In which my equilibrium was unbalanced by the sight of so many men in Speedos.....

Eeeuwwww! The French and their speedos!

Today we went to a fabulous waterpark up in Dordogneshire. It was a last jolly for les enfants before we head back to the UK in just over a week
.

Now, in France they have these funny hygiene laws in swimming pools. Here you can use the toilet and not wash your hands, then go and handle the fresh fruit and veg, you can go to a Marché Gourmand where they will use the same utensils and chopping boards (wooden of course) to handle raw and cooked food, but you can't wear surf shorts in swimming pools. You have to wear speedos.

Now, it's apparently for hygiene reasons, though every time I've asked the pools to clarify this, they can only spout the pre-printed script, but then that's very French.

Now, wearing speedos is fine if you look like this...

Trouble is, most of them look more like this......

Now, in actual fact, as this was a waterpark rather than a swimming pool, the speedo rule wasn't actually being enforced but hey, like Romeo and Juliet, you can't separate a French man from his speedos so they were there in abundance.

Now, it's not easy to eat a baguette when confronted with bulging men's genitals stuffed into lycra and after the first hour I felt that my equilibrium had been well and truly upset. Now, with some men, the promise of what lies beneath might be quite nice but with the majority, what lies beneath is definitely not for my eyes - or anyone else's.


To be honest, I think men's genitals were one of God's little jokes. When left with three small pieces of whatever it is that man is made from, he thought to himself 'now what can I do with these that would be really silly? I know......'

But of course he hadn't banked on a Scotsman emigrating to Australia and thinking, now what can I make out of this little bit of nylon, or on French men embracing the end result with such fervour.

You could tell the French men in speedos. They were the ones who strode around, puffing out their chests saying 'I'm French and proud of my baguette' while the British men, forced into such revealing swimwear, crept around looking and feeling slightly foolish, generally with hands cupped protectively, or maybe just to shield their manhood from prying eyes.


The trouble is, regardless of how unattractive the man, when confronted with 'Man in Speedos' ones eyes seem naturally drawn downwards only to arrive 'youknowhwere', at which point you are suddenly overcome with nausea and horror because to be honest, you don't really want to be reminded that these men.... well... you know what I mean don't you ladies?


Recently, a Muslim lady was banned from wearing a burkhini in a public swimming pool under the same hygiene rules. Personally, I'd like to see all the fat men in speedos forced to wear one in public so I can enjoy my packed lunch in peace.


What do you think?

What is it with men.....?

We're now in the final throes of our French adventure and with only three weeks left here we have a mountain of things to do for the lovely tenants who are taking over our house.

Rooms to repaint, airing cupboards to make, kitchen worktops to replace and...... oh God, I can't even bear to think about it..... the cellar to sort out. That in itself will take several days, as we have to sift through our impressive collection of 'hors-service' printers, children's schoolwork dating back to the days when we could legally send them down mines, empty boxes, christmas decorations, halloween decorations, duvets, dead mice and other assorted miscellania - or rubbish some less enlightened folk might say.

Every day I'm up at 7.30am, packing boxes, sorting out stuff for charity or dechetterie, or persuading DD that she really doesn't need to take all of her 180 books, of which she claims to be reading 'every single one'!

On top of that we have holiday guests until the day before we leave so pools still need to be cleaned, laundry to be done, guests to be looked after, hells teeth.. .I'm wearing myself out just typing it!

Around 9.30am I kick the CH out of bed (note that I've already been up an at it for 2 hours) whereup he makes a pot of coffee then spends the rest of the day doing the flaming garden!

Now, you have to bear in mind that we've had no significant rainfall since April and the garden already looks like the aftermath of some mad dictator's 'scorched earth' policy or even the Somme without the trenches. There's barely a thing alive. The grass is a fetching shade of yellow, the trees have a certain autumnal hue about them and the garden is ankle deep in dead leaves, dropped walnuts and windfall plums.

What little colour there was has either been dug up by Prudence the golden non-retriever, in her constant search for a cool place to lie, or eaten by the chickens, who are testing my patience to the maximum at the moment. On the promise of rain last night I put all my window pots of geraniums on the lawn to soak up the (as it turned out) non-existent precipitation. By this morning I had an attractive array of stalks. I can also boast dahlia stalks, petunia stalks and verbena stalks if you're interested.

So I ask you, what's the point? It will all grow back in the end.

I know the CH doesn't want to leave France, but he seems to be in total denial and I foresee a mad, crazy panic in three weeks time.......

Travels with my strimmer....

I'm the first to admit that I'm a newbie to this strimming lark. Not because I've consciously made a decision not to strim, but more because all previous attempts have ended in disaster.

A few years back we bought a sooper-dooper heavy duty Honda strimmer for 200 euros from a friend who'd bought it in a job lot of stuff from a couple who had lost the will to live with their house renovation and scurried back to the relative civilisation of the US. (did you manage to read that sentence without taking a breath? If so, stop now and breath IN). Said friend had tried it out and and reported that it worked well and was good buy. What said friend failed to mention was that he had inadvertently filled it up and used it with 2 stroke. But as any Honda connoisseur knows, they run on 4 stroke. On first use the entire engine casing split in two and our local repairer of all things mechanical, the snake hipped Monsieur L, pronounced it 'complètement foutu' and beyond repair. Said friend shrugged his shoulders and was in no hurry (then or ever since) to refund the money. The foutued strimmer is still sitting in the barn as a dreadful warning not to buy things from mates in the future!

Those who have been reading for a while will remember that when our very expensive Honda mower died a death not four years after it's purchase I replaced it with a very cheap one that came in an unbranded box marked 'Lawnmower', much to the disgust of the CH. Needless to say, you do get what you pay for and the unbranded Chinese lawnmower has currently gone tech. But with several viewings on the house this week, I felt that the unkempt look of the lawn was reducing our kerb appeal - and as an acolyte of Phil and Kirsty, I know how important kerb appeal is.

The trouble with our lawn is that it was originally a field and if you turn your back on it for a minute, it reverts to the sort of lawn only really suitable for a herd of Limousin cows, in fact, Mellors, my old gardener, suggested we do just that. Cheeky bugger! So with the Chinese Lawnmower out of action I had to resort to trying to tame the lawn with our recently acquired (for 30 euros from another friend - some people never learn!) Ryobi strimmer.

