaire).

"It's a Mosquito Net for your bed,” the stallholder explained, “Or some people put them over an armchair or a settee - just attach the top to the ceiling”.

Fabulous! It’s bound to repel spiders too! Or why not, at the height of the insect season, just walk around inside it to the shops, for infallible personal protection? You can also pull it from one end to the other of your picnic table - fly-free feasts! How have we coped without this wonder!

The stallholder seemed surprised when we said we wanted it, but beamingly detached it from the fence with care, then found us a particularly lovely Hermès carrier bag to bear it home in.

Styles available are manifold -the two shown above can but offer a basic hint - but here, modelled by a glamorous person we found lurking, is The Most Wonderful!

I'm a Witchety-Grub - Get me Out of here!!

2011-09-01T22:02:00.001+02:00

Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhhh!! Of all the pansy pots in all the gardens in all the world, it walks into mine… and I’m not touching it with a ten-foot trowel!

I don’t watch Celebrity save-me-I'm-so-crazy! programmes, but I know what goes on! And I just might be in a position to augment their supplies. (They do stun the grubs before they eat them, don’t they…)?

I was replanting pansies and unearthed this Thing, the disgusting like of which I’d never seen before – would it bite? Would it get much bigger? What did it want?

When I described it to a friend she said it was probably a moth larva.

A MOTH larva? - It’s the size of a Beagle! I mean - what the hell's this... moth... going to eat when it grows up – the actual wardrobe?

My googling shows that there are a zillion types of Moth Larvae, and the ones in our pots (for further prodding has unearthed a veritable colony) are the ugliest in the universe. Why couldn’t they be the jauntily green ones, or red, the face-painted perhaps... the acrobatic? Or my Favourite - the Dalek Moth larva:

... which will one day emerge as this beauteous Promethea Moth:

The major problem is what to do with our repugnant plantpot larvae – they’re really big for a start... Collected, they're like a bouncy castle, so squashing's definitely out.  As is eating... unless the cats are interested.

There's relocating, of course, but any chucking over neighbour's fence would have to be at dead of night and they have a hunting dog on constant alert.  Could we humanely stab them with a needle? Probably not...

Actual witchety grubs, you know, eat the sap and roots of acacia plants.  I was sad to learn that the adult witcheties don't feed at all - they have to exist on the reserves eaten by the caterpillar! That's bound to put you in a bad mood. It would have been fairer if they grew up carnivorous and could take revenge on everyone who'd wanted to eat them in their infancy.

This, though, is the fearsome Witchety Moth Beast - if it can't eat you, it can certainly give you a bloody good nibble. So if you've mistreated a witchety grub, Beware! Their grown-up cousins are six feet tall, and They Know Where You Live!

'I'm 97 Million Years Old you know, Dear!!'

2011-08-12T16:40:00.002+02:00

'Or is it 96… I don’t think they've successfully melted my memory…’

Is This a vision of the future? Not nuclear-wasted or obliterated by foul virus, but cryonically preserved at the last moment - for future defrosting?

Robert Ettinger, pioneer of Cryonics - freezing people - died in July 2011 aged 92, and is now the 106th person to be preserved in liquid nitrogen. He joins a wife and two sons…

At least, he's the 106th of the Cryonics Institute ( http://www.cryonics.org/ )
but Who Knows what devilish experiments are going on in dank cellars the world over…

(Above: labouring over Frankenstein).

I think it was Woody Allen, unleashed from his Bacofoil in ‘Sleeper’, who first brought this fascinating yet demented concept to my attention…

This is his Robot Butler disguise as he battles with an Instant Pudding wearing hat of the season.
(For those who haven't seen Sleeper, he comes back 200 years after a routine operation in 1973 - it's a surprise to everyone).

The idea of cryonics, apparently, is that those who are considered dead now, may not really be dead according to the much cleverer medecine of the future. And naturally, people of the future will want to revive all these ice-bodies and welcome them into a brave new world.

WHY will they? This is, in fact, one of the FAQs of people pondering such preservation. BECAUSE, is the Frequent Answer, they’ll be under contract to! (One thinks of those reliable contracts to get your roof done or your phone provider changed...).

They will be members of a cryonics community of the future. As I understand it, this community will defrost you and welcome you as friend and family, and sort out your exciting new life with them! There might even be a nice community gate...

I suppose, if you are inclined towards a Further Adventure Beyond, this sounds almost encouraging. And cryonics only costs around 28,000 dollars at the moment, so Hurry while Stocks last! (nitrogen, jymjams, Kendal Mint Cake).

I may have watched too many bleak futuristic films, but I can’t help envisaging evil robots and acid rains and lab-humans, rather than kind, beaming people who will merrily cure one's impetigo…

There's a sinister Roald Dahl Tale of the Unexpected called "William and Mary", where the domineering husband is returned as An Eye - probably not quite what he'd had in mind - and his wife looks forward to puffing endless forbidden cigarettes at him while knocking back endless forbidden drinks...

I bet cryonics communities don't warn you about that do they?

Indiana Jones and the Water Meter of Doom

2011-07-28T23:51:00.005+02:00

Surfacing with the hoover from a corner cranny under the table, I was startled to loom face to face with a Face at the french window!

"Water meter!" he explained, when I’d regained my composure. (has the uniform changed...?)

"Ah," I frowned, grinning frozenly and thinking, Where IS the water meter?’

"I’ll just find the key…" I shouted, gesticulating idiotically, "Meet you down there…"

The WaterMeterMan comes but once a year (I shan’t bother with the Santa joke), so I always forget where the bloody thing is. We have two cellars at the bottom of the steps outside - I cantered off for the washing-machine cellar, then remembered the meter actually lives in the never-bothered-with cellar, and its key had disappeared, unmissed.

George wasn’t around, so I ran up and down the steps a few times, urged on by the Man looking at his watch and raising his eyebrows, until I happened to notice the key sticking out of the bloody lock.

It was not easy to see, enmeshed as it was by a year’s cobwebs and the remains of their unfortunate captives. The door to this cellar is a sturdy old wooden door, arched, with black metal bands... At least it would be, were it not rather rotten, somewhat splintery and jagged. It has character rather than beauty.

A hundred and fifty years ago before the rain and bashings set in, it probably looked exactly like this:

...in parts.

The door is hidden in an alcove of stone at the bottom of three further steps. "We don’t use this cellar much…" I shrugged to the Man as we battled through the overhanging bushes, and, "Oh! Well I’m sure they won’t sting if we just ignore them…" (Were they wasps or bees, I wondered).

Anyway, having made it to the door and hacked through the webmesh with a big pointy stick I managed (with two hands), to turn the enormous key and very very slowly, opened it. The creeeeeak was magnificent, and I was aware that the Man had stepped back several yards.

There was an illogical yet intense terror in groping for the light switch. But I found it and suddenly the single bulb glared into the far reaches of a cellar packed with wine bottles, bits of cardboard boxes, paint tins, rusty chairs, half a barrel, an open box of rat poison and… a frenzied flock of bats.

I was fairly certain that all the Psycho Screeching was just in my head. Or in the Man’s head… I said to him, "I think the meter’s over there somewhere," and pointed at the far wall. He gazed at me as if I’d asked him to just pop over there and set fire to yourself, will you…?

But, with me gingerly leading the way, we and the bats read the water meter. Then the Man, grinning rictusly, leapt in his van and drove off. Pitiful. Surely it can’t be the only bat colony he’s encountered on his rounds?

And after all, they’d been wonderfully behaved, and much more exciting than the bucket of WWII German rifle cartridges George found a couple of years ago (the gendarmes took them). I read that bats are gentle, docile creatures, just looking for a place to hang out.

http://www.bats.org.uk/pages/bat_behaviour.html

It was a pity we disturbed them. Particularly since the episode encouraged us to de-clutter the cellar and now, free of its 1500 empty wine bottles and assorted crotte, it looks splendid… but sadly Batless. They evidently got fed up of our traipsing in and out, and have found calmer quarters - this is an area bursting with appealing old outbuildings they could have mistaken for home.

So - If you've seen Derek or Tufty, please tell them we've done that repointing on the ceiling...

Tour-spotting

2011-07-18T11:53:00.001+02:00

Grimly we ploughed through the neated rows of vines, ignoring the howling wind and the horizontal rain, focusing only on our Goal – a good view of the Tour de France as it shot through A Village Near Us! Rarely does the opportunity come this close – close enough to hear the wheels purring smoothly, to see those muscles pulsing... pulsing, to feel the wind in your hair as the bikes whoosh lycra’dly past - it's an opportunity not to be missed!

‘A bit of exercise’ – walking instead of driving – had seemed a suitably sporty idea to reach the spot… But one row of vines looks very like another. Our water tower marker suddenly appeared on the wrong horizon, then disappeared completely...

George was still sticking to his 'half an hour at most!' forecast; I was losing hope. “Let’s have a sandwich!” I suggested. George frowned and pointed out that it was nowhere near lunchtime, and if we just went back along this track until we reached that treeline, we might be getting near the main road...

Some time later..., we did by chance hit the main road, and soon cars started passing us and joining cars already parked along the verge. People opened their boots to unleash padded coats and canvas chairs (we're generally alone in flinging a jacket on the grass), then strode along to the wide viewing bend, where a crowd shuffled in small clutches, gazing expectantly up the road and muttering, "Should be here any minute...".

After about a week, someone with a mobile yelled, “Caravan in five minutes!” (Oh thank god!)
And Loh! It did verily heave into view – 45 minutes of colourful, musical and demented publicity vehicles (of which this is but One - look out for Heroic Gendarme saving child-wanting-hat):

This is George's proud camera-work, and not even our voices are in it, but we were There. I specially loved the veritable Ethos of the Tour, portrayed in giant yellow Balloon Sculpture.

I read that for many people, the Caravan is best part. (So I'm not the only one...)

Anyway, after It, there follows a lengthy pause before the actual Cyclists arrive. This can be quite handy for erecting foldy chairs, (or brollies as the rain has no doubt set in again), and for shuffling about bagging a better view. Several people had their eye on my lamppost for example, planted as it was on a small hillock.
I leaned menacingly.

Then I had to relinquish my claim because George had gone and bagged a better view down the road a bit - loads of space, perfect outlook, ditch very leapable - we knew we'd be happy there...

I'd eaten my inadequate sandwich ages before, and was very sorry I hadn't made more effort to grab a flying publicity biscuit. Messages had got through on the progress of the race, and it was now running an hour late. Children were getting bored with their death-defying ditch games, and holiday-makers were wishing they'd gone to see another chateau instead.

And then! A rustle in the throng, an excited murmur and fingers-pointing, the thrub of the TV helicopters (oh god - how's my hair?!) And they're HEEEERE!

What a Thrill as they burned rubber round that long bend and shot up the Straight towards us! Such a densely packed crowd of nearly two hundred bikes, looking very like this:

(In fact, this clip was the youtube end of Stage 11, which Mark Cavendish won).
Our snippet of The Tour was just the same, but without the Pirates of the Caribbean music and the finish line. It was fabulously exciting and very quick. What a disappointment when the bringing-up-the-rear van came past...

Yes - a Disappointment! Obviously for George the Tour-junkie, but why for a dedicated Unsporty such as I? The enforced hanging around Anticipating, perhaps..., the frisson of Live Action...

Should I start accompanying George to football matches, one wonders...

Hell No!!

I'm very reasonable - Fly Me!

2011-07-08T18:08:00.004+02:00

What can you say about flying Low Fare?

George and I recently experienced a Low Fares Airline for an intense session of ricocheting between France, Ireland, England and back again, and… well... it's very good In Parts.

It was certainly friendly and it was certainly jolly cheap… as long as you kept your wits about you and just said NO to everything except the seat.

Their first cunning plot was to refuse George’s tiny case at check-in, because it has an avant-garde lump that prevented it from snuggling all the way down into the gauge.   “It’ll have to go in the hold sir – 35euros please”. (About twelve times the price of the flight).

Undaunted, George dashed back to the car, repacked everything into a supermarket carrier bag, and used that for the whole four-day trip. A jaunty green, strong and remarkably practical... In fact, I may use one next time too – who needs stuff neatly folded?

Then it was with a merry grimace that they bustled us through metal detecting, belt&shoe collecting and baggage poking-with-a-big-stick.

Following that embarrassing procedure you can, if your elbows are determinedly pointy enough, nab a chair for the interminable Departure Containment Area wait, before scuttling across the tarmac and up the rickety ladder to the plane to be counted.

If you’re travelling Not Alone, there follows a tense moment finding seats Together that aren’t over the wing, outside the loo, or in front of the children from hell. You then open the overhead locker, find it bursting with everyone else’s hand luggage because you’re not the only ones saving 35euros… So you squish your case under your feet and use your knees as a book rest. Then you relax and take note of the safety demo…

But Quick! – “it’s Time to start thinking about your first refreshing drink!” (They insist gaily).   "Purple90 – it refreshes your palate; quenches your thirst and helps you relax – Purple90 – the perfect drink!" I have no idea whether it does all that or what it tastes like – for one thing I was still inwardly chanting Just Say NO, and for another I tend to lose my balance on the turbulent route to the loo, so do my best to avoid it.

I was, however, sorely tempted to take up smoking their “Smokeless Cigarettes… they could change your life! As well as win you prizes and help children’s charities!” Blimey – what the hell’s in them instead of smoke?

Another must-do was Buy the inflight Scratch Cards – “at a very special offer of six for two!” (Two what…)?   Who needs an onflight film when there's all this stuff to concentrate on?

As I mentioned, our trip was many-flighted, but on the final one, I was sitting next to a woman who bought packaging for the local viagra factory (how do people find these exciting jobs?). She didn’t like flying and was nervous before takeoff, so I was taking her mind off it with Jolly Chitchat.

Unusually, the plane launched like a moon rocket with added lurching, and I realised my head was going to come Off. “Shit!” I yelled inadvertently, clutching the seat in front and trying not to vomit. The woman’s smile was wan.

She bravely comforted me, though, when we came in to land, accompanied by a splendid fanfare Duddleunh dunh daaaah! Or something quite like this (whoever Ryanair is...) :-

which is so daft, it brings everyone together into a great grinning blob!

And then - I'm not saying precisely where - but they'd counted us all on, and they counted us all off again.
But we'll be back, and they know it!

Well - it moved for ME...

2011-05-27T18:59:00.003+02:00

Planting a new burst of petunias this week I unearthed many things along with the old dead ones – sticks, snail-shells, a bit of old greaseblob put out for the birds and understandably spat out… A huge grey and black stone buried under the surface… or was that a tatoe infiltrating the pot?

I gave it a tap with my trowel but the clunk was indistinct, so I maneouvred the trowel underneath to dig it out, and it set off of its own accord...

It sprang to the side of the pot then turned to see if I was still there – a splendid chunky garden frog. Very Like these garden frogs having a party in someone's pond:

Back to my frog in the plant pot - I suspect from my squelchy delvings that I’d been overwatering the petunias, and during the current drought a mini-swamp must have seemed rather appealing to a frog. This one stayed very still while I carefully picked him and his pot up, and carried him slowly across to the kitchen to see if we had any garlic.

Yes, of course I'm fibbing. (Although I confess to consuming frogs' legs when presented with them by someone for dinner).

Anyway, I was already in love with this specimen of amphibeanhood, so I repotted him in the shady leafy long-grassed rocky part that is much of our garden, then watered his new surroundings liberally. Frog Paradise!

In fact, I’m thinking of starting a Home – a sort of Saint Toadywinkles…

What d'you think?

The Battle of Shepherds Hay

2011-05-09T16:50:00.001+02:00

As part of the Hideous Scar Competition currently being run by hideously scarred specimens CI and JW:

http://canaryislander.blogspot.com/2011/05/scaramouch.html
http://jw10-jw10.blogspot.com/2011/05/scar-wars.html

George has unearthed this ancient and faded, black & white scar image from my Morris Dancing Days...

