Bring me the Head of Alfredo Mallard

… 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.

Ode to a Fun Park

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!

Whither, Frangipani?

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

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...

… 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!

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.

The Joy of Eating

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

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

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

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

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

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

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