I've always had this vague idea that strimming the lawn would be a relatively calm affair, all you have to do is hook it up to your harness and off you go, creating a bowling green from the cow pasture in wide, sweeping arcs. Maybe if you have a bowling green to start with some sort of neat, surburban affair can be achieved but trust me, if you start off with a field, you end up with a field, only this time it looks like it's had a bad haircut.

The first problem was adjusting the harness so the strimmer sat at the right level. Obviously if you do this before you start it's hugely helpful because trying to adjust it at the same time as trying not to amputate your toes, or those of your nearest and dearest, is more tricky than it looks. Actually no, the first problem is getting the damn thing started. All you do, says the CH, is press the priming thingy eight times then pull on the starting cord thingy, it fires up and off you go. It took me half an hour and lots of swearing to start the damn thing. Why can't things just have keys?

Next you don your goggles - absolutely vital in order to avoid corneal abrasions which are incredibly painful. That's when you discover that your eyes can actually sweat! I used to have a full face mask but..... oh it's another long story involving the same friend who sold me the Honda strimmer but yet again I seem to have come off worst.

All kitted up you meander round the garden swinging your strimmer and in an hour or so, voila, a nice neat lawn. Not so in my case. Your strimmer alternately digs large holes in the lawn and bounces off the tops of the long clumps of grass, spraying you with chopped up dog poo that Prudence, the golden non-retriever, has left behind. Words will be had with the offspring, who's job it is to collect said excrement and dispose of it on a daily basis. It seems that standards are slipping on the Homestead.

A slip of the strimmer and you've beheaded the daffodils and narrowly missed a chicken but you press on gamely. You strim and strim some more, trying to recreate the wicket at the Oval, but what you get bears more resemblance to the Somme the day after.

By now, you've lost all feeling in your hands, so much so that the concentration required to peel the potatoes for supper is such that you might need for splitting the atom with a chisel and a hammer. You look down at your clothes - decent ones which you probably should have changed - and discover that you are now covered in a fine layer of grass cuttings and other things that you decide not to look at too closely. Not only that but the juicy grass has left, well, juice all over you and your white leather trainers are now lime green.

Eventually the petrol runs out and you breathe a sigh of relief and swear that you'll pay someone to do it for you in future. You step back to admire your handiwork. It looks more like the Russian Steppes than a lawn. In fact it looks more like the Spanish Steps.

On the plus side though, you congratulate yourself on all the useful items that your strimming has revealed. The missing head to the pool brush, about 20 pegs, a screwdriver and the dog lead.

The day the Mail came......

Now, I've been more than a little bit critical of that bastion of balanced reporting, The Daily Mail, so it's with just a hint of embarrassment that I have to admit to recently starring (well, second billing at least) in a double page spread in said worthy journal.

What? I hear you ask. Is Mme VLiF really an unmarried single mother(or even grandmother) with 8 children by different fathers, expecting another 6 through NHS funded IVF, with a partner in the slammer for GBH and living in a council flat in Bolchester? Is this France thing really just the ramblings of a demented inhabitant of 'Broken Britain'? If not, why is the Mail interested in her?

Here's how it happened......... (wibbly wobbly dream sequence thingy like on the telly......)

As I checked my e-mail, I noticed one which was a reply to a post on a forum.

Dear Mme VliF, it read, I was interested to read your post on the AngloFranglo* forum and would love to have the opportunity to discuss it in more detail for an article I'm doing for the Daily Mail. If you'd be interested in talking to me, please get in touch. Love your blog by the way.

Oh blimey... now what trouble has my big mouth to me into? A quick look back at the thread confirmed, which was about life in France, confirmed that it was one of my more 'outspoken' posts. Hmm, the Daily Mail. Could I really put aside my dislike of this paper and submit to an interview? While I've previously been described (by a dyed in the wool Socialist friend) as 'slightly to the right of Atila the Hun I'm really a woolly liberal at heart. No, I couldn't compromise my beliefs by appearing in the Daily Mail.............. could I?

But hey, a girl's got to get her fun where she can in rural France so with my moral compass set firmly at magnetic north I hit the reply button.

Yeah, why not. Give me a call.

Several hours later, the phone rang.

Hello, is that Mme VLiF? asked a pleasant English voice.

Yeeess, I answered curiously,half expecting the next sentence to begin with 'for security purposes.....'

Hi this is Fred Bloggs from the Daily Mail. We're doing a piece on how the exchange rate is affecting British people living in France on a sterling income. Would you be interested in talking to me?

Well, he caught me at a bad moment. I hadn't had adult conversation since the day before so I was loquacious in the extreme, much to his delight.

Well, of course it's difficult because we've lost 30% of our income in a year and France can be very expensive to live despite what all these wishy washy 'Living the Dream' books say. Our property taxes are double what we used to pay. Our utilities too. It's made things a bit tight. We think about how we spend our money and keep running the Grand Gasguzzler to a minimum. We try to use as much of our own wood as we can so we don't have to buy so much and don't use the heating as much as we used to. DS had two school trips planned, one to Italy and one to Spain but we've cancelled the Spanish one.

"If 'Living the Dream' involves spending half the winter covered in mud, with calloused hands from splitting logs, then I'm living it," I joked. "My mother says I have hands like a peasant!

He laughed.

Well, I'm going to be in France in a couple of days with a photographer (OMG!!!! - that's me not him!) would it be OK if we came down and took a few photos of you?

Oh bugger... why didn't I stick to that diet? Still, mustn't forget the miracles of Photoshop.....

Well only if you make me look 10 years younger with a body like Scarlett Johanssen, I told him

Don't worry, my photographer is a whizz at photoshop. Anything is possible

I'd wait to see the raw material first before I made promises like that!

So, the day of the photoshoot came but first I was helping a friend who was selling up her entire house to pay off the bank and start a new life. Well, a new, new life. France was supposed to her new life but it hasn't worked out as planned. Hers is a truly sad story, but it's hers not mine, to tell.

Gates opened at 10am sharp and within a nanosecond her back garden was swarming with people picking through her life for a few euros.

Suddenly a well dressed (i.e. no wellies and had clearly bathed this week) man appeared at my shoulder. Hello" he said "would you be Mrs B?

No, she's over there I replied.

You wouldn't be Mme VLiF by any chance would you?

Well, blow me down with a baguette (not a day old one of course, that would knock me out!) it's only Fred Bloggs from the Daily Mail, who unknown to me was also interviewing my friend.