Pitiful though this scar may look to the naked eye, this was a fearful battle of Bells and Big Sticks, following a performance of Shepherds Hay that went disastrously awry. Thank Heavens you can't see the blood!

The Trouble with Gravel...

2011-05-03T23:09:00.012+02:00

　
　
…is its unruly behaviour.

Have you got Gravel? Would you like some? Had you, like us, occasionally dreamed of covering over that scruffy bit of mud and weed, yet never confronted the task?

Until a delighted friend described how a Nice Gravel Delivery Man had simply steered his lorry round their garden, depositing an even gleaming layer, before driving off beamingly.

We’ll do it! quoth we.

Things got off to a disappointing start when our delivery man couldn’t get his enormous lorry through the gate, so emptied his mini-skips just inside it. He then looked back and forth weighing up the four mountains of gravel and our yard, and said, ‘You mean, you’re going to spread it all round here?’

This was puzzling – did we need more gravel? More yard? But with a baffling gallic shrug and a snort and a Hearty Hi Ho Silver, he was Away...

Since all comings and goings via the gate were now somewhat hampered, we set to with frenzied rake and wheelbarrow to spread the stuff around. It took two days of groan and ache and ‘Go away! I'd just got that bit Perfect!’

Anyway, when at last we’d rolled the final pebble it was Fabulous and fortunately, a timely downpour dispelled the cloud of dust and transformed its appearance from stumps of blackboard chalk to Real Gravel! Why hadn’t we done this years ago? Perhaps we should be thinking water feature and trellis while we’re at it…

The cats weren’t quite as thrilled as we were – they gave it a delicate poking, then shot across as if on hot coals. Undershoe, it was satisfyingly crunchy, except when scaling the slight incline to the gate when it was like snowboarding up a glacier in an avalanche. "Bit slidy, isn’t it?" yelled a visitor as his car veered out onto the road.

Fine tuning, that’s all it needs…

And then came the Weeds… sprouting triffidly between every stone. Surely that’s not right? Surely gravel not only looks smart but keeps weeds at bay?

No. Weeds are kept at bay by weeding, and weeding gravel is particularly irksome. If you pull a dandelion out it brings its clump of earth with it and leaves you with a gravelly soil mix. You must scrape away; weed; scrape back.

So we asked around and we googled and we experimented. (Avoiding cat-killing chemicals).

We concluded that: you need several vats of salt&vinegar potion ro de-weed half a square metre of gravel; that point-blank steamer nozzling was surprisingly useless (although it permanently de-skinned my finger en route); and that George’s crème-brûlée blowtorch was really satisfying one weed at a time but we could do with an industrial-canteen-sized one.

I’ve also been out there thrashing the weeds in the manner of John Cleese. But just for my own satisfaction really…

Well, we’ve just had another torrential downpour, and I can see the weeds Bursting Forth anew. And suddenly the answer’s clear – Paint It Green! I was delighted to find that Green Gravel exists! (They seem to be suggesting you can also use it in your aquarium!

I think this "Neon" is particularly attractive. (How many 5lb bags are there in 4 tons)?

Now for appropriate burst of Mott the Hoople:

Barry Bucknell Rides Again

2011-02-20T16:48:00.026+01:00

‘So where does this one go?’ brandishes George.

‘According to the writing on the back,’ I suggest, (ignoring disparaging comments on people's writing), ‘It goes bnd d drs tds g.’

Clearly, it's destined for... Behind my set of drawers nearest garden end wall. Unfortunately, George has banged another skirting board back in that position - no wonder it was a tight squeeze…

Barry Bucknell would be proud, though. Not only have we painted the bedroom, but also removed skirting boards, and are now tackling their post-new-carpet replacement. George has even managed to hide wires behind these skirtings! Not bad, considering the height of our DIY before moving to France was plug-changing and car-washing.

Here, of necessity, George has: put in light fittings (the only thing left on change of ownership in France is an occasional bulb on a grotty wire), fixed curtain rails, installed new sinks, laid tiled floors… his accomplishments are manifold and staggering. (Well - I paint...). And I’m proud.

Surely the first DIY puzzlings of people our age were stimulated in infancy, when the beaming Barry Bucknell would explain how to Make Things and Then Stick Nails In Them.

http://www.whirligig-tv.co.uk/tv/adults/bucknell/bucknell.htm

(Please Do click on the picture in this link for cacophonous 10-second video of him saying Goodbye)!

For George and I, DIY is still puzzling, and something we enjoy when it’s finished.

Our painting project this time, however, was unusually fun-filled owing to imminent exchange of festering old carpet for new one. What Joy Unbounded to splosh paint around with complete disregard for the floor! (One’s joy was a bit too unbounded near the shelving, but a quick blast of nail varnish remover did the trick).

The Man came last Tuesday to fit the replacement carpet (professional job seemed sensible here), and asked with a smirk if we’d like to keep the old one. No thank you. Lord knows what lurked therein – it was in place when we arrived nine years ago and aeons before, judging from the multi-hued indelible splodges. If he could have picked it up between finger and thumb, I’m sure he would have.

Of course, paramount in DIY is the restoring to original order once the Doing is done. Hence, since Tuesday, we’ve been engaged in the reinstatement of bed, drawers, boxes, linen, clothes, shoes and tons of other bedroom bits...

Slight discord here – I’m happy to restore to the original Open-Door-and-Chuck-in kind of order for now. Whereas George can excel at organising, and this time he has indeed excelled. Shoes have been secreted into neat slide-out boxes, towels have been folded(!) onto shelves with unfrayed parts to the fore, Things hung on hangers – Verily, this is a New bedroom!

What Delight! What a Sense of Satisfaction! And WHAT can we now Stick Nails In…?

Just One Galette-oh!

2011-01-21T18:03:00.023+01:00

Buy Five – Get One Free!! Was the enthusiastic suggestion on the baker’s counter. Well, you can’t have too many Galettes des Rois at this time of year…

Or can you? What do you actually do with these six dinner-plate-size slabs of puff pastry, stuffed with frangipane - a sort of almond paste - and a tiny ceramic SpongeBob (or Bob l’Eponge, as he's known here)?

Because wherever you may roam in France during the month of January, there will be at least six other galettes lying in wait. Not to mention the seventeen you’re already digesting from previous galette-gatherings…

Last week at our house (of course we do it too) I, as the youngest, (YESSSSS!), had to dive under the table with my eyes shut and wave haphazardly at the next person to take a slice, until all slices had been took.

This, apparently, is the traditional way of avoiding Nasty squabbles over the assigning of SpongeBob. For, whoever gets him is King for the Day, and wears the Special Golden Crown (that lurks within every galette bag), and must buy the next six galettes. The next galette, anyway.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be SpongeBob… it could be anything the baker decides to bake therein (generally inanimate). Until the 1960’s (one gleans from this handy link):
http://www.franceinlondon.co.uk/en-Article-392-Origins-and-Recipe-of-the-Galette-des-Rois-Food--Wine--galette-rois.html
the Thing was a real dried bean. Oh...

Happily for those with the Collecting Urge, there are now many, many categories of charm to collect – animals, films, jobs, sports, celebrities and perhaps more aptly, religious figures. For the Galette des Rois (Cake of the Kings) celebrates their Arrival in Bethlehem on Twelfth Night (or Take the Decorations Down time).

When I was a lad in Englandouroldcountry, people would bake not charms, but silver sixpences into the Christmas Pud. Many of which would then be swallowed by their grannies, putting a damper on the entire proceedings.

Back to this Galette, which was a new taste sensation for George and I when we arrived in France. George took to it immediately, and I took to the filling, but does the cake have to be quite so hefty...?

There are fillings other than almond paste - apple is very popular for example, and you can add cinnamon, amaretto, or walnuts as I once did and which was Not At All popular.

The Galettes do seem to be around for Ages - yesterday we mercifully microwaved our last two slices. These were ten days old and still going strong. The excess crust went onto the bird table - an exciting and seemingly welcome addition to their usual toasted wholemeal...

And so, as January nears its end, we wave a merry farewell to all those Galettes des Rois. We heave our tums out of their wheelbarrows and contemplate perhaps yoghurt or a banana, a situp or two, brisk pastry-melting walks...

For this Bombardment started nearly a Month ago - we need to sprrrring bouncily back to life with a hearty Get thee behind me, Spongebob!

It's been twenty-four hours now.

I wonder if there's any left on that bird table...

The Remains of the Mouse

2010-11-20T13:41:00.013+01:00

Rushing out the other morning, we skimmed (mercifully) over the nether half of a mouse, thoughtfully deposited on the top step by our cats. (One assumes…). George hurriedly flung it onto the autumn leaves, (which I heard this week are in fact Very Good for your flowerbeds and not just the laziest place to chuck them).

Coming home several hours later, we couldn’t help but notice a sort of creakily squelching sound emanating from the vicinity of the late mouse…

Closer inspection revealed a Hedgehog merrily chomping on the remains. He stopped and stared back at us for a moment, then as soon as we'd gone indoors, set to again with gusto.

We watched him through the window as he enjoyed his lunch; from time to time he'd turn it over, steadying it with his paw and considering another angle to dive in from... Short of tossing it high in the air (and Throwing Up afterwards), he was just like a cat! I knew they ate leftover kittysplodge, but a vaguely recognisable body part...?

A quick search online unearthed a multitude of Hedgehogs Eating Things – mostly fruit and veg, fortunately. The commentaries are sometimes slightly gooey, but I suppose I’d be the same were it mine own hedgehog, and some of the youtube clips do show them being most appealing pets… (Although we don't hear the hedgehog's thoughts on ranging free round the carpet).

Anyway, after consuming its own bulk in Mouse, this hedgehog scuttled off through the leaves, climbed the three-inch fence and nose-dived onto the concrete, then hurtled across the yard and up the garden path. Watched with great alarm by Daphne-Cat, who was evidently relieved to see it come out underneath the other side of the car instead of climbing up to where she was sitting on the bonnet. (She was probably miffed too, having put those Nethers by for later).

It is, of course, heartwarming that the poor old Mouse did not die in vain, and that the hedgehog and no doubt many ants benefitted... Not to mention The Hapless Worm - usually on the menu yet soon to feast upon the bacteria and tiny particles that once were mouse.

It's a Jungle Out There - thank god we're not at the wrong end of many food chains...

Irresistible

2010-10-19T19:07:00.008+02:00

What makes a man Irresistible?

Great sense of humour? Pulsating brain? Bulgy brave biceps and a sixpack, or Lots of money? YES! - All of those!

And so inevitably, I fell for Earl Okin the moment I first saw him – twenty years ago performing at The Stables in Milton Keynes.

Oh Thrilling memory! How he entertained us with his clever songs - his deep sexy growl, the words that… Understood and went deep to the Heart of us, throbbing with witty passion.

It has been an everlasting love.

And now we discover that He’s coming to France in December! Oh the Joy, once more to see him lope sinuously onto the stage in those... hunky spectacles and cheeky spats.

Oh! Soon to gaze upon his handling of a guitar… that Trumpetty thing he does with his lips…

I feel compelled to share the Power and Thrill that is Earl Okin, so I’ve succeeded (at last) in posting a video clip. Sadly it’s full of blonde women feverishly pouting at him – Fools - They're too late!

Because Earl and I are made for each other – we’re so alike it’s quite terrifying.

So - What d'you think?

(I suppose Harrison Ford comes a close second)...

Sleeping with The Fridge

2010-09-04T15:55:00.005+02:00

‘I know!’ beamed George over cooling Weetabix in a recent heatwave. ‘Tonight we’ll take the mattress down and sleep in the Bunny Room!’

Brilliant idea! Not actually with the bunnies… for only their memory-much-hallowed remains. (And perhaps the odd wayward wisp of tail fluff clinging to the depths of the chimney).

For several years Roland and Olly had shared their Room with every tat-filled cardboard box we hadn’t unpacked since moving in. After their tragic departure George leapt into action chucking, tiling, painting, furnishing with snaffled bits and pieces and Loh! it became a real room!

Why on earth had we put up with festering sweatily upstairs for almost a week of boiling temperatures?

That night, armed simply with mattress, pillows, radio, gripping Harlan Coben "Tell No-one" in The (baffling) French (mine), George’s magazine of music accoutrements for problem-free performances and where to get them cheap, glass of water, alarm clock, notebook for overnight mustn’t-forgets or blockbuster inspirations, and the phone - we arranged our new quarters.

‘Comfy?’ murmured George. ‘Very,’ said I, snuggling down in blissful cool.

George had hardly set off on Major Snoring when there came a deep rumble from the walls.

What the Bloody Hell - ? Surely, even our industrial machine afficionado next door would balk at midnight mowing?

Could it be our classic-car-loving neighbour opposite, testing the engine on his Citroën Traction for an imminent rally? Noo - he does urgent tweaks with the sunrise.

Probably an unusually Heavy goods train - ignore it and go to sleep.

A muffled yet terrifying explosion burst into our dozings. A crackle, a buzz, a tinkling… a shudder.

‘Go and see what it is!’ hissed George.

I fib. But he didn’t get out of mattress either.

And then it dawned on us – the Bunnyroom Fridge! We never spend time with this fridge because we have a tiny one in our tiny kitchen. This one houses overload – wine, beer, water, bread, ice cream... Pack of emergency apero nibbles for those awkward unexpected landings of the ‘God - Did you eat All those peanuts?’ and ‘Couldn’t they flaming-well phone first?’ variety.

Anyway, The Fridge was obviously struggling. Too much ice cream? Too few defrostings? Didn’t it like its new position stuffed discreetly behind the bookcase?

A fleeting moment in Dormant mode was inadequate, before it cranked up its gears and blasted off again like something out of Terminator. In fact, I’m sure I heard it take a step.

Blimey - is it dangerous? Or could it be that all fridges sound like this, but are ignored under the cacophony of radio, pan-clattering, talking, singing and general everyday trumpetings…

The Fridge spat, revved up grumpily and continued its ranting.

***

When the sun finally lasered through the unaccustomed glass door, we’d managed approximately four minutes sleep.

We scrunched up our mattress and bits, and abandoned Sleeping with The Fridge for ever.

But the dreadful thing is – Every Night for five long years, we shut our poor bunnies in with That Thing.

And they have big ears...

Is this the way to Amarillo...?

2010-07-10T16:39:00.008+02:00

… again?

Driving is of course fraught with danger and divorce, particularly when heading Beyond Familiar Territory.

I was definitely not made for driving – I hate it, and never have any idea where I am. On the other hand George, whose ridiculous eyes cannot sensibly be inflicted on a steering wheel, automatically commits a journey to memory after a single trip. Hence George navigates our outings and I hyperventilate them.

As for SatNav, what’s the point, I’ve always thought. I already have to concentrate Really Hard on the road - how could I watch a second version on screen at the same time? George, however, has long dreamed of satnav, foreseeing the end of all those hysterical Completely-bloody-lost-again Exchanges we… exchange.

And Loh! Conveniently timed for an imminent far-flung birthday party, our junk mail this week klaxoned a portable satnav on very special offer. We found our way to it Hotfoot. It sounded perfect – George would consult the screen held on his lap, and I would listen to the soothing yet no-nonsense Voice of Brian. George merrily set up the Essential Stuff.

Initial test-drive was disappointing – thirty kilometres into the wilderness, Brian shut completely up. This turned out to be a faulty fuse in the car cigarette-lighter-charger, but we had to ricochet around thirty or forty other and very different kilometres before we made it home and found out. After all, we’d both been too mesmerised by satnav to take any notice of the actual roads...

Our second satnav trial was much more fun – George fascinated by the detail onscreen, and I building up an easy reapport with Brian. I picture a sort of Peter Donaldson (R4 newsreader), as he gently tells me

‘In 250 metres, turn lef... D475.’
and reminds me as we approach, ‘Turn left... D475.’ ‘Turn LEFT!’

Then, as we sail past the turn he says (without a word of reproach), ‘In 100metres, Turn left... D476.’ He Knows Where We Are, and is determined to persuade us into a leftly direction. If we’ve bizarrely ignored his instructions for the back road, he knows exactly how much leeway to allow before, ‘Perform U-Turn... whenever possible.’

