The Conquering Hero returns..

It's been all go here with the anticipated return of the conquering hero, alias DH, making his first foray onto French soil in two months. See, I told you he was largely absent. He works in the film and tv and, despite the move to France supposedly meaning he could work less, it hasn't turned out that way.

Anyway, he's managed to sneak away for 5 days although he's only really away in body as his phone never stops ringing and he has regularly had two hour conversations with his colleague back in Ireland, location of his current artistic endeavour. (By the way, in my intro I mentioned the BAFTAs. He was attending as he had been nominated for one. Sadly he lost out to Cranford...boo, hiss. Note to self: must work harder to nobble the jury next time).

Fortunately, I've had my truly, truly wonderful aged parents staying with me. My mum is a consumate organiser and could arrange a dinner party for 20 with one hand tied behind her back while arranging flowers and hoovering the house. I blame her for my domestic ineptitude as she is so amazingly capable that I could never, ever compete. My dad, despite being over 80, has the energy of a man half his age, no doubt because of Mum's constant badgering to 'stand up straight', 'pick up your feet', 'don't stoop'. (She only does it for your own good, Dad).

My idea of being organised was getting the ironing down to five basketloads and managing to dust so in their two week stay, Mum was on a mission to get me sorted out, accompanied by assorted (and true) mutterings that 'this house is too much for you to manage on your own', 'how can you possibly be expected to look after a garden this size on your own', 'if I were you I'd strangle that bl**dy cockerel. (Apart from the cockerel comment do you see the common theme?)

By the time DH arrived home all the ironing was done and the laundry baskets empty of dirty washing, a phenomenon that has not occurred since the late 80s in my house. This also gave me the opportunity to do a bit of 'petit bricolage' myself. I had bought some lovely old door handles from a charity shop to replace our revolting 1970s ones so I set about replacing them. All went well until the last one. Why is is always the last one? The screw head had been damaged and no amount of 'screwdrivering' would budge it. So, I thought I'd try to do it with plyers. (do you see where this is going?). I could just about grab the screw head with the plyers so I leaned heavily on to them to try and get more purchase. The plyers slipped, trapping my right b**b between the handles. It made my eyes water, I can tell you! Closer inspection revealed twosmall bruises a bit akin to love bites. Hmm, that should put the cat among the pigeons!

I pleaded with my darling aged parents to stay (forever) but, no doubt exhausted by their 'relaxing holiday in France' they braved the French airtraffic controllers strike to beat a hasty retreat back to the calm of their immaculate house in Sussex.

So, DH returns. Now, he likes the country life, but the sanitised version without the smells and nastiness that often accompany it so when I asked him to hold our big, grumpy ginger cat while I removed a tick from under his chin, he whined 'No', looking thoroughly disgusted. So, 20 minutes of trying on my own, which was a bit like juggling spaghetti, and I was no further forward in trying to free poor kitty from the iron grip of this blood sucking little bleeder and was raked in scratches.

Still, revenge can be found in the most unlikely places.

Can any oeneologists out there tell me whether it was a huge mistake to use his bottle of Chateau la Tour Pin de Figeac 1989 (a personal gift from the cellars of Lord Leith) in my Boeuf Bourguignon, or just a big one?