Well, he was a pretty decent bloke. We chatted about all sorts of stuff and life in France while I gradually sold off Mrs B's possessions.

Eventually it was time to go and as he was heading back to the UK and not coming with the photographer in the afternoon, we said goodbye.

What on earth are you doing here? he said You're nothing like these people.

Not sure if that was a compliment or not but I took it as one.

I smiled. I often ask myself that.

Good luck with selling your house and he was off.

So, fast forward to the afternoon and the arrival of Paul, the photographer. A nice, cheery bloke who didn't seem to mind sidestepping the chicken poo on the terrace as he made his way to the front door. He took one look at our golden non-retriever and said "it's a pity it's for the Daily Mail. If it was for the Telegraph the retriever would be de rigeur. As it's for the Mail, how about the chickens...."

We chatted for a while and I reminded him of my criteria for being photographed. 10 years younger/Scarlett Johanssen. He assured me he'd do his best (but did I detect a hint of doubt in his eyes?)

So perched on the wall in front of the house and out on the balcony with an assortment of chickens and children he started shooting.

800 (yes I did say 800) photos later, he was finished. He took a few for the family album and promised to send me a few.

The article was due out at the weekend.

I was hardly even out of bed when the phone went mad. "It's in the Mail today" they all shouted.
And let me tell you.... Photoshop really is miraculous! I'd be transformed into a photo of the parade of shops in Virginia Water! Clearly Scarlett Johanssen was a task too far for the photographer and I'm still snorting at the description of me yomping through the woods with a chainsaw in my hand..... Oh, and he said I had hands like a peasant!

And did we ever get the photos? Nah. Hey ho!

Virgin on the ridiculous

Bereft as I am of gainful employment, M. Sarkozy having had other ideas about us wicked foreigners stealing the jobs of real French people, and having reduced the housekeeping to a minimum by tying the offspring to the sofa each evening in front of some suitably intellectually stimulating output from the BBC, I'm often reduced to posting on various forums in search of a bit of light entertainment.

I'm a regular poster on the education section of one forum where I frequently get my head shot off for daring to suggest that the French education system is actually not perfect (note to self: put new tin helmet on Christmas list). I was even asked to become a sort of junior moderator thingy which was probably just their futile attempt at shutting me up. Needless to say it didn't work.

Recently, there's been an interesting discussion on the documentary that was shown on TV called 'The Virgin Daughters' about the purity movement in the US. People were outraged at the idea that a young girl's virginity should become some sort of prize, paedophilia was mentioned, patriarchal religion was lambasted and the Muslims were blamed.

What? But they don't have anything to do with it. No matter, when indignation is righteous, common sense flies out of the window. One of the best comments I saw recently was 'not all Muslims are terrorists but all Islamic fundamentalists are Muslims'. Well DUH!!

I suggested that, really as they weren't affecting my life, I was happy to let them get on with it. If they want to go to the altar as virgins, why not. At least they wouldn't be accompanied by those little 21st Century friends, Chlamydia and Herpes. I of course also went to the altar a virgin..... virgin on middle age, virgin on a bus pass.

It seems that that wasn't the right answer. I'm supposed to be righteously indignant too apparently, even if what was being said was incorrect and borderline racist, I'm supposed to expound the virtues of our Western way of life, which as we all know leaves much to be desired.

They are funny places, these internet forums. I know people that live out some sort of bizarre fantasy life on them, no doubt because their own is so mundane, otherwise calm and gentle people who turn into ranting lunatics, some people even have more than one username and argue with themselves!

While they can be a mine of useful information, all too often they become the domain of the armchair experts and people who seem to have far too much time on their hands but still manage to fit in hours on the computer telling everyone how THEY are the only ones who 'integrated' (my least favourite word), that THEY are the only ones who moved for the lifestyle and love of France, everyone else just wanted a bigger house, that THEY have such a wonderful, full life here that they just don't have time for anything else. Well, a quick look at their posting history reveals that they logged on at 8am and were still there at 11pm. So much for a full life, eh?

But the thing that gets my back up most is the constant UK-bashing -or yUK as they have so cleverly renamed it. Sometimes I wonder if they aren't just trying to convince themselves that they made the right decision such is the vitriol they reserve for their home country. The worst offenders clearly never read French newspapers or watch the news and have only a vague grasp of what is happening here while their view of UK life is clearly modelled on the worst rantings of the Daily Mail. Everyone under 21 carries a knife (in France, it's more likely to be a gun), everyone under 21 binge drinks (the government here has recently introduced measures to combat the growing problem with binge drinking), it's full of immigrants (immigrants make up over 10% of the French population, compared to around 7% in the UK). This is actually one of my favourites as they are immigrants themselves - no sorry, they're expats aren't they? Well actually no, not in any sense of the word. The NHS is rarely spared. 'Filthy and riddled with MRSA' they shout (France has a similar MRSA rate to the UK) and the healthcare is so much better (well, if you can afford to pay for it). Get them going on education and you hear that discipline is so much better (wrong again. Discipline is fairly appalling), the students respect the teachers (the number being stabbed by their pupils seem to belie that), the teachers know how to control their class (seeing as they have no actual training on how to be a teacher, this is as hollow a claim as all the others).

But I always wonder why they feel the need to be so negative about the UK, while at the same time being so uninformed about France.

As far as I can see it's the same shit, just different shaped bread.

Stoopid things.....

For a few days now, a noxious odour has been emanating from the Grand Gasguzzler. Considering that it's little more than a dustbin on wheels at the best of times, noxious odours are not uncommon. But this was really noxious... stomach-churningly, dry-heavingly noxious.

"Vile smell in the Gasguzzler" commented the CH. Nothing gets past him you know!

No amount of window opening and letting the fresh air rush through seemed to help.

"Maybe it was something I'd driven through (or over) " I mused.

Eventually, I decided that there was nothing for it but to take a short trip to the Lavage and give the Gasguzzler a thorough going over.

The CH doesn't like me wasting money on the car wash when he thinks that I could just as easily wash the car in the driveway. As if....! Washing the car is only marginally less hideous than doing the ironing.

The Grand Gasguzzler is, of course, far too large to go through the automatic car wash so it has to be done in a jet wash. In a slight nod to his wish to economise, I've now got it down to a fine art and, like a whirling dervish, I can pre-wash, wash and rinse for about 3 euros. It's quite a good workout too as I have to do it at a run but I do also occasionally wash the person in the next bay in my hurry to get a pre-wash and wash out of a euro.