And if you ignore that, you can practically hear him flipping pages growling, ‘Where the bloody hell are they going?’

Every so often, there’s a twinkly burst of strings to Warn us. We’re not sure what of – we did think speed limit entry, exit, breach… Our own readings don’t always agree, but who are we to question the Mighty Brian?

Of course, Wikipedia is but one source of worrying tale:

“Misdirection
A number of road accidents in the UK have been attributed to misdirection by satellite navigation systems. On May 11, 2007, a driver followed satellite navigation instructions in the dark and her car was hit by a train on a rail crossing that was not shown on the system. In Exton, Hampshire,the County Council erected a sign warning drivers to ignore their "sat nav" system and to take another route, because the street was too narrow for vehicular traffic and property damage resulted from vehicles getting stuck.[
On March 25, 2009, a man drove down a steep mountain path and almost off of a cliff after he was allegedly directed by his portable GPS system. He was finally stopped by a wire fence. “

Well Pchaw! That kind of thing happens to us all the time…

For after just one (correctly-charged) outing, I have overcome my misgivings about this robot machine. I think Brian will be the end to much disagreement on George's part, and the perfect companion if I want to run away and join the circus.

Now – how did George actually plug it in?

Looking Good Feeling Good

2010-06-11T10:42:00.007+02:00

Oh Pain Excruciating!! And still one ear to go!

I don’t know why I should develop Allergies at this tender age, but all of a sudden my pierced ears refuse to let earrings In, my nose is streaming (cats? dust? general breathing?), and my eyes retaliate Redly and Voluminously at a miniscule whiff of makeup.

To start with the ears… I mean, it’s thirty years since mum greeted my newly-perforated lobes with ‘Aaaaaahhhhhh! Oh Dolores – you had such Perfect ears!’ (True – I coyly did).

I remember being very concerned the first week that I’d forget to turn the studs and they’d refuse to let go without flesh attached, but my flatmate was brilliant (being an experienced wearer) and stopped me being So Soppy.

Since that first trepidatious experience, ornamenting my ears has been a delight - dangly, delicate, sparkly, colourful, bizarre… Fluffy purply cubes, miniature red and black fans… a Crayfish-shaped pair sent from Japan by my brother and his wife. (I thought they were chopstick rests till it was explained they Came Apart).

Now, though, something inside seems to be rebelling against Anything Decorative, and I have to catch my moody ears on a Feeling-Good! Day - even then I must be satisfied with the jaunty one-earringed pirate look.

The eye-makeup allergy is even more annoying. Ravishing though I am naturally, of course, just a Teeny Tinge of shadow, highlighter, eyebrow pencil, liner, mascara, blenderbrush… is Indi-flaming-spensable if I’m venturing beyond the garden without a balaclava. And you can't get an Ornamental balaclava anywhere…

But I really can't believe I’ve had to take up Anti-histamines - the nose-blow was just too constant. I have no idea where these Histamines are coming from but if I find out I’ll give them a Damn Good Thrashing.

The chemist said it’s quite common for people Beyond Youth to develop allergies – just one of those things we must Shrug at.

But what can be the cause? The dregs of the Ash Cloud? Our cats exuding toxic fumes in their Ripe old age? A secret bio-weapon bunker under the abandoned village butcher’s shop? Or simply the inevitable effects on a Delicate organism of Chemically Modern Life?

Of course, In My Day, we didn’t have Allergies.

Such is Life...

2010-05-18T09:54:00.008+02:00

A few days ago, George and I went to a funeral in the cemetery we live next-door-but-one to.

Agnès, living between us and the gravestones, used to say how handy it was that when her husband departed she’d just pop him in a wheelbarrow and tip him over the wall.

Well, he did indeed go first and was tipped several years ago; last Wednesday was Agnès’s own turn. And though painfully moving, it was a funeral above all of Great Joy.

A long-time and beloved inhabitant of the village, Agnès drew a goodly crowd of mourners. We all stood shivering bleakly in the unseasonal icy wind, as the coffin was transferred from limousine to small table in a special space among the graves.

Then an employee of the funeral-arrangers read several speeches: ‘The children of Agnès wanted to say…’ , ‘The grandchildren of Agnès wanted to say…’.

Don’t know why the family didn’t read themselves, but maybe it is better to leave your words in the hands of someone who isn’t going to dissolve into a lump of Sodden Gaspings… (I don’t think people yonder round the coffin could hear me).

And they were beautifully read. (Although the fella in charge of the tape recorder added some unsettling Jerks to Edith Piaf).

The mourners then queued up to wind round the graves and past someone with a basket of rose petals. You pick up a petal, and take it to place on the coffin while saying a last goodbye. It’s a lovely idea…

At our previous funeral, we didn't understand Petal Procedure, and the dazzling sunshine and quick-march on that occasion stopped us from seeing what everyone else was doing. And we had to shuffle with our guilty slips of rose past a Guard of Honour (the defunct had been a high official).

Anyway, after placing Agnès's petals we all left, filing past the yawning family tomb where Hubert-from-the-wheelbarrow was waiting, and assembling to share nibbles and fond memories.

Our hamlet has had several terminal departures in the last few years, and the For Sale signs will bring in a whole new feel to the place. GONE the pensioners, Come the Parisian second-homers and maybe some young families.

I wonder who the Bijou close-to-grave amenities will appeal to.

Bun Disposal

2010-04-13T19:18:00.013+02:00

‘Tis the season for George to make his Hot Cross Buns and as usual, he’s made several batches in pursuit of Perfection.

He remembered that last Easter, the buns turned out just a little heavy and somewhat bland... their Crosses detachable, and able to exclude draughts from under the front door.

He’s always ready to learn, though, from his mistakes (or the Faulty Equipment he’s obviously plagued with). So this year he managed to produce Really Leaden, vaguely chilli-flavoured buns, with Crosses that could make a nasty dent in the wall if chucked with gusto.

Was he downhearted? Sadly, No - he consulted several million cookery sites and asked for tips from Everyone including a professional chef we met, and the village baker. Who was slightly baffled but kindly suggested he may have put too much flour in.

He has kept trying, and we have kept eating them. (In fact, they’re not too bad if drenched in brandy and flambéd, or used as the Very Base of a Trifle)…

But there IS a limit to how many we, our friends, acquaintances and passers-by can eat, and now our waistbands and our freezer overfloweth.

When I spied two forgotten buns lurking at the bottom of the tupperware this morning, I decided in a Flash of Inspiration to break them up for the Bluetits. After all, there's butter and sugar and stuff of such ilk, and the birds would at least enjoy the Currants...

Well, me and the Bluetits had to give up, but there's a Woodpecker still trying to tunnel into one...

Darth WHO?

2010-03-28T18:37:00.013+02:00

‘Ah, oui,’ said the neighbour on the other side of our rampant leylandii… ‘That would be great!’

Oh Hell! Why did I ask?

Well, because they’re our leylandii, they’re growing at the rate of Woody Allen’s pudding in “Sleeper”…

(I should point out that the pudding in the film is doubling in volume every 3 seconds).

… and when I asked him last year he said Don’t worry - he’d take care of it. So I suppose I imagined...

This year, the trees have grown at a ridiculous rate, and in France it’s definitely the Owner of the Hideous Greenth who is responsible for obliterating it, specially on the neighbour’s side; I reckon we’re lucky he's never retaliated for our blocking out half his sun...

Any enthusiasm we have for gardening is in the less daunting tasks: George mows the grass and tramples mole-mountains; I rip out Brown things and stick in red and yellow and blue and variegated ones.

A gardener would be splendid but beyond budget, particularly one who does Trees. Such gifted artisans are regarded with Awe, and arrive Proudly Overendowed with accoutrements both terrifying and ear-splitting. And Very Large invoices.

We have been advised, by leylandii-neighbour and by an unbiased neighbour opposite who simply dreams of owning such an implement, to buy an electric Saw-on-a-Stick.

This sounds a little scarey to me – waving a pole around with an uncontrollable slicing thing on the end, surely demands Years of Training and indestructible body armour. I think all we have is a pair of goggles and an ancient horse-riding helmet. (Although they worked for Darth)...

And, we must do our duty.

After in-depth study of this week’s junk mail we have pinpointed the weapon. Tomorrow we shall sally forth to procure one, and later this week, when we have no students, no urgent appointments, and no more Excuses, we shall Lop these Fiendish Leylandii to within an inch of their very souls!!

And May The (Ground) Force be with us!

...(to appreciate the Full Hilarity of that jest, it might help to know that 'Groundforce' was a gardening programme well-beloved in the UK)
I realise it might not help...

Madame Doolittle, I presume...

2010-03-15T21:36:00.014+01:00

“ ’allo? – Madame Doolittle?”

“…Ouiiii…” I confess cautiously.

There is a profound sigh on the end of the line, then someone pulls herself together and focusses on script:

“Allow me to introduce myself, Mme Doolittle,” she rattles off Frenchly, “I’m phoning on behalf of EDF GDF Solar Water or One of those Powers-that-Be Anyway to offer you a rare and unmissable opportunity -” Large intake of breath “- This week, our representative will be in Your Back Garden offering Free Quotes on revolutionising the way you use Your Power-that-Be so When will you be in, Mme D?”

Hah! “That does not interest me!” I say and put the phone down brusquely - Just as our wise neighbour Adrienne has taught me.

Or at least, that’s what I mean to say.

But I can't. Instead I picture her with all the other Call-Centrees who phone to catch you in just as you’re savouring your lunchtime sarny.

There they quiver - ranks of shabby, despairing souls frenziedly working their way down each column of the phone book, microphones glued to their heads and keyboards bleeping as they flinch from fiendish Boss-with-a-big-stick.

How do they stand the constant rebuffs, the insults and the Permanent Failure… I just can’t bear the thought of making it worse…

So I say, “That doesn’t interest me For The Moment, I’m afraid... Well, no, I certainly don’t rule out the idea completely... No, next week wouldn’t be quite enough Thinking Time for me… Thank you for calling though - do you all work such long hours or are you on detention (ha ha)?... Hello? Oh dear, are you alright?"

At this point George is losing patience and angrily waving a forkful of saucisson & potato at me. "Will you please just hang up!" he hisses. His own method of halting sales flow is to say in appalling French, "Sorry, I'm English and I didn't quite catch that...", and they've Gone! (One day, we'll miss out on something that really WAS unmissable).

"Pardon?", I resume to teleseller with glaring shrug to George, "Oh, yes we are so, I'll let you get on now… Have you got many more to call? Right, well have a good rest-of-the-evening then… Hello? Hel- You’re not crying are you? Oh lord... oh..."

"Oh - Just Bugger Off!" I yell when I've put the phone down.

So, IS there a good way of dealing with this constant irritation? (for constant, it is). Do you snarl; do you chat while chomping on with your meal; try to sell them something, perhaps; play your kazoo at them... What do You do?

Because of course, you can't be too nasty to them - you never know if you're gonna come back as one...

Experts

2010-02-21T13:58:00.006+01:00

Protectively garbed and brows furrowed, Luc and Fabienne peered down at the tray set out on the garden table.

‘Hi you two,’ we cried jovially, ‘are you doing a jigsaw?’ ‘Noooo!,’ snorted Luc, ‘we’re doing Nature! Experiments with slugs...’

Oh! Little Tinkers.

Sure enough, there on the tray were two black shrivelled-things, perhaps lacking the enthusiasm of these eight-year-olds.

‘Look!' continued Luc proudly. ‘We’ve got grass, garlic, ice, snow and chocolate. We’re seeing which they like best.’

‘Yes’ said Fabienne seriously. ‘They tolerated the ice very well, but didn’t seem to like the garlic… ‘ She removed a glove and scribbled some notes.

‘You’re not hurting them, though, are you?’ I whimpered.

‘Of course not!’ tutted Luc, ‘Slugs are one of our favourite things!’ And he wafted a slice of compensatory cucumber at where their eating ends probably were.

Fabienne pointed at a plastic box on the floor: ‘Yeah - See this?’ she growled. ‘This is their new home – we’ve put leaves, sticks, rocks and dirt in it – it’s perfect for them!’

It did actually look very comfy. Why had I never thought of Pet Slugs before…

'I bet you don’t even know what they eat!’ challenged Luc.

‘Well,’ I muttered, ‘They’ve always enjoyed our Pansies… And You’ve just demonstrated that ice is acceptable…’

‘But what they Really like,’ he said with a sigh, ‘Is Kale and Green Lettuce. They like sweet things too, so you can even let them eat cake! Tiny pieces, of course’ he added in the interests of slugs-confronted-by-ignorance.

I’d had No Idea! It seems there’s more to slugs than meets the eye - I wonder if they accept mature members in their Nature Club…

The next time we dropped in on his parents, I couldn’t wait to ask Luc how the slugs were getting on in their custom-constructed aquarium.

‘They’ve gone,’ he shrugged. ‘They could have escaped, I suppose, or maybe a bird ate them...’

He stared at me with a mixture of bafflement and concern: ‘Dolores, you’re not crying, are you?’

Boots Wellington

2010-02-10T14:41:00.014+01:00

Yesterday I launched myself on the garden. It was chilly and grey with a delicate drizzly haze – Perfect.

Gardening can only be enjoyable in wellington boots. If it’s too hot to wear wellies, then Don’t garden - you’re just asking for steamy exhaustion, tiny, vicious critters that fight back when disturbed, and a knotty jungle of green that actually grows as you watch.

Not to mention Ticks, which in fact, I have mentioned before… http://doloresdays.blogspot.com/2007/05/tick-trauma.html

Gardening in wellingtons is quite pleasant! It’s satisfying to slash away at What Once were Plants, to simply tug off that curly weed thing that in summer coiled like a metal spring round your roses, to boldly go behind the gas tank and be able to See what you’re treading in…

George also donned his boots and, deciding those pesky leylandeii weren’t too bad really, we sallied forth for a walk. We’re lucky to live on the edge of a village, close to forest, field and vines. I will now attempt to insert photo of Vines!

When we first visited this region, I was astonished at what vines looked like –I’d imagined tall, willowy trees, wafting their alcoholic scent for many miles around. Instead, they’re short, knobbly things that you could picture getting up when bored,to wander round muttering at each other...

(Were their rows not so well-regimented for ease of pruning and picking).

Anyway - Wellies add so much to a walk, don’t they; the joy of sploshing through muddy puddles, (particularly having grazed some mountainous residue of recent dog), of charging fiercely through bracken, of skilfully kicking an aerodynamic pebble to watch it land eighteen whole inches away. Of caring not of scuffed leather or snapped heels…

Oh! Black of hue and tractor-treaded
Wherein all sorts of crotte embedded…
To boldly bound through mire & hedge
Is what we Love. Though p’raps a Wedge
Heel… built-in corn pad, GPS…
Could just refine their rubberness
A bit…

PERISH the thought!

Radical Thoughts

2010-02-03T13:41:00.021+01:00

(from the teachings of Wikipedia):
“The oil of wintergreen is used topically (diluted) or aromatherapeutically for muscle and joint discomfort, arthritis, cellulite, obesity, edema, poor circulation, headache, heart disease, hypertension, rheumatism, cramps, inflammation, eczema, hair care, psoriasis, gout, ulcer (dermatology), broken or bruised bones…”

… and haven’t we all suffered from at least seven of these foul afflictions?

Traditionally, now is the time of year when they seem particularly irritating; the weather’s bleak, your best Christmas present is broken and your bottom has become a Pavement Hazard.

Well Au Contraire! (As we say in Bognor). I love post-Christmas. The cold is invigorating yet a great excuse for not gardening; my beloved Betty Boop watch did indeed stop working, but was revived by a new battery; and I have revelled in a guilt-free Christmas sugar mountain.

I once heard that the start of February and NOT January is the best time to revolutionise oneself with diet or things of that ilk - Pchaw to Resolutions of the Brand New Year!