So, washed and worked out, I parked up by the vacuum cleaners to give the inside a good old clean. Now, I've been known to have so much crap on the floor of the car that I've actually burned out the motors on these industrial beasties in the past so I always park carefully betwixt two vacuums, just in case.

First job was to throw out all the accumulated rubbish and try to locate the noxious odour. The wash had done nothing to lessen it so everything was pointing to something inside the car.

I emptied out the boot, stacked up the 7 coats I found in the back, collected up assorted sweet wrappers and empty drink cans - soft drinks ladies, in case you were going to ask - and dumped them. But hang on..... what's that stuffed underneath the back seat?

Bloody hell..... it's DD's dead hen!

And then it all came flooding back.

Poor Rietta (Hen-Rietta. Get it? Oh never mind) shuffled this mortal coil several days ago, much to the distress of my poor sensitive child. Now, you can't flush a chicken down the loo and in a moment of weakness I promised DD that I would give Rietta a proper burial. All very well, but we live on ground so rocky that growing potatoes needs the services of a mini-digger. The chances of excavating a suitably large hole for Rietta were about as likely as, well, slim to say the least. I had visions of poor Rietta's little body dug up by foxes and other assorted vermin, not to mention Prudence the Golden non-retriever, who makes up for what she lacks in retrieving skills with her digging abilities. The Somme-like look of parts of the garden is testament to that.

Being the terrible mother I am, I made a grave-like thing in the flower bed with a little handmade cross and told (alright, lied to) DD that that was the lasting resting place of her lovely French hen.

Meanwhile, Rietta was rather unceremoniously chucked in a plastic bag (after a short eulogy of course) and stuffed under the back seat for disposal next time I drove past the bins.

Only trouble is... well, I've got a brain like a sieve at the best of times and, well, I .... sort of forgot.

So there was Rietta decomposing nicely in the back of the car and emitting some fairly foul (or should I say, fowl) odours. I have to admit this isn't a first for me. I was once given a brace of pheasants for my mother which I put in the boot of my old mini, only to find them a week later, crawling with maggots.

Still, there was nothing else for it, I picked up Rietta's putrid remains, slung them in the bins a drove off pretty sharpish.

Well come on, what's a girl to do?

(Totally) Lost in Translation

I thought I'd share with you some highlights of the rather charming French translation of our house details on the website of a supposedly bilingual estate agency. Read it and weep.........

"Pretty ensemble of properties of the stone well hidden near the end of a step through a road with little or no passage traffic"

So, now you know exactly where it is. On to the house...

"The house has three levels with a large attached barn, a charming gite (so far so good) and another stone building ideal for a artist of studio"

(uh, oh!)

"The business possesses equally two swimming pools and of about 1 hectare of gardens enclosed with two other distinct parcels of land close by ideal for holding up a horse or two"

Holding up a horse or two? Hmm, well I suppose you could prop up quite a few if you felt like it.

"Spacious and light 'L' in form of living room with good height under ceiling (insulated) and all is a grand room is very cosy and welcoming thanks to it's focal point which is the former fireplace with woodburner (written in English). The floor is former pine."

Former pine? Which makes it what now exactly? Chipboard, MDF...

"Dining room - I can vouch that this room has a lovely probably the feeling of being the heart of the house. A fabulous work fireplace is the focal point in cast iron with behind plaque, the renovation of the original tiles (word for roof tiles used) terracotta fired and two lots of french doors supplying lots of light at the same time at the front and at the behind which give access to a magnificent terrace for the lots of al fresco or to eat barely to sit and enjoy the view of big reach."

I'm all for lots of al fresco but what' this barely eating business?

"Access starting from this room to the former old original door. The stages e (don't know what the e is for) to the cellar and wine store with lots of space for stocking."

Hmm, it's that old 'former' business again. It's a minefield this French language! And lots of space for stocking. The CH will be pleased!!

"Kitchen with tiling and a half the walls of roof tiles, walls and floors cupboard (in English again) united and the windows in two parts providing again lots of natural light."

Tiling and a half? As in "Wow, that's tiling and a half!!" and the roof tiles on the walls, what a charming Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen type idea. But hey, it's great to know that it has walls, not to mention united cupboards.

"This bedroom has a gudgeon (the fish!) partition wall of the dining room and if desired could be open to provide a huge dining room kitchen."

Now, I've looked and looked and there are no fish in the stud wall between the kitchen and the dining room. I mean, I'd know wouldn't I? Wouldn't I?

"The bedroom of the master (don't tell the CH that. It'll go right to his head!) with wooden ceiling and in french doors giving access to the bathsroom which is very private and has lots of natural light thanks to it's windows to have three sides. "


"First floor with two double bedrooms of which two Velux windows and exposed beams and parquet floor."

Hooray! I almost understand what they mean!!

"Bathsroom with the quality of Villeroy & Boch, here including the bath accessories and more of shower sink and WC Velux lovely window and painted wood floor".

A WC Velux? Does it swivel or what?

"Guest chalet (Chalet? Chalet? My lovely 200 year old guest cottage?!) with the lovely by the slantwise of the lounge/dining room and kitchen with bread oven function of agreeable fireplace and two bedrooms a shower room and WC French window drive to a private garden with lifted up terrace."

First WC Velux, now WC French Window. This house is truly inspirational!

"Of gas the central heating is installed. This business is private together far from the main house and has it's own garden and swimming pool chlorine."

'Of gas the central heating is installed' - slight Wordsworthian overtones don't you think?

"The property has a good file in course of rental of which the owners would be happy to discuss with you (if we knew what you were talking about of course) .If you don't wish to rent the chalet he would be ideal for the individual property, either the parents or old people is all on a general level or for an enlarged living family"

Well, thank god they are living. The idea of my cottage stuffed full of cadavers is mildly worrying.

"Joined at the present is of property of another immense building at the front FACIA (hmm, no idea here!) of windows offering an airy bedroom and to have exposed beams and stone walls. This property could be stretched into the guests house or by default an autonomous gite in itself or a handsome artist's studio."

OK, I'll hold one end, you lot hold the other. All together now. PPPUUUUUULLLLLLLL!

"A lovely characteristic of the property is the gardens well stocked which offer a lovely selection of roses, lavatera, campsis, silk tree and Indian runner beans tree, the walnut, the ornamental cherry, the apple, the almond and the plum tree."

I love the Indian Runner Beans Tree. Is it perhaps a tree that grows ducks and beans together. It's practically a ready meal!

"The gardens surround the house totally and the gite offers a totally private space for the gite if you wished to take paying hosts this will not be an obstacle to your enjoyment of the the principal house or the reasons."

They used the word 'motif' meaning reasons/grounds as in grounds for divorce to mean grounds as in the garden. Heehee. It's a minefield!

"There are lots of secret idle zones far from the long hot days of summer. Long raised of bridge zone the houses of the second swimming pool which even has swimming"


A swimming pool with ..... swimming. Who'd have thought?!

So, any buyers then.......?

Sacré Bleu..... le couscous qui s'explose!

Phew, what a week! That's the last time I let my computer tell me what to do. It asked me to download Microsoft Service Pack 3 and instantly my whole computer crashed, everything from the mouse to the monitor. Quelle horreur! It's been as if I'm missing a limb.... me, who spends my whole time lecturing my dear curtainclimbers about the perils of too much computer use.

Anyway, with the help of a borrowed monitor and a spare mouse and thanks to the mysteries of System Restore, I'm finally back on line. Hallelujah!!

So what's new in VLiFWorld? Well, I spent a great half term in the UK with my lovely friends and family, got my hair cut at a half decent hairdresser (not a aubergine coloured head in sight) worshipped at the temple of Mammon which is The Bentalls Centre (who's credit is certainly not being crunched) and even survived two flights on RyanScare where my inflight needs were looked after by Agnecza, Szylvia, Evana and a motley crew of Eastern European slaves....sorry air stewardesses who have indentured themselves to the 'la raclure'*, Michael O'Leary. (ooops, another lawsuit!).

The CH is back on the same landmass and slowly working his way through a list of 'must do' chores, just in case he is spirited away at short notice. I'm determined to get through the winter without having to chop any wood. Ah, my needs are so small!

Despite a wet week (while we were away, whoohoo!) the temperatures for the past few days have been up to 19 degrees with sunshine - sorry to all those who had the horrible storms today. See, you need to buy my house and move out here.

But now we've returned to France so it's back to the important stuff..... exploding couscous.

Now, we all know that there's nothing the French, those guardians of culinary excellence, can't stick in a jar or a can - although Jaywalker has suggested cheese and to be honest I still haven't managed to find any tinned cheese and it's not for want of looking. But who'd have thought that a tin of couscous could turn you into some sort of French suicide bomber?

Apparently, cans of couscous sold under the brand name Garbit (garbage?) have been discovered to exhibit a 'phenomène de bombage' - what a lovely expression, even if you don't speak French.

On opening, it's been reported that the contents can shoot out, narrowly avoiding taking your eye out and liberally plastering your kitchen in coucous royal with chicken and spicy sausage. Strangely, the newspaper story was illustrated with a photo of an old man, shopping in his slippers and seems to have no bearing on the 'couscous qui s'explose' whatsoever - although it is of course very de rigeur in some parts to shop in ones pantoufles!

As a precaution, the manufacturer has recalled 80,000 cans of potentially explosive couscous as they don't want anyone to be injured 'even if you wouldn't normally open a jar where the security button has popped' said a spokesman.

Well, you wouldn't normally change a lightbulb while standing in a full bath but that didn't stop the French musician Claude François, who originally penned the song 'My Way', with the inevitable result!

* well.. what do you think this means?

I've seen Debs Lehner's boufadou!

Back at home in front of the computer after a lovely day spent with the lovely Mme Lehner of The Lehners in France where I was honoured both to see her 'boufadou' (oooh, you dirty minded lot) and get a peep at the new blog. No, don't try to bribe me, wild horses would not drag anything out of me. Blogonimity must be maintained. We had a laugh looking at some or our favourite and not so favourite blogs, I met the full gamut of lame and sound livestock, had a lovefest with the gorgeous Sam (the horse) and went on the piste - not literally. I had the tour of the house, which is quite lovely despite being almost empty now, Mme Lehner has been a busy beaver, packing up ready for the big move.

I'm only sorry I met her two weeks before she's due to leave for the UK where she will be the one with pert breasts in her new, well fitting M&S bra while I'll still be boobling around in my French-made bustenhalter which is clearly not fit for purpose but I feel we've not seen the last of each other, indeed I hope not. We had loads in common and it was so nice to meet someone normal, no drink problem - at least not one she was admitting to, no desire to be 'more French than the French' and clearly a much loved member of the small rural community where she lives.

Spurred on by the lovely home-made bread Debs brought out for lunch (we both share a dislike of baguettes - give me appalling belly ache) and slightly embarrassed that I was so desperate for a pee that I didn't stop on the way home to buy any bread and cereals for DS and DD breakfasts, I decided to finally use that 'bread mix' from the German Deli (Lidl) which has been languishing in the back of the cupboard since my last 'I must be like my French neighbours and make my own bread' lapse. Fortunately, these lapses are rare because they invariably end in disaster.

Pour half the packet into a bowl, add 350mls of warm water and mix in a food processor for 4 minutes at maxiumum speed to make a nice smooth dough (it said in French)

How difficult could that be?

I rummaged in the back of the cupboard until I found my 1970s vintage Kenwood Chefette, bequeathed to me by a 96 year old former neighbour and the nearest you'll find to a food processor in my kitchen.

I duly poured half the packet into a bowl and added the water.

Within 30 seconds I had a revolting gloopy mess which had more in common with melted rubber than 'a nice smooth dough' and was busily wrapping itself around the whisks which were struggling to turn it.

The nasty burning smell which shortly emanated from the old Chefette was enough to convince me that it wasn't really up to the job and quite possibly, neither was I.

OK, time to resort to manual kneading which I vaguely remember from my home economics days at school.

I lifted the dough out of the bowl and tried to detach it from my hands. It wasn't playing ball. The more I tried to get it off, the more it stuck. What I need is more flour but how to pour it in when this godforsaken mess is still firmly glued around my fingers. I'll just have to do my best.

I picked up the packet and poured in more flour. That was the easy bit. Trying to put the bag back down was less successful. On top of the gluey dough I now had the bag of flour stuck to my hands. Time to try the CH's 'strudl pastry flick' (more on that later). It's all in the wrist action you know. A few sharp flicks and the bag detached itself and took flight across the counter spilling most of the rest of it as it went. The dough became marginally less sticky but still didn't look like a nice smooth dough. The more flour I added the more sticky the bag became, the more flustered I became........and then I got an itch on my nose. Why does this always happen?