With this in mind, I’ve spent the last ten days shovelling away Christmas dregs in order to consume Everything by the February deadline. Even those ghastly lumps of fruit-tinted jelly that George has weirdly grown to quite like.

From today, 3rd Feb, Things will be Different! (It had to be postponed from the 1st owing to dastardly vat of duck paté with figs that had to be finished). But now, No More sugar, far less alcohol, and mini-trampolining every day to deep-rhythm music from Christmas DVD of ‘TrueBlood’ theme (have you seen this fabulous vampires-in-the-community series?). (I chose a gentle link here, but there are still a few Teeth):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6bh4ka3Roc
((I can't get this damn video clip to play, but the music's great if you can go to the bother of copy & pasting into the http slot))

What else? Radically get my hair cut for the first time in four months, learn to give proper English lessons and speak proper French, blog at least once a fortnight, write a famous novel, paint the kitchen, chop down twenty feet of our ghastly leylandii, become a radio continuity announcer because it sounds such fun, invent a self-emptying cat tray, travel the world and save people, and… and be generally sort of Revolutionised.

So exciting! Why didn’t I do this last February? Or the Feb before...

Where to begin? Well, the cat tray would be useful but the hair’s more pressing so I'll ring them tomorrow. The leylandii are Huge – I expect George would like to do those. People to save... in times of snow & powercut I usually try to save our elderly neighbours, but they always send me away snortingly. I'm not sure why - But I mustn't let it put me off.

Maybe the best First Thing would be to find that tin of Ivory Cream Steam-defying Washable we bought last summer and - Oh Sod It! Where's that bottle of Wintergreen...

It Came from Outer Space

2009-10-27T20:05:00.010+01:00

What the hell IS that?

We had friends round for a meal at the weekend – lovely friends who laughed heartily when George burnt the rice, and chewed stoically on my resistant lumps of Pork-in-Ginger with nere a grimace.

These are friends for whom the getting together is paramount rather than the food offerings (mercifully), and who I’m almost certain will not mind when I say that Picards Freezer Emporium is their own market of choice.

So this weekend they brought their fun and frivolity, a superb bottle of wine and… a Thing - the like of which we’d never seen before! (I shall attempt further down to display a photo). But to try and describe it…

It’s about 30cm tall and comes in two parts. One’s a knobbly stick with a pinkyorangeyfurry tennis ball on top, covered in many yellow arrow-headed fronds.

The other part is a flat green stick with a corrugated heart-shaped fan. Beautiul… but what is it for? You could possibly plunge the sink with the tennis ball… despatch tenacious cobwebs, stick it behind your ear while fanning yourself with the other bit…

Alarmingly, Mélanie grabbed The Thing while George and I were still coming to terms with it, and ran with it to the sink – for it's actually Alive! They insisted it came from a flower shop, so now it’s in a vase and yes, it’s drinking the water! I’d say it’s grown twenty feet since Saturday. Ah-hah - Could it be a beanstalk?

The tennis blob has a delicate aroma redolent of cauliflower, yet bizarrely aromatic. We've noticed the cats aren’t keen at all. In fact I suspect that they, like me, think it sometimes moves its fronds. And I could swear it just turned to watch as I walked past.

So, is it trying to communicate? Will it start singing those irritating five notes from 'Close Encounters'? Or will it suddenly leap Triffidly out of its vase and whack us with its fan?

Mélanie, Eveline and Ignace say that they'd never seen one before either, and had gone into the shop to buy an orchid. There was just something about it that made them choose that instead...

It's Just The Beginning...

The Tour de Paris-Tours

2009-10-18T11:30:00.006+02:00

Pchaw to the Tour de France – we have a better Tour, one that goes right past our front door! Last weekend, 155 riders set off from Paris (or Chartres, fairly nearby) on the gruelling 230km ride to Tours.

It was won by the Belgian Philippe Gilbert thanks in part, it must be assumed, to his attention to vital details such as choosing the perfect rider to get into the slipstream of on the home strait. The runner-up, Tom Boonen, was most disheartened by his own mistake there... (What about the very kind Exuder of the Slipstream, I'd like to know)…

For I understand little of this kind of stuff – what’s most memorable for me is the joyful gathering of neighbours to watch the race whizz past our very pavement, with the sharing of Almost-Champagne and Nibbles.

We gathered last year too, but made the mistake of not realising that the riders came in two chunks – not only the Elites (or Proper ones)... (I don't mean that, I mean Super-Experienced ones), but also the Espoirs (Aspiring Star ones). The Espoirs race an hour before the others and last year, we all thought that was the end. They were Going Like the Clappers, after all…

It was only when George put the TV on later, that he noticed something very like Our House on the live coverage of a bike race. Sure enough, a quick peer out of the window found a helicopter circling, closely followed at ground level by the Whoosh of a second clutch of racers.

Well? Everbody else was fooled, too…

This year, George took up position at the top of the slope well in advance and armed with super-charged video camera, while I popped down to banter gaily with the other spectators. They’d been there since before the Espoirs, and were suitably merry.

If my French were more equal to the multi-dialect SpatterChat that is a street gathering, I’d have gone out earlier too. As it is, twenty minutes of vague nodding and slipping in the odd completely inappropriate sentence, is enough. For everyone…

The ambience, though, is convivial and patriotic, with yells of “Vive l’Angleterre aussi!” generously tucked in. There were about twenty of us, and it was a great chance to cement relationships with, for example, the couple who’d only moved in a week before (I’d launched myself at them while walking past one day, but this time they showed no anxiety whatsoever).

There were two wise-looking elders in the best seats (cushions on their picnic chairs), and various people of the vicinity. We discovered that the horrid, rotund neighbour who drives right up our exhaust is, in fact, quite a nice person, as are the gang of shady-looking second-homers who were leaning on the fence opposite (keeping it between them and us).

In fact, when retired Hélène impressively caught the water bottle flung to the crowd by one of the Elites, she took it across to the ten-year-old. (She may have suddenly realised it had been heavily dribbled-upon)…

Disappointingly, that was the only Present flung this time. Usually the very long publicity caravan has staff chucking tee-shirts, caps and sweets into the excited masses, and there is much gnashing of teeth and elbows to grab a prize.

A few years ago, George and I went to see the Tour-Tour de France, but in the galaxy of delights raining down, all we managed to catch was a wizened bit of dried sausage. And I had to really shout at that evil little child, too… Wasn’t his Puncture Repair Kit Enough?

We don't know if the Paris-Tours will happen again next year - there are rumours it will go a different route. How we'll miss the flashing lights, the motorbikes, the smiling, waving policemen and the loud hailers screaming: "Get Out of the Waaaay!"

How to Park in Paris

2009-08-30T17:43:00.003+02:00

First, take a Parisian. Add car of generous proportions and place in, say, the Latin Quarter, at eight o’clock at night.

It is still daylight so spotting a space, particularly with the experienced eyes of two additional Parisians on board, shouldn’t be too hard…

As non-Parisian friends on holiday, remember to help the driver with constant comments along the lines of, “There’s one over th-! no, sorry – disabled // Oh just look at how he’s parked – otherwise you could have got a Tank in… // Hey! that bugger pinched your space!”

Such encouragement is always welcome…

After an hour or so, one of the Parisians will merrily bid us farewell and go off to meet her boyfriend at a bar we have drawn unexpectedly close to. You could suggest to the others that really, it would be just as much fun to go back to the appartment, where I could rustle something up from the contents of the fridge. The co-driver will recall that the said contents amount to half a cucumber and some old teabags of the green mint kind.

Suddenly she sees an Actual Gap between two other cars, and Manoeuvres begin! It takes but five minutes of perfect directing “go on stop go on stop turn go on back stop stop no Stop!” and magnificent wheel control, to parallel-park the car - leaving four centimetres front and back between neighbourly bumpers. If Only we’d had the camera…

Yet, this feat seemed As Naught to the Parisians… They park as they drive – ignoring all obstacles.

After dinner, as they drive you round L’Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile - the immense roundabout with its twelve exits and several million cars aiming At Yours - you must try very hard to muffle your screams.

And then be ready to spot a Parking Space vaguely in the vicinity of the appartment.

VITAL Papers

2009-08-13T12:14:00.008+02:00

‘But WHY do you want to change your driving licence, madame?’ said the surprised voice. ‘It’s unnecessary - England is in the EU!’

‘You’re Right!’ I nearly said, ‘What the hell am I doing, voluntarily plunging into the tortured bowels of French bureaucracy?’

But I didn’t say it. Because my English licence is quite old – one of those pink and green papery things coming apart at the folds, and there's certainly No Photograph. (Did we even have cameras)? So it's instantly suspicious.

And you’re never sure of the reaction it’ll provoke when stopped routinely by the gendarmes: we've had hilarity, fascination, incomprehension, Outrage-with-Severe-Reprimand for even bringing it to France (he was an unusually unpleasant specimen having a bad day)… But I don’t want to be flung into an oubliette because of my annoying driving licence.

The Préfectures in France are the Houses of Mass Administration. In March this year I made my first foray into their Website/licences/driving/resident/foreigner/EU/shortperson… This revealed an interminable list of Essential Documents that must be Translated by approved professionals and Sworn to by approved professionals who Mustn't Know me At All.

Naturally I gave up, but re-attacked a month later by phoning for clarification. A very friendly bloke narrowed the List down to proof of address, old licence and a photo - Just take them down to the Préfecture and they’ll send me a French licence. Simple!

Then I forgot about it. Until this week when with uncharacteristic Dynamism, I assembled all the docs, including terrifying photo (“you mustn’t smile, madame!”) and phoned to check they were open that afternoon…

But it seems every member of The Administration has a different set of rules. That day's member, after my insistence on carrying it through, passed me on to a colleague with special knowledge.

The colleague pointed out the need for another document (there's always one more) with proof of Maiden Name. Have you ever noticed that Maiden Names are instantly jettisoned from British passports and the like? Eventually I found some old GCE certificates, and post-eventually, birth and marriage ones (I’ll take them all).

I couldn’t go that afternoon, though, because this person was adamant that an appointment was imperative. ‘OK then – when can I come?’ (Hoping she wouldn't say Wednesday afternoon, as I had a trim & blow dry booked). 'End of September, madame'.

Damn! What a complete waste of Dynamism!

Still, it will be properly sorted out then, because every administrator we've met here has been charming and helpful in spite of our incoherent jabberings.

And of course, it gives me time for a load more attempts at the Terrifying Photo…

Things to do with Kippers

2009-08-03T11:30:00.008+02:00

The other day we went round to friends for lunch in the garden – perfect tranquillity on the outskirts of town, warm sunshine, fragrance of fresh rosemary, thyme, mint…

Fabienne’s “light lunch” began with plates of tiny tomatoes, olives, nuts, quiche and water melon; it slipped into gala melon with parma ham; then we had prawns and monkfish with wild rice; wonderful cheeses; and a fruit tart with plums and apricots grown within two hundred yards - the neighbours are very friendly.

George and I have embraced French cuisine enthusiastically – everyone is keen to share their secrets; there are TV chefs and magazines and cookbooks, and our style of cooking has changed a lot since moving here.

Sadly, our style of Presentation has not. Fabienne’s appetisers were colour co-ordinated and came in handy bite-size. The gala melon was displayed like the rays of the sun, with the ham wrapped round breadsticks. The mountain of prawns was a delicate, attractive mountain, (not the unbalanced splodge I’d have constructed). The cheeses were arranged with pleasing symmetry, and the tart glistened lusciously.

Food in France is for savouring, and before savouring, we must be tantalised by hints of fresh and subtle flavours to come…

So what the hell can Fabienne possibly see in Kippers? And how can it be that every so often, she and the neighbours gather at ten in the morning for a Kipper Fest!

Sensibly, they cook them in the garden (one assumes it's by Short Straw), and accompany them with champagne. Which could help. Cats must come from many miles for this...

Personally, I loathe kippers – the taste, the Smell, the Bones. And I’ve always thought of them as a Man Favourite, like Kidneys or Tripe (which always seems to be trying to shudder its way out of the pan). How can such things appeal to a frothy, feminine person, and all her neighbours to boot!

There is obviously still much for us to learn about French cuisine. After all, we'd never have thought of cooking Beef Cheeks till the village butcher unleashed their succulent secrets to us.

Right! Take bunch of Kippers...

Bring me the Head of Alfredo Mallard

2009-07-22T17:17:00.003+02:00

… that I may glue it back on with evostick.

Alfredo is my favourite of the ducks that fly across our fridge in homage to Hilda Ogden http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilda_Ogden. This morning I swept him to the floor with vigorous Dettox, and his head went the way of one of his long-lost little yellow feet. We’re searching still.

In England-our-old-country I used to love Coronation Street (which I think finally grew to several hundred episodes a week); even got George interested (or he surrendered). For, as opposed to deeply gloom-filled EastEnders, Corrie characters actually had Different Characters, often very funny (deliberately) and always interesting.

Since moving to France, we fickley never give it a thought. We Have The Technology to watch English soaps and I bet that I (not George) could easily become engrossed in any – it’s the joy of poking your nose into other people’s existences without guilt or consequence…

In France, the soaps generally seem to be imported from the States – The Bold and the Beautiful; The Young and the Restless (woe betide thee if you disturb our neighbours while that’s on).

Does Dallas count as a soap? Here, it has different intro music and a rousing Song! “Dallas – your universe pitiless…” (The tune’s Very different). I have always been grateful for the translations I gleaned from it: “Show him in!”, for example, or “That’s blackmail!”, are always uppermost in my French chitchat.

There are also lots of American and German detective series in France, (“Get out of the WAY!” is handy) – always fascinating to hear the voice they use to dub an actor you know. Apparently they actually have voice doubles – wouldn’t that be a great job… I’d like to be Whoopie Goldberg’s please. Of course, mine might be a bit white and squeaky, but I’d be willing to have my vocal chords tweaked…

Not everything on TV here is imported; I must put in a vote for a recent brilliant French drama about the German occupation of a French village in 1940: Un Village Français – gripping and powerful and I can’t wait till it comes on again.

But back to Coronation Street. I acquired my collection of Hilda’s Flying Ducks some years ago, when George took me on a surprise visit to the set at Granada Studios. It was fabulous, with the Rovers Return and the Corner Shop and the cobbles and the general wonderment. (In fact, it was almost as good as the surprise visit to Cadbury World, where my souvenirs filled a wheelbarrow).

Distressingly, I’ve just discovered on Google that the Corrie tours stopped when the inordinate number of episodes per week required too much actual filming. Oh dear – so many disappointed fans.

Thank Heavens I got my Ducks in time.

Bigger and Shinier

2009-07-17T18:45:00.002+02:00

HURRAAAAAAY!!!

Thanks to Super-Kind and Wonderful Jon Doust's further efforts to help, (then George doing it when I Still couldn't follow Jon's instructions) BEHOLD the Golden Blog Award!!

Big and Shiny

2009-07-15T18:42:00.002+02:00

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> width="144" height="163" />
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This post, if it works, is even more self-indulgent than usual, being the Display of a Golden Blog Award!

Passed to me by delightful Jon Doust of The Vendée Blog (see Blogs-I-Like and this link: http://vendeeblog.net/?p=312 ), where the Award is definitely displayed in all its magnificence, it seems to be a sort of chain award; foul and terrible shall be one's penance if you don't pass it on!

I'm going to attempt to pass it on to a blog that makes me laugh heartily and that is unusual in being a Cartoon blog. Posted by a French woman who's recently moved with husband and children to London for a while, it brilliantly sketches the weirdities of expat life in the UK: http://130cartons.blogspot.com (or click on
130 Cartons à London on my Blogs-I-Like).

Splendid! I'm off to polish my nose...

Everybody needs...

2009-07-06T12:04:00.006+02:00

They’re all moving! In this time of financial crisis and House Market plummets, everybody else in our little clutch of outer-village dwellings is moving away. What are they not telling us?

In fact, old Philippe died fairly decisively… the man opposite changed his job… next door but one wants to be near her grandchildren… and two doors down – well, it’s just too sordid to talk about (any more)…

People don’t seem to move as often in France as in the UK, maybe because it’s such a faff. When you leave, you empty the house completely – curtains and rails, handy picture hooks, light fittings with bulbs (although they did leave us a solitary 40w on a scary bit of wire).

George and I landed in this unrecognisably bleak shell one freezing December night straight from final solicitor’s signings to find also that gas, electricity and water were switched off. With our furniture arriving next day, we got wine, water, candles and edibles from the village shops (mercifully open till 7pm), toasted our little cave and shared a sleeping bag, wearing every jumper we’d packed into the one case.

Next morning, our great big van arrived at seven thirty, having demolished a string of Christmas lights negotiating the village. (Perhaps nobody would know it was us…). There followed a frenzy of organising gas, electricity and water – the wherewithal for tea being paramount if we wanted our stuff unpacking...

With daylight we found not only our two cellars, but keys thereto, and the nice man from the water company patiently explained where the stop tap was. (Had we been able to see it the night before, we could apparently have unleashed that utility right away). Once we did unleash it, the water from the kitchen tap went into overdrive-flow and wouldn’t stop – switched on or not.

We then had visits from gas and electricity; French utilities insist on coming to inspect new customers for unfortunate tendencies and out-of-date equipment (which they find), then they tell you to get hold of a private contractor because they wouldn’t touch that apparatus with a barge pole.

In spite of all this, though, most seem to approach moving house with a gallic shrug; presumably they’re resigned to spending several months unscrewing everything because they know the place they’re going will also be devoid of content. Unless you count twenty years-worth of empty wine bottles, rusty garden implements and a gestapo greatcoat that we unearthed later.

Our current neighbours are exuberantly friendly and I’m sure we’ll miss them, but it’ll be exciting to see who’ll take their place. Our estate agent noted with hilarity that English people always ask "what are the neighbours like?" What’s so funny?

Admittedly, you have to try and glean true meanings behind the inevitable “lovely”, "salt of the earth" (or baffled “Pfouff” in France), but pleasant neighbours are a huge bonus. Even Unpleasant, you’ll have to communicate with them sometime, if only to borrow an emergency plaster or to extricate your cat from their dog…

Oh lord, the pets! Now how are they all going to get on?...

A Dance called Madison

2009-06-12T12:33:00.008+02:00

Come on Dolores! It’s the MADISON!!

Er, no thanks, you go ahead – I’m not keen on… No, honestly, it’s too complicated… Look, last time I tripped someone up and the whole line went with her - I really don’t want to. Oh god! – alright then!

Do YOU Madison? Or did you, like me, believe it was an American city, an avenue, a square… ?

Well, it’s SO much more! Very soon after arriving in the land of fine wines and goats cheese, we discovered that ‘Madison’ was French for Line Dance. And Never stand in the way of frenzied hordes answering the call!

I usually avoid situations where it might happen, but recently George and I went to two musical gatherings where it sneaked in. Many times.

This clip shows people engaged therein:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95NjjrXzhak

If you take a peek, you’ll see the Lines of people merrily stepping forwards, backwards and allways with intermittent jumps and hops and turns, and all perfectly synchronised! How do they do this? Was it compulsory at school? A new vocation for gap years, perhaps?

I happen to love dancing; anything by the Stones will set me off… Salsa, Cajun, Eighties Disco or a chance to Twist again…

But the Madison (remember Achey Breaky Heart?) is surely more a sort of Chinese Water Torture by skipping. And I’m always skipping in the wrong direction. All alone…

Last time, somebody very kindly took pity on my flailings and ran all the way from the other end of the line to instruct me step by step. A wonderful woman.

Of course I’d forgotten everything by the next Madison, and fell over in the general agitation. Cunningly I lay still, hoping to be stretchered off. Nobody noticed. And George was engrossed in playing accordeon. (Actually, would it be quicker for me to learn that than the Madison…)

Later, as I peered out from under a table at more lines of flittering feet, Wonderful-Woman’s head suddenly dipped down in front of mine and beamed, “I’m going to explain the Secret of Madison: It’s always exactly the same steps!”

Wow - So that's it! She then wrote these steps down on a napkin (which had evidently been made good use of during the tiramasu earlier):

Step left forward; Place right beside left (no weight) & clap; Step back on right; Move left foot back & across the right; Move left foot to the left; Move left foot back & across the right.

Well, that doesn't seem too hard... I took these precious lines home to study, and practised and practised until it became for me, too, a thing of Wonder, that I even pondered Youtubing to.

Did I hell! It's bloody Impossible!

I WANT One!

2009-05-18T12:11:00.003+02:00

“Wow!” gasped George, “Come and look at this!”

“Oo, what is it?” said I, rushing to share his amazement … “Are you still watching that dolphin programme?”

“No!” he breathed, “Mega-Marquee!”

For George had accidentally landed upon a Shopping Channel, and was now unable to switch off.

Have you ever seen one, or perhaps dipped into a website? Do Not, if you are susceptible to persuasion because instantly, everything there becomes indispensable. For instance, if George and I didn’t buy their Mega-Marquee (assembled in 60 seconds!), how would we survive the unreliable summer with our picnic guests constantly and soddenly rushing in for shelter?

And, what better way of putting up these guestly hordes, than on a Handy-Bed? - the size of a (quite big) suitcase, this steel-framed bed inflates and deflates itself at the press of a button! (Quite terrifying to watch…)

I can’t help agreeing that this would indeed be Handy and Yes, our foot-pumpable airbed is but an exhausting and pitiful imitation. Plus, there are special offers to augment one’s shopping pleasure – why not combine a Double Handy-Bed with a half-price Perfect Painter Spray? Guests will then have something to sleep on in a newly-decorated spare room! (or landing, in our case).

The brilliant ideas were countless… On the subject of visiting friends, are any of yours troubled by thinning or receding hair? What could be more thoughtful than presenting them with a tin of Restore-It-Quick? They’ll be delighted at this instant and revolutionary fibrous solution (“don’t forget to select a colour!!”).

Or if the problem is too much hair, DO try Scrape-it-Away! Removes unwanted growth from all over the place while exfoliating, massaging and vibrating at the same time! So much more fun than blunted razors or molten wax…

What else took our fancy… Well, while George went off to get wine and nibbles, I discovered the FantastiBag; Constructed on Tardis principles, this outwardly compact shoulder bag can store the contents of a Small Hotel in an instantly retrievable manner and (miraculously) without permanent damage to your shoulder or unguarded passers-by.

And something I jolly wish I’d had today for a torn hem – GlueItUp! This magical tin can repair all your clothes, even (puzzlingly) in “the places hard to reach with needle and thread”. Why not, they suggest, collect scraps of your old clothes and GlueItUp them together for a dazzling new wardrobe! There’s even a handbag size for those embarrassing emergencies! (Hah! If you’d bought an AmaziBag, you wouldn’t be troubled by piffling concerns of size).

We did eventually manage to switch off – rather like someone pulling the plug when you’re being electrocuted – and we collapsed into a dazed heap, heads crammed with ideas that will Change Our Lives.

Did we actually buy anything? No, in fact. But we know where this Shopping Channel lives…

(All these items are (more or less) real; only the Names have been changed…)

Tales of the Dump

2009-05-01T12:29:00.005+02:00

Do you enjoy a jolly good Clear-Out? Do you like to plunge occasionally into the festering depths of your cupboards, your cellars, your garage; to gather it all up into an explosive pile and whisk it off it to The Tip?

Of course, anything with a modicum of use left in it can be charity-shopped or sold at the next village Brocante (second-hand market), but today I refer to the contents of our ancient garden shed. We finally decided that it needed the Clear-Out.

What treasures might lurk within, abandoned and ignored for aeons by us and all those who roamed this land before us… (Excitingly, we did last year unearth a bucket of 1943 German rifle cartridges! But that was under the sink in the cellar, and now they live wherever the Police sent them).

The Shed content is more humdrum: a medley of paint and varnish tins dating back several decades, mucky and broken bricks, shattered plant pots, a collection of greasy old chicken feathers, an electric pump for our well that never worked, and a really disgusting brush on the end of a long bendy pole. George actually wanted to keep that, just in case it came in handy...

Poking beyond the outer crust disturbed something small and scuttly that mercifully escaped, plus two plastic containers bedecked with Skull & Crossbones. God knows what was (or still is) in those, and certain Rubbish Tips may well stick you in the Bastille for even trying to deposit them…

For, Going to the Tip (or Déchetterie) in France is not the Roll Up, Chuck in skip that I remember in the UK.

Here, you must be issued with a Tip ID Card by your local Mairie. Ours gives us a generous choice of six Tips in the Department, and these adhere to strict timetables – around two and a half days a week, and certainly not lunchtimes!

The nearest is a ten minute drive; followed by a forty minute queue to be allowed through the gates by the extremely surly and unhelpful sod In Charge. (Many of the locals, in fact, make the most of this time by getting out of their cars and animatedly catching up on gossip).

Once you make it inside the Compound, the Director of Ops watches through narrowed eyes as you drive up the slope to the Chucking Area; he demands your ID and inspects you for suspicious twitches, then scribbles angrily on a clipboard. Once I went alone; he glowered as I pantingly heaved a sack of something into the skip, then inspected the Something to make sure it was Rubbish of an Acceptable Kind before Heavily Sighing me on my way.

Fortunately we can drive an extra ten minutes for the joy of a smiling Operative; one who waves you into the roomy parking area, proffers his sleeve to shake (in lieu of handful of tip microbes - polite and considerate), cheerily asks your ID no if he remembers and gives assistance if needed, all the while engaging in jolly banter. I love him very much.

As for the Skips, well, the Greenery skip is always popular at this time of year... Then there’s the Tatty Old Cardboard Box skip; the Any Old Iron skip for all unwanted railings and the like; and the exciting “Tout-Venant” (all & sundry). Last time this was overflowing with old settees, mattresses, DIY leftovers, and a motley and rather poignant collection of stockings draped over a broken bench. The Tales this skip could tell, eh…

One thing I haven’t noticed here is people rescuing stuff from the tip. The usual recyling containers are there for glass, paper and whatnot, but some bits in the mountainous skip piles must be useful too. No doubt there are schemes...

I shall recognise those stockings, though, if I see them at the Brocante!

A Redder Shade of Carrot

2009-04-08T15:08:00.007+02:00

Look – the ads show merry filmstars lounging in their dressing gowns, checking out another blockbuster script, phoning their mum, rebuilding the kitchen… all while the potion works its spell. Then they unleash bouncy, gleaming locks and rush off to Dazzle!

Even desperate people IN the films do it - Harrison Ford… Geena Davis and… others - they simply dash into some dismal bathroom and three minutes later they’re transformed! It’s easy!

Well, perhaps if my life had depended on it too… Because I found it jolly hard doing one’s own highlights. But the Hairdresser’s prices in these days of Crunch obliged me to have a go.

Daphné herself thought my efforts hilarious. When I sheepishly explained I’d put in a few blonde streaks with a kit from the supermarket she screeched, “Oh thank god – I thought my own colours had turned Yellow!”

Rather harsh, I thought. But as my hair grew to resemble the stuff our rabbits like to bed down on, I felt urged to swamp the whole lot by going back to my roots. Which were ever more apparent, anyway.

So I bought a ‘shiny cream paste’ of brown, but Burnished Mahogany brown. Easy to apply because it’s “wonderfully thick and doesn’t run.” “Be sure to use All the mixture!” urged the instructions.

I did. Suddenly I could feel it glooping down from the top of my head like freshly-cracked raw egg. (You may know that horribly realistic sensation when someone pretends with their finger-tips). (You may know the actual sensation…).

The gloop grew like some hideous palpitating thing, and it was Red. Mirror, tiles, sink, towel, T-shirt, ears, were all deep red. And according to the box, they’d stay like that for 28 washes.

How did the finished hair look? Well... quite red. Quite orange. Reddy-orange. I ventured out the next day sporting large hat and sunglasses. The day after that, though, I noticed an eerily perfect match between hair and favourite TinTin coral-tinged sweatshirt. Hang on a minute - I have clothes that go!

Now the plunge has been plunged, I feel weirdly liberated. One only has to look at Famous Redheads: Katherine Hepburn, Van Gogh, Geri Halliwell, Boris Becker and, of course, Erik the Red, who overcame neighbourhood shovel squabbles to colonise, and become Paramount Chieftain of, Greenland. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erik_the_Red

Who could fail to be inspired? And George is delighted with my renovations. I intend to sally boldly forth in coats of many colours, sparkly hairclips, feathers… for I am Proud and Boldly Burnished. And God, but I’m Lovely!

Set up Thy Tent and Camp

2009-03-27T14:04:00.004+01:00

“It’s pretty good for four euros, though…”

George has always thought positively. And one couldn’t quibble; the Amazing Promo! price, an assembly time of three minutes – this Tent was a good buy!

A flimsy pale blue dome of compact dimensions, it has a mosquito-net lining, an aeration window on its summit (knotted orange hanky provided for closing), tiny tent pegs, guy strings, and a Floor! I was particularly thrilled at the latter, being averse to uninvited critters...

I’d forgotten we had this tent. George bought it years ago as a fun-filled spare room for visiting small children. Disappointingly, they always plumped for the futon, and the tent was relegated to the Not Much Use cupboard.

However, George’s current revitalising of his Musical Passions brought it back to mind. This summer promises a multitude of festivals; whether he’s playing at them or attending in Devotee capacity, what handier accoutrement could there be? Apart from an instrument or two...

He painted the Tent of his Youth with stars; it was that sort of an era and offered some hope of spotting it in a field full of quite similar ones. In fact this tent, too, could only benefit from decoration of some ilk…

I’d never been tempted to camp before – lack of loo and hairdryer seemed insurmountable hurdles. Yet, sitting inside this cosy island edifice, surrounded by lawn, bird song, fresh air and the foothills of Mole City, I felt strangely enthusiastic at the prospect.

After all, we could both fit inside it at the same time - lie down even (although George needed the full diagonal). “It’ll be great!” he urged, “inflatable mattress, roomy sleeping bag, torchtoweltoothbrush… what could be better?”

The first festival is at the end of May; exciting music, stalls offering food and Stuff of every variety, a chance to commune with Nature for a blissful weekend… Will I discover an unexpected passion for Tenting?

Hell No!

Luckily there’s a pleasant hostelry close by.

Sporty Things

2009-03-14T13:37:00.005+01:00

Just who is Jay Spearing?

I happen to know that he is a twenty-year-old Midfield Player for Liverpool, who came on for the last half hour of their match against Real Madrid last Wednesday, and played really well. I know, because at breakfast the next morning, this heartwarming snippet – this giving a chance to new talent – was the bit of George’s Match Debrief that caught my attention and made me smile.

George is a passionate Liverpool fan. Hence, soon after we met, he took me to watch a match; they were playing Stoke, I think - somewhere beginning with ‘S’ anyway. As it was my first ever live match, I determined to concentrate very hard and amaze George with my astute comments.

I was busy concentrating when everyone around me suddenly leapt up cheering and waving. Oh hell! - how had they scored so sneakily? And no replay…

Do you like sport? I like sporty things if they make me laugh; for instance, Cancanning on the mini-trampoline; sploshing about in the sea with an inflatable of some ilk (dinghy, dolphin, waterwings…)

At school, I was strangely good at Netball; in spite of being height-impeded, I could leap up to the net like one of those hunky seven-foot basketball players. And, of course, you could grasp the ball, whereas in Hockey you had to try and hit it with the end of a stick longer than I was.

In Hockey I was also horribly hampered by moving schools half way through the first year. I had learnt the Bully Off chant in a sort of slow motion: “Ground… Sticks… Ground… Sticks… Ground… Sticks… AWAaaaay!” - then the one paying most attention would solidly thwack the ball and set the game off in her favoured direction. At this new school they bullied off so fast, they’d scored before I’d even recognised the instructions.