"DeeeeeeESSSSSSS, DeeeeeDEEEEE, I need you!"

"Uggg" responded DS

"Whaaa" responded DD, neither making any attempt to help me.

Damn, I'll just have to scratch my nose myself. So now I have sticky bread dough up my nose and I'm going to....... to......... to....... SNEEZE. Not pleasant!

Eventually, with almost all the bag of flour added to my measly 350mls of tepid water I had something vaguely resembling a 'smooth dough'.

Time to put it somewhere warm to rise for half an hour. Blimey, in 30 minutes I could drive to the shops and buy a loaf of bread, but, not deterred I stuck it in front of the woodburner. Half an hour later, no change.

The instructions say I must now put it in a greased loaf tin and leave it to rise for another 45 minutes. Ah, that could be a problem. A loaf tin? Who do they think I am? Martha Graham? I find a brand new cake tin lurking in the cupboard. Must be one of the CH's purchases. There's no way I'd waste money on a cake tin. I mean, then I'd have to make a cake! Still, it will do.

Another 45 minutes later and a quick inspection reveals that it may have risen a millimetre or two. I seem to remember Debs wafting round the kitchen with a tray of very blousy dough. Still, she probably didn't buy a bread mix from the German Deli.

Into the oven at Gas Mark 4 for 60 minutes. 60 minutes? My oven has two temperatures. Off and Crematorium. If I put it in for 60 minutes it will be a charred, blackened lump. Let's try 25 minutes.

And, voilà, an almost perfect loaf of bread. Blimey, I'm going to change my name to Marie-Claire and buy a 2CV!

Welcome to the new official French sport of..........

LINEDANCING!

Yes, in their bid to regulate every single facet of our lives (well, not mine obviously) the French government's microscope has fallen on the crazy world of linedancing. How could they, for so long, have missed an opportunity at screwing money out of a band of happy amateur dancers? How could they have let it go unregulated or so long? How very un-French!

Linedancing is the new French revolution with, apparently, thousands of 'femmes d'un certain âge', clad in unflattering swingy skirts or showing off their muffin top above obscenely tight jeans, shod in dodgy cowboy boots achy-breakying their way around France, with new clubs starting up every week.

I've even heard that in Paris they are planning to try and beat the world 'mass linedancing' record which was set a few years ago by 1780 dancers.

In their own particular gallic way, the French government, the only one in Europe apart from Greece to regulate leisure activities, has proclaimed line dancing a sport. Clearly they haven't been to our local 'danse country' or they would instantly realise the error of their ways. I've seen more sport in the Embassy World Darts final or possibly even an amateur coarse fishing contest.

From now on, teachers will have to take a state run exam, a Brevet d'Animateur Fédéral, in order to show a few step-hitch-kicks to a bunch of mamies - and the odd papy too. No doubt anyone who fails to comply will be fined at best, guillotined at worst.

The new course will last a week and cost 180 euros which goes straight into the pocket of the government and all the dances will have to be officially codified in order to be taught. Any new dances will have to be approved and notated by the Linedancing Police before they can be taught.

Now I know why the next Olympics are in London. The International Olympic Committee were probably worried that the French may try to get Linedancing admitted as an Olympic sport.

Lover of the craze worry that it may collapse under a vast heap of administrative red tape and be regulated out of existence.

Well, we can only hope!

Appearing soon at a Salle des Fêtes near you!

Mother's Day

Mother's Day (which occurs on a different day here in France) passed in a heady whirl of cards and flowers, chocolates and breakfast in bed, smiling, shiny children and a loving, thoughtful husband. And then I woke up.

Reality hit me in the face like a wet kipper.

"DON'TA", "STOPA", wailed DD as the replay of the Hundred Years War, which has been raging in our house since puberty kicked in, continued into another day.

"MUUUuuuuuUUUUUM" she called in that special whiny way that is genetically programmed into girls at birth. "He's bugging me".

Huge sigh.... all I want for Mother's Day is peace and a day without the inane bickering that they have developed into something of an art form.

DS has sent me an e-card. "Don't forget to smile", it said. Do you think he's trying to tell me something? It's hard to smile when both little darlings spend their waking hours devising new and more inventive ways to wind each other up to the max. DD has made two cards, one with a sweet little poem in French, and painted a little mirror for me.

The Conquering Hero makes a lovely big breakfast with all the trimmings. Yum. Then we set off for a vide grenier in Monflanquin, one of the most beautiful villages in France, though how anything can look truly beautiful on the ten millionth day of rain in the Sunny Southwest is beyond me, in search of that rare thing in France, THE BARGAIN.

We pass by the Salle des Fetes, where a local cat charity is having an art competition and where my little business, Izzy Bean, has a stand selling our gorgeous candles and superb garden accessories. I've got the day off so a colleague is manning the stand. As we pass, I notice two gendarmes standing in the doorway. 'How nice of them to turn up and support us' I thought.

We eventually found the vide grenier and paddled around a damp field looking for suitable 'tudor' looking items for the CH's latest production with mixed success.

Having now not eaten for nearly an hour DD and DS announced that they were ravenous and with the rain falling steadily we headed for the clubhouse (it was at a football club). There we endured that peculiar sort of organised chaos that is endemic in France. Go to the cashier, tell her what you want and get tickets indicating your choices. Go to this lady for your drinks, that man for your sandwich and outside for your chips. All this has to be achieved while negotiating your way through a French queue which is like a rugby scrum but you keep your hands to yourself. Queue is French for tail but a French queue resembles the tail of some sort of Medusa like being, with people joining from all sides, much pushing and shoving and irate calls of 'c'etait moi d'abord' (I was first) and 'Enleve tes mains de mon cul?' (take your hands off my a**e).

Still, the chips were good.

We head home via another town, where we stop for a cup of hot chocolate. The cafe is full so we sit outside and enjoy a bit of French cafe life - looking out on leaden skies and torrential rain. 'Il pleut comme les vaches qui pissent' comments DD. (It's raining like pissing cows!) Remind me again why we decided to bring our children up in France?

We set off for home where I find a message from my colleague to say that there was a break in at the Salle des Fetes and most of our merchandise has been stolen - hence the gendarmes. Don't let anyone tell you that there is no crime in rural France. This is the third break-in in two weeks. The idiot Maire failed to mention this one intsy little fact when the keys were collected nor that he had not had the broken lock repaired although he had had a meeting about it. Only in France! No doubt the burglar couldn't believe his luck that he could just walk into the hall again and nick a whole load more stuff. The gendarmes said we should have slept in the hall - yeah, and take on the burglars single handed. What's the point of a police force then? It's not exactly like they are overworked! End result, no insurance cover and no claim for replacement of our stolen goods.

The perfect end to a perfect Mother's Day.

On a more positive note and with a great deal of maternal pride, I can announce that DD won the first prize in her age group (clearly takes after her mother!) and as her two entries were so good and the judges couldn't choose between them, they created a special prize for the most humourous card. Thassmygirl!

The Conquering Hero departs....

All too soon he came and went (make of that what you will!) and once again the remote control is MINE all mine!

Truly vile weather marred the weekend with torrential rain which poured through the bathroom roof, conveniently watering my plants on its way down. Thank god because I forgot to. My mum recommended I buy Peace Lilies as they are 'impossible to kill'. Let me tell you, I've despatched more 'impossible to kill' plants than anyone else in the northern hemisphere.

The highlight of the weekend was undoubtedly the Eurobysmal Song Contest, that triumph of mediocrity and block (or should it be bloc) voting. They should let me be the compere which I could well be with old Tel threatening to resign over the clearly biased voting! Each year we wade through it, more for the sake of the children of course, in the hope of... I don't know what? Real talent, great lyrics? It served up the usual mix of songs composed by throwing random sentences into a bag and picking them out ( why do they let them sing in completely incomprehensible English?), the truly bizarre (the French entry looked like a cross between a 70s lounge lizard and an escaped paedophile and one group had women in beards) and the blatently talentless (just about everybody in it).

We always watch it with the subtitles as these are far more entertaining than the songs themselves and our favourite by far was the Spanish offering of 'my lady love does the chikichiki with her pants in her hand'. What on earth does that mean? Any Spaniards reading who might enlighten us? We've also asked far and wide in France and not found anyone who has a clue what the 'Chivers' are that weirdy beardy Sebastien was singing about? Could it really be about a popular English jam - or maybe even a jelly? That's taking the Entente Cordiale a step too far!

A sudden storm put paid to watching the voting but we all knew it would be an Eastern European country and sure enough it was. So, should we withdraw our funding in protest? Should Terry Wogan resign as compere? Should it become a separate competition for Eastern and Western Europe? Oh who the hell cares? It's just some loony singing competition that should have been axed around 1987. It ain't never gonna change the world and I for one was not shocked to the core to hear the Sir Cliff had been robbed of the title in 1853. It just ain't news to me.

The other highlight of the weekend was replacing the cover of our septic tank. God we know have to have fun. Are you jealous? Are you?

Since we bought the house, we've had no idea where this wonder of modern living was located, the useless eejit of an Irish bum we bought the house from having just waved at the steep slope behind the house and said 'it's over there'. In actual fact it wasn't 'over there' at all. It's 'over here' in a completely different direction, stoopid! He was a class act, our vendor. Most people I know inherit at least one piece of beautiful country furniture when they buy their house. Us, we got an old, broken and very used toilet and the mouldiest old washing machine in Southwest France.

Just a quick sewage diversion... The French government is currently carrying out checks on all septic tanks in France to check they conform to new EU regulations. It's estimated that approximately 92% don't. In our area, the rather bizarrely named SPANC (oh how the French love their acronyms!) are responsible for the checks.

The SPANCman duly called at the homestead requesting to see the septic tank. 'Mais oui, Monsieur, if only I knew where it was'. So with the aid of his long pole (quiet at the back!) he prodded and poked around in the area that Useless Irish Eejit had indicated housed our lovely fosse septique. After half and hour, we were no nearer finding it, though I had found all sorts of marvellous information that I just know I will put to good use one day. Like, if you have a party, collect up all the leftover beer and pour it into the septic tank. Clearly the man has never attended one of our parties where the chances of leftover beer are about as likely as our Maire saying something nice about foreigners and even if there were leftovers, the day I lift the cover of a smelly septic tank to pour it in is the day that I ask, nay beg, someone to have me committed. He also suggested live yoghourt and raw meat. Flaming hell, what does this thing need? A banquet? Should I maybe ask it for some meal suggestions or whether it has any preferences for brand of yoghourt? No, the cover once in place, stays firmly in place.

A whole 14 months later, we received a remarkably detailed report about our septic tank and what problems it may pose to the environment, all the more remarkable because until last week we still hadn't found the thing.

However, once found, it seemed that the cover was broken and a new 'couvercle pour la fosse septique' was needed. Looks like a job for the Conquering Hero.

Now, knowing how much he hates bodily excretions - the man blanches at a Tampax advert for goodness sake - it was pure joy to watch him clearing away all the overgrowth round the top of the very full, very smell septic tank, alternatively clearing his throat to hide the fact that he was gagging and looking very green around the gills. I casually dropped into the conversation that as the septic tank is shared with our cottage, we couldn't even be sure that everything in it was ours. Barf-o-rama!

Still, the new cover is now fitted and I can open the bathroom windows without fear of assault from sewage pongs. Ah, ain't life great!

10 things NOT to do before you die....

No. 1 - catch your ni**le in a pair of plyers. I did it today and it flaming hurts (and leave a very suspicious looking bruise!)

I lied...

Was it only yesterday I said that I loved my children? How things can change in 24 hours. It all started to go wrong when we had a sudden, very heavy downpour last evening. Earlier in the day DS and DD had been hanging out of the velux window (does that constitute reckless endangerment do you think?) flying some daft 75 cent wind up bird thing which they naturally got stuck in a gutter. After much prodding and poking said bird was removed from the gutter but do you suppose they shut the window?

It was only several hours later, as the rain continued to fall in stair rods, that DS happened to mention to DD that perhaps, possibly, maybe she may have left her window open. I rushed in to find water cascading down the open velux window straight onto her bed and the large pile of ironing that my dearest Mother had spent the last week sorting out, and which, of course, she had been asked to put away.

Now, being as I am a domestic disaster rather than a domestic goddess, the windows were probably last cleaned at the turn of the century, so the water which was now spreading across the bed, the ironing and the floor was a nasty shade of brown. End result, her mattress looks like the last resting place of a serial incontinent. Did I calmy clean up and say "never mind, darling, accidents happen" or did I scream like a banshee with PMT. You guess!