Worse than that, the six months of growing that everyone else had had since buying their hockey shorts, meant theirs were trendy micro-minis; mine were a draughty tribute to Baden-Powell.

So sports lessons for me and other like-mindeds were generally a time to hide in the loos and compare scant notes on boys and eyeshadow. In post-school years I decided to try being sporty with Badminton; although this involved the tricky hitting-with-appendage, the target at least sailed through the air at a more gentle rate than a Tennis or (heaven forfend) a Squash ball...

Sadly, it it didn’t sail slowly enough for me, and I never graduated from Beginners’ Courses (in spite of taking three sets of them). But I wasn’t the only one. And we Put Our All into those games, hurtling desperately after the shuttlecock, shrieking “Good Shot!” whenever it made it over the net, and retiring to the bar afterwards to discuss our performance.

Definitely a cause for hilarity.

The Chainsaw of Zorro

2009-02-21T17:24:00.005+01:00

“Hah!” shouted Hervé, swishing the air with his chainsaw, “I am Zorro!”

Indeed, he did cut a dashing dash as he bounded lightly up the trunk and positioned himself for action. George and I could but gaze in awe.

And what was he doing there? Well, our ancient and enormous cherry tree succumbed to a tempest twelve months ago, resting ever since upon the old stone wall and the log shed. Having neither machinery nor experience in felling, George and I have tried not to think about it. (Besides, I thought it looked quite attractive at that angle)…

Then one day, our hero Hervé offered to do something about it! He turned up last week brandishing an impressive electric chain saw, plus the huge petrol-powered version belonging to his brother-in-law! Plus… appropriate gloves, boots, goggles, different thicknesses of rope, an astonishing agility and an intricate knowledge of knots. (No, not Scouts - the Forces).

He secured and sliced through branches in logical order of safety, until forced to stop due to oil and petrol exhaustion. Valiantly, he came back the next day with reinforcements – his brother-in-law and an even huger petrol-powered Thing. And metal wedges and a mallet to split logs of enormitude.

The axe we proffered seemed to cause them much hilarity, being of a rather delicate construction and very blunt. SO? It works on logs for the fire…

Anyway, These two stalwart specimens have left us with a fascinating array of beautiful logs, a vat-full of sawdust for comfy cat-litter, and the inspiration to redesign the garden and to clear whatever lurks within the shed… now the roof won’t collapse on top of us.

It’s only the cats who are slightly aggrieved; since the downfall of the cherry, the gap from shed-roof to wall, and from shed-roof to ground, demands far more calculation. Is sunbathing worth all that effort?

Jaws

2009-02-15T21:39:00.008+01:00

This week I went to have yet another broken tooth glued back. In the past few years I’ve had countless such repairs – well five, anyway – almost always due to over-enthusiastic carrot crunching. Mercifully I have at last found a kind and gentle dentist who repairs Without Pain.

The pain thing is, of course, paramount. My teeth are sensitive specimens and back in the UK, I always needed two injections against the agony of drilling. When we came here six years ago, I wondered if that would be allowed, or would I be snorted out of the surgery?

When you move house, of course, the best way to find a dentist is by word of mouth (ho ho). The first of an eclectic range of recommendations was for a young, dynamic woman, up to date on all the latest techniques and keen to transform every tooth into one Fit for Hollywood.

It seemed like a good idea at first, but after we’d been summoned back for several severe pokings, sent to a special x-ray centre to augment the many x-rays she’d taken herself and been given her Bill, we started trying to say No.

Because all we wanted was a checkup each and my first tooth-mending – victim of a birthday feast. The repair was… efficient in a Don’t-make-such-a-fuss sort of way. But what hurt even more was her list of Absolutely Necessary future treatments, the cost amounting to most of our savings. I didn’t want all those teeth crowning to perfection. We told her We’d call Her.

The next dentist was different. He looked at the ancient crown on the front tooth I'd broken aged nine (falling over a bucket), and said, ‘Mm, there’s no decay… unless you’re worried about your appearance, I’d leave it.’ Well, I was a little worried, but didn’t like to say - he obviously felt it merited no concern...

He had been recommended by Cecile, who’d been going there for thirty years and ‘had never had anything to complain about’. However, all her teeth are false and when I asked if he hurt ever, her ‘Non’ was accompanied by a very Gallic shrug.

He turned out to be upper-middle-aged, and rather likeable. Which is important, but pales completely against the Pain Factor; our jolly chats were interspersed with his guffawing, ‘You don’t need an anaesthetic for a tiny job like this!’ and my apologetic screams.

And you should see the repair he did on my broken tooth – it resembles a dollop of blu-tack. Inevitably - he applied the concrete with one of those wooden spatulas we used to eat tubs of ice cream with, and he certainly didn’t Fine Tune.

Further recommendations include a homeopathic dentist who didn’t even believe in anaesthetic – he’d just give you a Strong Warning; a dentist who was good but very squeamish, so would tremble all through root canal, and finally, finally our lovely current Dentist.

We’ve got into quite a pleasant routine – every so often I get carried away with my carrot-crunching, rescue the wayward tooth chip and put it in an envelope. I pop into the surgery and he glues it back on. He’s friendly, twinkly, and Painless.

And even though he’s been on the verge of retirement for the two years I’ve been going there, he’s too happy in his work to give up. Something to do with the calibre of tooth, I like to think…

Bring More Candles

2009-02-06T18:03:00.005+01:00

Last night, we were half way through our pineapple yoghurts when all the lights went out. Damn! Still, these cuts don’t last long, particularly when the weather’s calm…

After a couple of minutes blundering around for a torch that worked, George went outside to see how far the blackness stretched. It didn’t stretch at all – the streetlamps were on; next door’s kitchen was dazzling… why just us?

I felt a tiny surge of resentment towards the electricity company and all those currently enjoying its full power. (In fact, quite a big surge). Despicable of me, I know, but good heavens - it doesn’t seem long since we had all that baffling work done to change our system from something called ‘Triphase’ to ‘Monophase’.

Did we even have different Phases in England-our-Old-Country? And if the dreaded Triphase presented such an urgent need for change in this house, why had the previous owners ever dallied with it in the first place? For it had certainly caused us problems, usually when just about to amaze our friends with a gastronomic delight; or if George was away and I had to negotiate the outside steps and the Stygian gloom of the cellar… alone!

Anyway, since the 'passage en monophasée' - which entailed synchronising two electrical companies’ schedules, multitudinous agonised phone calls and hand delivering several Declarations to swear we’d all do our bit, (the electricians charged with this painful task, though, were all helpful and delightful) - all has gone well. Till last night.

George went down to the cellar and sure enough, the main fuse had tripped. He reset it; thirty seconds later it went again.

Had I been alone, I would have kept resetting it until it burst into flames, such is my ability and patience with DIY. Together, we sensibly eliminated fuses three by three, until left with the tangle of plugboards and cable under the kitchen sink.

Quite a lot of which turned out to be damp, and dripping into the mouldering under-reaches of the cupboard.

So we couldn’t blame it on an electrical company.

By experimental positioning of kitchen towel we deduced that the little black overflow pipe had let go at one end, so that enthusiastic gushing of waste sink water resulted in spattering of the cupboard. For weeks, months… who knows?

To avoid alarming sizzles, George has now redirected much of the cable, and indelibly re-glued the little black pipe. And we’re airing the foul depths of the under-sink.

Which is Really Exciting for the cats - they remain on constant guard because whatever’s exuding that sort of aroma must be tastier than Kitlykat …

I'll Show You Mine...

2009-01-24T11:10:00.001+01:00

What is this ghastly compulsion that seizes even the modest amongst us, to display our badges of physical suffering? Operation scars, injuries, tenacious rashes…

Just before Christmas I broke my leg whilst stepping back to admire our Beautifully-Adorned Tree. Mercifully, it was a clean break. Nevertheless, it entailed several days in hospital, a four-hour operation to insert a metal plate, and crutches that I’ve only just been allowed to dispense with.

AND I have a ten centimetre scar decorated with the holes of seventeen staples, of which I’m inordinately proud.

I can’t stop myself from writing about it here; I tell everyone I talk to, and yesterday when we were having lunch with friends, I really struggled not to flip down the top of my trousers to dazzle them with its magnificence… (It’s at the outside top of the thigh bone).

Why? It’s a revolting thing to do; akin to that childlike fascination with wormy things and festering scabs on our knees.

Dad used to be plagued by a neighbour along the corridor who would scuttle forth with graphic details of her latest medical procedure whenever he opened his door. If you watch 'Frasier', you’ll know that his dad is always dying to unleash his old bullet wound…

What reaction do we expect from those we inflict our damage upon? A satisfying Gasp of Horror? Praise for stoically bearing up? Sympathy for the life-long stain on our beauty? (The nurse broke it to me very gently). A comforting box of chocolates, perhaps, or a call to the nationals with our astonishing story?

I don't know. (Although chocolates always alleviate a trauma...)

But I've never had a worthwhile scar before, and I can't stop myself from sharing it!

In fact, while I'm on the subject, you should see the Appalling Collection of Bruises I've amassed from daily injections in the stomach!!

The Call of the Pompier!

2008-12-08T10:46:00.001+01:00

HARK! Who comes there down our chimney, this festive tide?

Well - he doesn’t quite come down the chimney… But I bet he could if he wanted! And he does bear gifts and glad tidings and plenty of Christmas Cheer... He’s the POMPIER on his annual calendar round! (Firefighter in England-our-old-country).

This year it was Caporal Legrand (or Bernard as he introduced himself) who called with the 2009 Pompiers Calendar. Their visit is always a delight. They come in the early evening, take a glass of wine and stay for a jolly chat. Bernard even invited us to his home for aperitifs!

Our first calendar-call seven years ago was, admittedly, slightly tricky; we’d only been in the country for three days and didn’t immediately grasp his Fund-Raising purpose. It took the poor man quite some time to get money out of us for his kind offer of a calendar.

Pompiers deal with fires, road accidents, medical emergencies, escaped llamas… in fact traumas of every ilk. They also attend commemorative events, and spread the Joy of Community.

Astonishingly, 85% of Pompiers in France are volunteers. (Well, it astonished me, but I hadn’t realised that in other European countries they’re mostly volunteers - the UK seems unusual in being largely professional). Here, they often have full-time jobs but are constantly on call.

During our first year in France, the village Chef Pompier came away immediately from his masonry to do something about the seven trillion bees we’d just found upstairs. How exasperating for him! Yet after bee-banishing, he even gave us his mobile number in case we needed to contact him urgently again! I wanted to marry him.

And I’m not alone… there is a huge feeling of warmth, respect and trust towards Pompiers. Some people even choose to phone them instead of the Medical Emergency number when they’re having a cardiac arrest or the odd arm has been broken... A friend explained that for her, it's an inbred response from childhood – Pompiers are like Supermen – they can solve anything.

This year’s calendar is fabulous as always: packed with colourful, exciting photographs of these amazing men and women coping in all sorts of dire emergencies, saving people, shrugging it all off with a smile. And there are photos of the local force posing shyly with helmets and handy digging or chopping implements. Inspirational people - always looking happy, always ready to make it better!

(Of course, I could have been one if I hadn't just reached the upper age limit)

Youth of Today

2008-10-19T16:31:00.001+02:00

The man behind the ticket desk at our local station recently had the gall to ask if I was eligible for a reduced fare!

Surely it was obvious to him that I was at least five years too young? I mean - I’ve always looked masses younger than I am and everyone has always said so. Always…

Something bizarre is happening now, though; some hideous reflection of modern fixations, no doubt… For example, last week a saleswoman in the hypermarket made a beeline for me, to tell me that her "Lifting" products were on promo. As well as her treatments for age-freckles and the "difficult eye area".

"SO?" I wanted to shout at her. (I didn’t shout. I just muttered "Not today thank you," and shuffled away thinking, She could do with some Retraining).

But something about her concerned gaze made me glance in the mirror at the ReadyReader Specs counter. And something about that made me rush to google ‘eyebags’ as soon as I got home.

What could have caused the insidious emergence of these generous little pockets? The usual culprits, it seems: stress, tiredness, caffeine and alcohol. So All is Lost. Although drinking seventeen gallons of water a day might help, apparently.

Google also suggested giving That Woman’s creams a go or, and this seemed interesting and rather less extortionate, trying a nice lie down with a frozen teabag on each eye (preferably green tea).

I happen to like green tea with mint, so I shoved a couple of used bags in between the Baby Peas and the Rich Chocolate Chip, and retrieved them later for a relaxing and rejuvenating spell with The World at One.

They felt like lumps of coal! Never mind; I pressed them coolingly to my eyes and laid down on the rug with a happy sigh. After ten minutes I rushed to assess the results: I looked like I’d gone three rounds with Mike Tyson before dipping my head in the dregs of the teapot. Perhaps the ordinary ‘fridge would have been cooling enough. Or perhaps I should go the camouflage route and decorate my under-eyes with a nice mural.

The day after this depressing failure, I got into conversation with a pleasant woman at the cheese counter – her family roots in Italy, her gifted and multitudinous grandchildren… Then, she went and asked me how old I thought she was. Always tricky, this – too young can be silly; too old can be mortifying… She looked about fifty-eight, and obviously thought she looked forty-eight, which is what I’d normally have suggested. But I was fed up, and suffering to boot from self-inflicted Hair Colour Calamity.

"SIXTY-THREE!" I yelled across the goat cheeses, and smirked off to the tills.

No, I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. I gritted my teeth (better grit while I've still got them), and said "Forty-Five?"

(Old Boot)!

Ode to a Fun Park

2008-09-13T12:19:00.001+02:00

O for another Go on La Vienne Dynamique; another Plunge under Les Mers du Monde!

This week George and I were whisked by super-speedy TGV to Futuroscope – a land of astonishing experiences and startling sensations… A fabulous present from our lovely English Conversation Group.

We had in fact been once before – during the Dreadful Heatwave of ’49, when grown men melted and children were on School Holiday. It was a fester of hour-long queues for two minute rides. (I exaggerate a little).

This time we went on a balmy September term-time Tuesday – what a Joy! We were the only two getting off the train, we strolled across the bridge in gleaming sunshine, and the park was empty but for a woman on a gyroscope who appeared out of nowhere, keen to Be Of Assistance.

So many Experiences to choose from, so to start off we plumped for the nearest one and were transported to Patagonia, where all the Dinosaurs live. Pchaw to Jurassic Park – we were right there with them!

We left the cinema quivering with anticipation.

Did we choose the wrong exit? The gleaming sun had gone and we had emerged into a veritable Tempest. Hordes of people in hooded plastic macs (how did they know?) were being blown sideways along the maze of wide paths, their Visitor's Maps flapping soggily.

Still, we all grinned bravely at each other. Luckily George and I had brought bananas. And not-quite-waterproof hats. But who cared? The sun came back out, and by jumping up and down waving our arms about, we were almost able to dry off our outer layers.

We had a SPLENDID day. We "touched" weird creatures, sat next to 3D characters, were enveloped by gigantic land- and seascapes, had a wonderful gyratory view of the area from the top of a tower…

But the absolutely best of all the incredible rides for us was ‘La Vienne Dynamique’. You sit in huge plastic seats and cling to a safety bar. Then, perhaps like The Feelies in ‘Brave New World’, you share not 'every hair on the rug', but the experiences of a desperate bridegroom late for his wedding.

When he leans out of the train, your head gets blown off; when he falls down a hole, drives a racing car, smashes into things, gets sneezed on by goblins... SO DO YOU! (In a bizarrely exciting manner). We laughed out loud for the whole 21 minutes.

So, Thank you Enormously, Lovely English Conversation Group, for lavishing this wonderful experience upon us - it was Unforgettable!

Little White House on the Prairie

2008-07-18T17:52:00.001+02:00

Dancey live music playing off the back of a lorry, enticing aroma of pork chops wafting across the field, convivial wooden tables newly swept of the latest downpour – what else could one want to celebrate Bastille Day Eve?