(I'm just having a quick break to restart my heart. My youngest cat just decided to jump onto the desk which is on a galleried landing, overjumped and just about sailed straight over the bannister. I had to grab him by his tail which now looks a good few centimetres longer. Talk about news as it happens eh?)

Back to my blog....

So DD had no option, or rather I had no option, but to let her sleep in my bed with all the midnight whacks in the face, grinding of teeth and speaking in tongues that that will entail - her not me I hasten to add.

When I finally made it to bed after seemingly hours of picking up clothes dropped on the bathroom floor, empty glasses left under the table (where else?), shoes missing their mates and other assorted detritus, I sought (blimey, couldn't remember how to spell that for a minute) the sanctuary of my bedroom where DD was doing a passable imitation of the Vitruvian man, mouth hanging open and snoring gently. Great.

I collected up the jumbled arms and legs and deposited them over to the other side of the bed and hopped in ready to endure another chapter of Carol Drinkwater's 'The Olive Harvest'. I've never come across a writer who can use so many adjectives that it makes my head spin. Still, I press on.

A peaceful 10 minutes pass before DS appears claiming that the storm overhead is stopping him sleeping and can he get into my bed too. (Thank god DH is away!) DS, despite being only 12, is already 5'7 so it's no mean feat to squash us all into the bed, despite it being a superking.

I can hear my mother's doomladen warning ringing in my ears. "You're making a rod for your own back letting the children sleep in your bed" she said when they were but little nippers. But even I thought it was fair to assume that by the time teenagedom was approaching they might have kicked the habit.

So, a very long, very sleepless night, for me at least, followed as I tried my best to hang on to the few square centimetres they had left me, fought for the pillows and prodded assorted snorers and teeth grinders. Eventually at 6am, Basil, my mad kitty decided to come and chew my nose, so that was the end of another rejuvenating night.

Talking of noses, I'm sporting a very sore one today. I tried to peer through a shop window which had one of those security grilles behind it. It created some sort of optical illusion (well that's my story anyway) and I didn't realise the glass was so far forward. I ended up nose-butting the window really hard and now have a slightly swollen, slightly purple nose. Only me...thank god I forgot to spend thousands on a nose job all those years ago.

A chicken success story....

Today was market day and I'm pleased to report that I'm now the owner of possibly (or maybe even probably) the ugliest chickens in Christendom (no, hang on, France is a secular country so we can't use any religious allusions) erm... in the Northern Hemisphere.

I set off for the market with high hopes only to find the hall empty except for two old farmers and 4 chickens. Still, I only want two so I wasn't put off.

I approached the first farmer who had a couple of fine birds tied up at his feet and in my best French asked "are these laying hens or meat hens" - it's important to make the distinction, you know. He looked at me wearily, rolled his eyes ever so slightly and replied "Madame, these are cockerels". Oh well, what do I know about chickens, I joked. "Evidently not much, Madame" he answered politely.

The next farmer is one I know well from our village market. He sells the best onions you'll ever taste and he's was, until we got our own birds, the main supplier of delicious eggs to our household. He also sells some seriously ugly chickens. This poor pair were tied together with an old pair of Madame's support hose and looked thoroughly miserable. I asked if they were layers and were told (I think) that they were point of lay chickens and eggs would abound in the very near future. To be quite honest, with his strong accent, he could have told me that I was looking at the original goose that laid the Golden Egg and I'd have been none the wiser.

Madame insisted I held them by their feet to be assured that they were indeed, fine birds. It was then that I noticed their featherless necks. They are 'Cou Nu', literally Naked Necks, a breed that originated in Hungary and has a dominant gene that means they have half the feathers of a normal chicken. (God, I can't believe I'm writing this. I used to have a career, you know! Note to self.. you must get out more).

They are possibly the only type of chicken I can't stand but I felt so sorry for the poor things tied and trussed and probably with only the pot to look forward to so 20 euros poorer, I left with my hens in a cardboard pet carrier that I'd got from my local vet. M. Le Vieux Fermier must have thought Christmas had come early when he pocketed my money - more than I'd paid for my pair of purebred Peking Bantams but he wasn't prepared to haggle.

Time for a coffee. In France you can take dogs into most restaurants but I'm not sure about the rules for chickens. My mother, a farmer's daughter herself, but who escaped the muck and wellies at 17, wryly commented that this was the first time she'd been out to coffee with a couple of chickens!

I smuggled them onto the terrasse and pushed them under the table in their box. It was a lovely sunny day and it was very pleasant to sit watching the world go by with a (shock, horror) half decent cup of coffee in front of me but after a while I thought the chickens might be feeling the heat so it was time to go. I reached under the table and surreptitiously took out my box of birds. As I walked to the door there was a sudden thud and the box felt suspiciously light. Sure enough, the bottom had dropped out, depositing my two very ugly, very bewildered chickens and a pile of straw on the pristine terrasse of the cafe.

M. Le Patron was far from pleased and blustered around telling me that I couldn't bring chickens into the cafe. Me? I was standing with my legs crossed laughing so hard I thought I'd wet myself, looking at these poor, mangy looking birds who'd be so unceremoniously dumped on the ground. A bit of borrowed parcel tape later and we were safely on our way again.

The chickens have now been named Deirdre (after her of the famous acting neck on Coronation Street. If you saw a photo of her you'd see a definite likeness) and Agnes, just because it's a stupid name for a daft looking bird! I think M. Le Vieux Fermier was a little bit economical with the truth as, once we'd untied Madame's support tights it became clear that apart from being ugly, Deirdre and Agnes were also very fat. So fat in fact, that they kept falling over. A sure sign of a bird that's been bred for the table but hey, I couldn't eat anything that ugly so they are safe for the moment.

But now of course, I have questions like, do they need sunscreen in the summer? Will they need scarves in the winter? Would it be feasible to make them feather boas to hide their naked necks? Will I escape from rural France before I lose my mind...........?

It wasn't so long ago that I'd look forward to my subscriptions copies of 'Ideal Home' and 'Vanity Fair' dropping on the doormat. Now it's the latest issue of 'Poultry' that has me listening out excitedly for the arrival of the postman. How did this metamorphosis happen? How did the townie become a 'nouveau paysan' and will it be housecoats and wellies for me this time next year? You'll have to keep reading to find out.