‘So,’ I said merrily to our bench neighbours as we toasted Jeanne d’Arc again (patriotic festivities demand sporting acknowledgement of our English sins), ‘I suppose that big white building is the toilettes?’

Nicole seemed to find this hilarious. ‘I’m afraid that Nature is our toilet this evening,’ she gurgled, before adding, ‘If you go behind that big white building, you’ll find a path leading to some nice thick forest.’

Oh hell! Why did I start drinking? I can’t bear peeing anywhere without a comfy seat, comfy paper, and comfy brick walls on all sides. Our French friends are baffled by this angst. They are happy (females) to run off gaily into the woods for a friendly mass wee-in, or (males) to ask at the end of a meal in the garden, ‘Shall I just faire pipi in the bushes or d’you want me to go indoors?’ Umm, well, I suppose if you’re behind the bushes…

After five years here in France, it doesn’t get any easier. (George is unaffected, having steel innards and needing no loo but our own).

Toilets in a bar or restaurant are usually mixed, so my cunning plan is to survey customer traffic and when it’s safe, move briskly across and scuttle inside. Inevitably the room is small and dark except for a fluorescently illuminated corner with a bloke standing face to the wall, scantily shielded by a half-metre square of wood.

Mercifully, there is a cubicle to go to, but what is the etiquette here? En route, do you smile and nod, "Cold, isn’t it"? Emerging, do you pause to repair your lipstick, smiling chummily as another man stands freshly-zipped at the adjacent basin?

The great thing is that public loos here, mixed or not, are always extremely clean – much more pleasant than I remember in the UK. The dreaded Hole-in-the-Floor is rare, though I did confront one recently in the back yard of a country inn.

It was a sparkling white ceramic depression in the middle of a shed, and easy to use even without a seat – a huge relief. Until I pulled the chain dangling over my head. Immediately 500 gallons of water surged from the back of the depression, filled it up and seethed over the top in a terrifying whirlpool that flooded the shed before I had time to hitch up my trousers and run.

When I returned to the bar George did not notice me signalling frenziedly from the door, so I had to splosh back inside, smiling desperately at customers and wishing I’d been sucked down the hole with the 500 gallons.

Anyway, back in the Field of Bastille Eve, Nicole’s husband had gone off to investigate. He returned looking very pleased with himself. ‘Over there!’ he beamed, ‘A little white house! It’s only a hole in the floor, but it’s a clean one!’

Splendid. Perhaps I'll roll my trousers up first...

Have You Seen This Tortoise?

2008-06-10T19:12:00.001+02:00

We were rolling merrily along a quiet country road, fresh from the rubbish tip, when I spotted this German-Helmet-on-Legs paused mid-amble and mid-tarmac.

With lightning reactions and superb control, I missed him by an inch. (Fortunately, we were at reasonable speed – the extortionate fine we once got copped for, worked)!

The tortoise had come to a halt in prime splat area, so George ran back to rescue him. As soon as George picked him up, the brave little specimen retaliated by peeing vigorously down his leg. Amazing how much liquid can come out of such a tiny little tum. Luckily, George’s reactions are also pretty lightning when his trousers are at risk; the road bore the brunt.

Once deposited on the other side Tarquin (it suited him), retreated under his German Helmet. He was unscathed physically, thank heavens - Lord knows how we’d have dealt with a half-mangled tortoise. It’s bad enough when you accidentally step on a snail - heavily, but not quite heavily enough, so you have to resort to mercy-bricking. Don’t you? Ghastly, but better than their further suffering, surely. I once employed the tactic with a badly cat-gored goldfish, and George has never quite adjusted to the fact that I could.

Anyway, Tarquin soon got bored with our gawping, unleashed his legs and set off in search of fun. He soon disappeared purposefully into the ditch.

But I started to worry – do tortoises live wild and free in France? Or had he been abandoned by grotty people like the dog in that TV advert: ‘Brutus loved his owners; he thought they loved him too…’ And they abandoned him by the ringroad – I’m frequently racked by this image at 3am.

Had Tarquin been abandoned? It’s hard to read the expression on a tortoise’s face.

George was sure he was a happy wild tortoise with a happy huge family. In fact, after a quick google, he was sure Tarquin was an exotic pond turtle from Greece. We sought advice from a friend who has a turtle with its own tiny pool in the living room. But as George and I still cannot agree on Tarquin’s markings, (George is Wrong), identifying him is tricky.

The important thing is, though, that our knowledgeable friend reassured us that tortoises/turtles do live joyously in the wild. So we were right not to retrieve him and bring him home to meet our rabbit and two savage cats, the hunting dog next door and the sudden plummet into the stream at the bottom of the garden .

I have to admit, though, I do wonder how he’s getting on…

Grumpy Old Bun

2008-05-21T14:24:00.000+02:00

Feeling gloomy and neglected in the dismal springtime, our aged houserabbit Olly had a cunning plan: pretend to be ill and get pampered to death.

And our aim was exactly that because, just like Roland before him, he suddenly lost almost all the use of his back legs. Like Roland therefore, he wouldn't last much longer; we must make his final days very happy. We began showering him with favourite greens and oats, letting him select only the colourful bits of his dry mix, and giving him constant attention until his body gently gave up.

It is two months now. His appetite is greater than ever, he loves the pampering, and he has perfected methods of making demands; he only has to raise his head and glower and we rush over to proffer a banana chip and stroke his furry brow. If we have misunderstood his demand, he growls like a bear. If we hold his parsley incorrectly, he snarls and gives us a nip. From time to time he even manages to convey a martyr'd, "No, you go - I'll be alright..."

We're uneasy about inviting anyone to the house since, in spite of daily dunking of his nethers, the fragrance of bun is all-pervading. (You can always tell when someone's trying to hold their breath).

What do we do? Two months ago we had the trauma of imminent loss; now we have the trauma of perpetual hanging-in-there.

Oh damn! He'll probably leave us out of his Will now.

What's to become of us?

2008-04-13T14:43:00.000+02:00

Ages since I babbled about the local elections here, and now we have a new Mayor and completely new team. It didn't even get to the Second Round.

Of course, nothing could extract from me which candidates George and I were sticking up for, but I suspect those in charge might guess - we were the only ones to lick our envelopes and so drench them in dribble.

How were we to know they didn't have glue? Apparently the idea is simply to fold them shut with voting papers hidden inside, then the clerk shoves them rapidly inside the box. In our cases, he was particularly keen to let go.

One of the new administration's major headaches must be the sudden disappearance of the village butcher. Myriad rumours, but most likely reason is unpleasantness between him and his boss. Even more disturbing, however, are rumours of the imminent disappearance of the baker! Bread is of paramount importance in France - a mere week's holiday for the baker results in agonised gnashing of teeth and renting of garments.

I wonder how desperate they'd have to be to eat George's recent Hot Cross Bun efforts. Which, despite puzzling consistency of the Cross, are very flavoursome (make sure teeth are firmly glued).

I Wanna Be ELECTED!!

2008-03-08T13:55:00.000+01:00

George and I are ensconced in concentrated study of our Candidate Lists for the Local Elections. As it's our first time voting in France, we feel it deserves particular effort.

One of the Village Elders contacted us (twice) just before the New Year deadline to urge us to get onto the Electoral Register. This could be because he thought we'd be on his side. Nevertheless it was kind of him to take the trouble, so we joined the ranks of voters. And we're PROUD!

France goes about its elections in unusual ways... our village has less than 1000 inhabitants and we have received two "Lists" of candidates. Each List equals a "Team", consisting of a Head Person (the current Mayor is Head of one Team), and fourteen other members.

What we do on voting day tomorrow, is go to the Mayor's Office brandishing several thousand Proofs of Identity, Eligibility and Worthiness, and pick up a copy of each List which will be decoratively displayed on a table. (I won't even mention the simultaneous District Elections - it's just too fiddly).

We then plunge into a dark and curtained cupboard, and are not allowed to come out until we have finished voting correctly. We do this not by putting a friendly cross next to our favourite(s), but by scoring in heavy black ink through everyone else. It seems very impolite - they all look so... deserving!

When we received the first List - beaming Team photo, reminders of previous achievements and impressive reports of future plans, I was hugely enthused. Then we received the second List - equally appealing photo, reports and plans. How to decide? Specially as we don't know them all - it's one thing not to vote for a person you don't know, but scratching them out is somehow quite venomous.

Apparently we can mix and match from each Team to choose our own Supergroup of anything up to, but no more than, fifteen finalists. What's more, you can even add a name - why not your own? And I'm sure this eventual melange will be able to work harmoniously and productively together, no matter what they've said about each other during the campaign.

Counting is done at the place of voting, and results will be known tomorrow evening. Then we find out who's going through to the crucial Round Two, next Sunday - MORE decisions!

Being Politically Active is such a responsibility.

Let Them Eat Dumplings

2008-02-04T17:32:00.000+01:00

On Saturday night we had friends round for dinner - always a joy.

It's a long time since our first angst-ridden invitations to natives of this Land of the Bonne Cuisine, when I hyper-ventilated my way through three days of preparation, (George unflinchingly laid-back), and guests had a sandwich before they left home Just in Case. (We always clung to the possibility they were joking).

These days their gay banter (and ours) is almost comprehensible, and we have a repertoire of simple but UTTERLY DELICIOUS recipes gleaned from magazines, cookbooks, and Bon Appetit Bien Sûr! on TV.

So why, oh WHY on this occasion, did I let George talk me into doing Stew and Dumplings?

My own thoughts had leaned towards a delicately-spiced "Chicken Tagine with Citron Confit" (from my Tagines for Any Old Nincompoop book). George, however, insisted that Dumplings would be a fascinating new taste sensation for French palates, and that a Big Pot of Festering Stew is just what everyone needs on a cold winter's night.

To do what with?

Back in the Old Country I used to make this every time we had Roast Chicken leftovers - easy and flavoursome. But it was never on the list of what to impress guests with; usually when you parade a dish to the table with your triumphant (but modest) smile, then flamboyantly whip off the lid to gasps of wonder, you're not proffering... A Medley of Animal Bits and Root Veg. Where's the panache?

So I suppose my heart wasn't in it, and I found myself frenziedly chucking in all sorts to add a bit of verve - bushfulls of withered thyme from our kitchen sill, several tattered bay leaves I found at the back of the pantry, a halved lemon (astonishingly potent)...

But what caused universal bewilderment was, of course, the sight of the dumplings bobbling around on the surface like lumpy balls of putty. It's funny how much menace someone can put into the phrase "what are those?" when they think you're trying to kill them.

I have no idea what went wrong - you'd think it was impossible to make dumplings chewy. But our guests valiantly ate them, and even accepted seconds.

They haven't been in touch since with final appraisals. But they're probably still ruminating.

Mastering the Kazoo

2008-01-04T15:15:00.000+01:00

God!! The hellish family feuding, the desperate over-spending, indigestible pudding, endless bacchanalia... Actually George and I prefer to keep all that for the rest of the year, so we're bouncing into 2008 after a Fat and Friendly Christmas repose.

George bought me a Kazoo. Recently I was dazzled by an impressive rendition on Sorry I Haven't a Clue, and he apparently made a note.

I love this present - it's the only musical instrument I can play, and I've discovered a Definite Gift for it. (In spite of the fact that when I first picked it up I blew down the wrong end, and then didn't make the necessary dzuh dze dzuh dzuh noises).

But now I've mastered it, my Sooty and Sweep impressions are unsurpassable. Plus, I can play along to any song, can summon the cats from twenty miles away, and need never more be tongue-tied at parties.

One of George's presents (sadly he had to ask for this and then order it himself on the net) is some weird contraption for recording and instant replay of musical phrases so you can make layers of music and build up a backing. Hours of pleasure and great practice for the musically talented.

And George is musically talented. In fact when we met at a party, he wooed me with his Eric Clapton guitar-playing - Wonderful. Then six months later he discovered Cajun music and took up the accordion. Agonising.

With relentless determination he kept going until he was good enough to start a group back in the UK, and they ended up being very well-known in the World of Cajun, playing clubs, festivals, weddings, Oxford balls, biker gatherings - to name but seven...

He's played here in France too, and now, of course, I can attend gigs not only in Groupie Capacity, but as " - PLEASE WELCOME, ON KAZOO..."

Can't wait to suggest it.

Decrepitude

2007-11-25T17:03:00.000+01:00

The signs of advanced middle-age (at 54) can no longer be ignored. I've started wearing my reading-glasses on a string, and DON'T CARE. And I've been rapturising all week about my latest clothing purchase - a Pair of Comfy Slippers. (Look - my Betty Boop feathery ones just weren't sensible, OK? - I kept tripping over them).

And I've started referring to anonymous people on the end of the phone as "bloody twelve-year-olds" - irrefutable evidence that I'm a grumpy old sod.

But is it always without reason?

We had a letter from our bank in London this week saying they'd tried to contact us without success and could we phone them as soon as possible. (Posted, however, with a second class inland stamp and therefore five days old).

Card theft? Identity theft? God! Would there be anything left? We phoned immediately to try and save the dregs, to be greeted by a chirpy adolescent from Eastenders saying "Oh, hello Dolores, just a review really - d'you think you could pop in, Dolores? Ooooh, yeees, the address is in France, isn't it? What's the weather like there, Dolores?..."

It gladdens the heart, doesn't it, to know that one's diminishing dosh is in the hands of such dynamic brains?

Luckily my brain is too addled to worry.

Travels with my Hedgehog

2007-11-11T15:39:00.000+01:00

The garden is eight feet deep in beautiful orange leaves at the moment. Forging his way back through them from the log shed last night, George noticed that not all the grunting and snuffling was coming from him. (Most of it was). But the leaves under the kitchen window were undulating in an interesting manner; a nearby cat shot inside instead of taking a swipe, and George realised it was a Busy Little Hedgehog.

What a delight - it was almost humming to itself as it grubbed about. We couldn't help shining a torch to get a better look, and it froze immediately into "you can't see me now so just bugger off" position. So we did.

To ponder upon the rich pageant of life's creatures to be found in the garden, and the even richer one to be found above our bedroom ceiling, now that the summer hornets have died off.

We were sorry when their jolly buzzings declined, and absolutely horrified one day in October when half a cup of reddy-brown goo seeped through the ceiling, right above my pillow. What the hell was that? Redundant honey, overflowing latrine, mass liquefaction?

After half a second's deep reflection we decided to block up the crack and try not to think about it, and I think the bundle of camel-printed kitchen towel and shiny brown parcel tape looks Very Stylish.

Since then though, night-time is rave-time up there. Whatever it is that has taken over the roof space hurtles from one side to the other, scrabbles against the walls and seems determined to dig through the ceiling and leap on top of us.

We cannot tell the size - it sounds like a mouse, a squirrel or a vampire depending on how carried away it's getting. If we peer in through the old hornet entrance outside, we see nothing but blackness.

What can we do? When the noise wakes us up and gets too scary, George gives the ceiling a jolly good battering with a big stick and all goes quiet. For a moment. And then it starts again... just a tiny tiny scratching at first, then more enthusiastic, then quite frenzied, and then George bashes the ceiling again until it gets bored.

I can't help dwelling on all those creepy stories about blood oozing through walls and hearts beating under floorboards... but I suppose it's more likely to be a poor little critter who accidentally got in and would like to go home. Probably.

Why can't all creatures be Hedgehogs? Think I'll go and put some apple down for him.

Ode to Winter

2007-10-27T12:26:00.000+02:00

Good heavens, it's two months since I last blogged - why? No idea - just Stuff. And sloth...

Anyway, I'm inspired by the fact that the clocks go back tonight, and that this special time of year was celebrated by someone else this morning on Radio 4's Saturday Live - another person who prefers the winter - it was thrilling!

She, too, likes the freshness, the cosy dark evenings, the roaring fires, the comfy winter food. I wanted to marry this woman, I felt such an empathy. In fact, in my excitement I even emailed the programme (fruitlessly, but they sent a very nice acknowledgement and maybe they'll read it next week).

I love autumn for its colours and my birthday. I love winter for its beautiful skeletal trees and the respite from gardening, and the fact that I've just had a clear view of a squirrel bouncing joyously around our grass collecting nuts. (Although as George remarked, he was probably tired and hungry and thinking "Why do they never have pecans?")

Winter is so much more energising! You can wear big coats and strange hats and eat dumplings. You can dress up for Halloween parties, and make Guys and Bonfires and Rich Ginger Cake.

It's wonderful to take a hearty long walk, and to come at last upon the warm amber welcome of indoors from the freezing darkness of outdoors. Then to shut the shutters and snuggle down, revelling in your hot water bottle and box of Kleenex Extra Large Triple-Strength.

And spluttering,"Who's given me this bloody cold?"

What Lurks Above

2007-08-26T15:33:00.000+02:00

What could it be, that nightly scrabbling above our bedroom ceiling? That scratching, digging, pattering about even, right above our pillows?

A mouse? A bat? A lizard? A Thing? Then we started hearing the dreaded hmmmmmm.

Outside, sure enough, we found a sizeable hole high up in the wall with buzzy things happily popping in and out. Careful study suggested that these were not bees or wasps, but Frelons - fearsome Killer Hornets very common round here. They’re like plump flying cocktail sausages, and we’ve been gleefully warned about their agonising sting since we first arrived in France.

Inevitably, the day we spotted their nest was the day before friends arrived to stay, one of whom has had traumatic experiences with bees and is therefore somewhat phobic.

So that evening, we placed a ladder up against the wall (which made them quite angry to start with), and girded George’s loins for battle.

Clad only in woolly hat and welding goggles… Barbour jacket zipped up to the nose, two pairs of gardening gloves and reinforced trousers, George valiantly scaled the first four rungs, then came back down.

However, after sustained encouragement, he wiped his goggles, went back up and squirted half a can of Critter-Kill vaguely in the direction of the entrance, slid rapidly down and we both ran like hell indoors.

I think we reduced Frelon numbers, but the colony was not obliterated. Three days later, arriving home with our houseguests after an evening out, the yard lights attracted several survivors. No need to panic – we scuttled everybody inside without a mention.

Imagine our delight when three of the sneaky little devils suddenly appeared in the living room and started bombarding the light fitting like mobile cigars. Our bee-phobic friend was either remarkably brave, or just dazed by the toxic cloud I hysterically enveloped us all in. Squashing the poor things out of their misery was like jumping on lumps of Crunchy bar, but at least it disguised them.

We got through the rest of the visit without further confrontation, and our happy band of hornets seem content to stay above the ceiling, where we are content to leave them for now.

Unless, of course, they invite Hornets We Don't Know.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Bouncer

2007-08-22T17:29:00.000+02:00

I’ve never seen that Albert Finney film, but was reminded of it anyway as I took to my mini-trampoline this afternoon in the lonely confines of the garage.

The trampoline used to live in the Famous Writing Room, ie where the cats sleep, guests sleep and where English conversation lessons take place. A room already well-stuffed. So after falling over it several times and because I never actually used it, George eventually banished it to the garage.

This morning it took some finding in the dark pit that is George’s tools-and-gadgets store, and a lot of beating with a big stick to remove the many creatures who’d grown attached to it.

But I was determined, because today was the start of a new Healthy Regime. I’ve started to notice a disturbing amount of pain and creaking from the mere action of Getting out of a Chair, Gardening, Making the Bed… from Mere Action, in fact.

So first, I determinedly did my Beginners’ Yoga tape (can it really be 4 months since I bought that?), then jogged merrily to the garage for 20 minutes bouncing up and down with Pondering. Because with the jubilant creaking of the springs (and me) it’s no use trying to listen to dispatches From Our Own Correspondent, or to a baffling medical phone-in on France Inter… you have to make your own entertainment.

What did Albert Finney think about? Did he rediscover himself… solve world problems…? Don’t know. And being of diminished brain I can’t do that anyway. I can Contemplate Trivia quite well, and in the small hours I veer readily towards Pointless Angst, when I regurgitate everyone’s problems aeons after they’ve been dealt with and forgotten by the people they belonged to.

From time to time I do try to think usefully. For my healthy bouncing entertainment today I tried a delve into the India/Pakistan situation - it’s the 60th anniversary and George had tortuously explained it over breakfast.

After two minutes I found myself wondering where the hell the spider was that had made that gigantic web across the window… and could it have been that spider scrabbling above our bedroom ceiling at 4 o’clock this morning? Or something with an even bigger appetite… And what can I dish up on Friday evening, remembering that Herbert is experimenting with vegetarianism (one of three people in France)? And why did they decide on Partition, did George say? And blimey, have I only been doing this for one minute and a half?

It is now 24 hours later. I did manage 20 minutes on the trampoline yesterday by launching into a brilliant, if hazardous, Cancan routine. I then wobbled carefully back to the house, had a lie down, and woke up this morning feeling as if I’d run up and down Mount Everest. A friend told me I’d done too much, too soon.

That’s good enough for me. I'll keep my Pondering to the shower from now on.

Blog Day Afternoon

2007-07-17T22:00:00.000+02:00

It’s a month since I last did a blog. I vaguely planned to do one a weekish… so what’s stopped me?

Well, anything can happen during the Dog Days of summer, as that brilliant Al Pacino film told us. (I think it was Al Pacino – he was trying to do a bank robbery (in August) and it all went horrendously wrong).

But it’s a well-known fact, apparently, that the sultry days of July and August, with their sweaty discomfort and festering disease, cause people to go bonkers. So there was that to contend with… and the rest of the time I was doing a lot of Stuff – vital Stuff.

And I had to get my hair done. Revitalise the streaks this time – custard highlights and a hint of Fantasy Pink, as Sandrine calls it. I love Sandrine– she’s friendly and bubbly and talks at the speed of a machine-gun. She’s always happy to explain the bursts I didn’t quite catch, so I learn loads of useful banter words and come out looking GORGEOUS to boot (refer to Profile Photo).

Mind you, it was a rocky road finding Sandrine: I’ve been turned effervescent orange, frizzed like Leo Sayer, and then some Fiend with a Bet Lynch beehive, black nails, big jewellery and a voluminous chest (of which I was quite envious), gave me a no2 Skinhead. Not sure why... but if we hadn't found George’s army cadet balaclava I'd have been sobbing in the cellar for six months.

Anyway, we have several serious projects for the summer: for a start we'll have to clean all the windows before the first of our visitors arrive - usually we convince ourselves that people coming round to Make Merry won't notice concretised bird splat on the upstairs velux, but you feel more effort is only fair when people are spending days and nights here.

We should finish the half-done paint job on the landing, and start the paint job in our bedroom. George has made huge inroads into outside renovations - chunks of wall inexplicably fell off when he redid the shutters so now he's redoing the wall.

Sadly he's been thwarted in grass-mowing by the scary noise the lawnmower suddenly started to make. He immitated it (eerily well) to a professional gardener friend who said if he used it again the blades were likely to fly off (in an Omen-like manner). So now it's languishing in the repair shop.

So there we are, and I'm off to do more Stuff.

Very Brown in Parts

2007-06-18T12:05:00.000+02:00

Blessed with a natural tint of porridge, I have devoted many, many summertime hours to Leg-Dying.

It began in the hopeful teenage days of TanUfantasticallyFab – an exciting innovation at the time and a sure way of making yourself indefinitely orange in two unfortunate swipes.
Since then, it’s been one letdown after another.

I’ve tried baking in the back garden, too dazzled to read but fully occupied in fighting off millions of tiny flesh-eating creatures that never land on anyone else.

The beach is just as bad and you get sand inside your vest, to boot.

Actually, there was a six-month stay in Australia when I went brown, but only after four months of very pink and a terrifying week of Deep Violet after a foolhardy topless afternoon on the lawn. (The dangers weren’t quite as fully appreciated, then).

The month leading up to my wedding twenty years ago, I spent hours and tedious HOURS on a sunbed so that there might be a sort of healthy contrast between me and my dress, but to no avail. Mind you, I think it helped for the honeymoon, because for the last two Searing days there was a definite tinge of brownish.

I have desperately and fruitlessly tried a new version of autobronze every year… until now! Because they’ve invented a cunning gradual tan. Slop it on every morning and after five days you’ll be beautifully bronzed. And because the inevitable streaks are in different places each day, they cancel each other out!

The results of these potions (for there are many inventors suddenly) are indeed Magical – at last shorts and jaunty skirts can be worn with careless abandon!

There are even face and arm autobronzers so you can join up all the bits! (Personally I haven’t taken that plunge for fear of mismatching and tide marks).

Admittedly, the smell can be a bit potent (but no worse than an essential Mossie-Splat spray). And it’s somewhat sticky for an inordinately long time after application. But what the hell! Just don’t touch anything for three hours … or get dressed or sit down…

And you do have to remember to keep the slapping-on up for fear of pasty fading...

But why not try a version – I’m just THRILLED with my results! and at the barbecue this afternoon as we huddle shiveringly under our damp tarpaulin, I shall flaunt my Brown with pride.

The Trouble with Cherries

2007-06-04T22:01:00.000+02:00

If you’ve ever seen Woody Allen’s film "Sleeper", you may remember the expanding pudding that escapes from the pan and keeps on growing in a bulging palpitating mass while he tries to kill it with a big stick.

A scene brought vividly back to life in our own kitchen this week by George’s Cherry Clafoutis. (Eggs, milk, spattering of flour and Lots of Fruit, festered in the oven for a while).

We did have LOTS of fruit left over from an unusually bumper crop. The trouble with cherries is that they all come at once – on everybody’s trees.

Everyone we know is pink with cherry-surfeit, and the streets are filled with people muttering around distractedly, begging strangers to take… maybe a few, then? Sometimes they’ll just leave a huge box-full on a doorstep, ring the bell and run away.

We do the same, and our Lovely Neighbours opposite give us VATS of home-made jam in return, then I make them scones. Which are a novelty over here, but surprisingly popular when tried.

When last week we’d thrust our cherries on everyone we could, George decided to use up the excess by making a Clafoutis. Since he has this ailment whereby he can only cook in platoon-size servings, the excess has indeed been used up. Transformed into a bulging palpitating mass of which Woody Allen would be frightened, and that anyone who ventures over our threshold will be eating for the next month.

By which time, we’ll be well into… The PEACHES!

Whither, Frangipani?

2007-05-20T22:18:00.000+02:00

George has just returned from his daily inspection of The Frangipani Project.

Always a disappointment.

It seemed a good idea at the time. We'd had a thrilling visit to the local Garden Festival – trampolines, chess-piece plants, musical features, squirting water features, huge bouncing balls just like that ancient cult TV series whose name I’ve forgotten... (except, not self-propelled).

Inspired and channelled irresistibly to the Shop, we wandered round for hours like kids at Christmas. So many wonderful books, plants, ideas and amazing garden stuff to transform our own bit of green – how to choose?

In the end I plumped for some amusing and imaginative greetings cards, and George got a packet of Frangipani Seeds. The picture on the box was beautifully colourful, and you can use its vivid flowers to make those rather fetching welcome garlands - so redolent of its exotic native climes, and a joy for anyone in the grim Arrivals Surge at Paris-Charles de Gaulle.

Unfortunately, George’s hours of sowing and devoted caring for these seeds in a specially-recycled plastic kiwi fruit container, has borne neither fruit nor frange. Maybe six months isn’t long enough for them to hit the surface.

To deepen his gloom, today’s inspection included a frenzied tussle with our first snake of the garden. In fact it was Sabrina-Cat who was tussling, and the poor snake was probably a baby, being only six inches long and half an inch in diameter. So it was the cat who George was trying to belabour about the ears with a big stick.

Since arriving in France, we’ve often been warned about the vicious vipers who love long grass and can’t wait to leap out at you and take a chunk. First forays into our undergrowth were therefore tentative, but a wise friend said just warn them you’re there and they’ll run off. So we stamped our feet, sang hearty songs and thrashed around with garden hoes. This was ludicrously exhausting in a 40 degree summer, and we decided to let them go ahead and bite. They’ve never been tempted.

Until now – seemingly tantalised by the half-buried perfume of George's Project. Do snakes eat frangipani seeds, or will they fiendishly lie in wait for the first juicy shoots to peep through?

Or will the cats just dig it up and piddle all over it as usual? Whither, Frangipani-Project?. And to what end?

Tick Trauma

2007-05-09T12:07:00.002+02:00

Removal of Ticks

Step 1: Decide that the curious lump you’ve been idly stroking from time to time on Algenon-the-Cat’s neck should perhaps be investigated in case (god forbid!) it’s a Tick.

Step 2: It’s a TIIIIICK! And so is the Curious Lump on his left flank.

Step 3: George goes on the Net to find out what to do about it, having received and forgotten masses of advice on the subject since we’ve lived here (all of which was conflicting).

Step 4: Find masses more conflicting advice. Decide to pull the bloody thing off.

Do we have ticks in England, our Old Country? I don’t remember ever hearing about them, let alone worrying that one might be lurking in wait for our armpits as we strolled across the fields to the pub.

But they certainly live here in this green and pleasant zone of the Loire - we know people who’ve been afflicted!

What to do? Some say you have to twist them out ANTI-clockwise. Others say it MUST be clockwise. Or “touch it with a lighted cigarette”, or “NO, that’s last thing you should do – splosh it in alcohol”…

So today we seized the disgusting tiny grey wineskin of a thing by its neck-end with a pair of tweezers and gently tugged. Algenon howled like a werewolf, freed a paw and sliced my finger open.

Little tinker.

After another tug the tick’s horrid little hooks became apparent and we went on unleashing thousands more hooks until I managed a successful twist (in all directions) and it suddenly jerked out.

Where the hell did it go? There followed a sort of juggling-with-red-hot-potato interlude trying to catch the thing without touching it.

We managed eventually, and did the same with the second tick. They’re currently both festering at the bottom of a cup of meths – Hah!

So… how d’you know when they’re dead, then?

Cast n'er a Clout...

2007-05-01T22:22:00.000+02:00

… till May is out, as agèd auntie Doris was wont to say. Well, since every day in April topped 175 degrees, George and I have felt the need to cast quite a few already.

I’m not very keen on heat. Sunshine’s terrific, but preferably with a chill in the air - you can swathe yourself in nice woolly clouts and sally forth for an energetic ramble, returning wonderfully invigorated and ready for a large dollop of Treacle Pud.

In hot summer, however, you must first lather yourself in sticky, smelly unguents to repel attack by horrid flying things and prevent the loss of quite useful layers of skin. When you finally drag your sweaty blobbedness back home, you are ready only to beg someone to pour ice cubes down your vest.

Admittedly, picnics in summer are more fun, because that’s the only time you can get other people to eat outside with you. And in France, everyone loves to eat outside in the summer. Last year we bought a chapiteau – a sort of tent-roof on poles, reminiscent of Camelot. We had a lot of jolly parties under it, but I can’t help thinking they would have been more agreeable if the wine hadn’t been gently simmering and the flies hadn’t been quite so numerous.

Apparently, we may be due for another hideous heatwave this year, like the constant 40C of 2003. We made desperate use of the riverette at the bottom of the garden that summer, specially when we had people to stay. We stuck a couple of old plastic chairs in the middle and sat in turns with a glass of rosé, cool water lapping at our nethers. And we got an inflatable boat for paddling round in hysterical circles. Bliss.

Looking at it now, I can't believe we voluntarily plunged into those festeringly muddy depths - who knows what lurked beneath and why no-one ever caught typhoid.

This year, I shall have all my frivolities down in the cellar.

Hooray for Bollywood!

2007-04-27T17:52:00.000+02:00

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... ♫♫

2007-04-09T12:16:00.000+02:00

... 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

2007-04-08T12:49:00.000+02:00

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

2007-04-06T12:24:00.000+02:00

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

2007-04-03T21:28:00.000+02:00

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?