What, you may well ask, was I doing at 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon, drinking beer with a half naked French farmer and his toothless wife?

It wasn't some sort of bizarre 'swinging' thing, although I am reliably informed (by several very unreliable people) that there is an active swinging scene around here. I'm deeply offended that I've never been asked to join!

Before I continue though, I should say that this couple, M et Mme de B are some of the nicest, sweetest people you'll ever meet. They are, however, true French agriculteurs with a rundown farm full of rusting machinery, countless half wild dogs and cats and lots of fleas!

In actual fact I was going to pick up an old school friend of DS who moved to French Guyana a few years ago, but comes back here to spend his summers. Wish I could find someone to have my little darlings for 2 months! The maximum security summer camp is only for a week.

So, we dutifully turned up at 3pm to pick him up from M et Mme de B, with whom he is staying. They invited us in and we sat down at the kitchen table. M, due to the incredible tropical heat we are experiencing, over 30 degrees in the shade yesterday, was stripped down to his shorts. That's the half naked bit sorted then.

We chatted away, or at least they did and I tried to decipher Mme's accent. Its the sort of local accent that you could use to cut granite and the lack of teeth doesn't help. Every other sentence I was whispering out of the corner of my mouth to DS 'whasshe saying?

We talked (I think) about how DS's friend was passing his 2 months in France, had we met up with his Mum when she was over in the Spring, wasn't the weather hot. All the while, waiting for the appearance of said friend. Eventually the son arrived (he's like a mini Sylvester Stallone) so we discussed the impending arrival of his partner's baby, her Braxton Hicks contractions, how difficult it was to be pregnant when it's so flaming hot! Still no friend.

I nodded my head, put in the odd 'oui', 'non' and 'd'accord' and apparently at some stage of the proceedings I said yes to a cold beer. I don't really drink and certainly not during the day in the heat so when it arrived, I explained my misunderstanding and said no to the beer. M de B was having none of it. 'Don't worry, there's no gendarmes around here' he said. Just as well because it's a standing joke among friends how I get stopped by every single gendarme I pass.

Only a few weeks ago I arrived at school with 3 carloads of gendarmes following me.
'Oh look' commented a friend wryly 'here come VLiF with her police escort'!

Eventually, after about 20 minutes of pleasant chat and still no sign of Friend from Guyane, I mouthed to DS 'he's not here is he?' 'No' replied DS.

I backtracked on the conversation and managed to deduce that he was most likely with a Croatian family in the village with an unpronounceable name.

'Ah, il est encore chez Draganononovinic' I slurred. (Told you I can't drink at lunchtime!) 'Oui' they answered in unison, not for one minute wondering why I was, therefore, sitting in their kitchen and not in the kitchen chez Dranogoanivinicic.

We bid our fond adieus, jumped up and down a few times to knock off the fleas and left to try and find chez Dargonvinicicic.

The trouble with Croatians is that they are like policemen, they go everywhere in twos, so we arrived at the little lotissement where live les Dragonvincicivivnics only to find that in our tiny little village, there are, in fact more than one. There are three.

Eventually we were reunited with Friend from Guyane, instantly recognisable by all the flea bits on his legs, which he politely insisted were mosquito bites, and all was well with the world.

Back at the homestead, Mellors the gardener was quietly expiring in the sub-tropical heat but godammit, he still had his shirt on. What's the point of employing a 22 year old gardener if he doesn't at least get his kit off (not all of it you understand)? Note to self to re-write his employment contract. Just my luck that the only bit of chest I've seen today belongs to an elderly French farmer with a paunch you could balance a tray on.

'Gosh, this is like the heatwave in England in 76' I comment. He looks at me blankly. The penny drops. 'You weren't even born then were you?' I ask. 'No ma'am' he replied. (OK, OK, he didn't say ma'am)

I went inside feeling every bit of my 40 something years.

Easter Chicks..... (not for those who are sensitive about religion)

Once again our two cockerels have stepped up to the plate and performed their cockerelly duty so we have three new chicks. One black and two yellow ones that look like Easter chicks.

We decided to give them names that are synonymous with Easter so I give you......

Jesus

Mary and Joseph!

Brassens-ed Off

The trouble with the credit crunch is that suddenly a free evening out seems like a good idea.

Today was My Dear Friend's 40th birthday and

being as we are all a bit financially challenged at the moment we decided to celebrate the event at a free picnic to celebrate the Fete de St Jean at a neighbouring village.

This particular fete has it's origins in pagan celebrations of the Summer Solstice but was then snaffled by the Catholic church as a feast day in honour of St John the Baptist. A quick look on the e-How website provided 'everything you need to know about celebrating the Fete de St Jean'.

'What you will need' it read.

Fire retardant clothing

A bell

Any evening that requires fire retardant clothing and a bell sounds like a great evening to me! So a quick check in the wardrobe, suitable fire retardant clothes were located - thank god I never threw away that old Fireman's outfit! - and we were ready, except for the bell.

Across France, to celebrate St John the Baptist/The summer solstice depening on your leanings large bonfires are built because........ because they are and historically the young blades of the village would leap the dying embers, which I personally thought was a great way for My Dear Friend to welcome in the new decade of her life. She had other ideas though, not to mention a dodgy foot and had failed to turn up in suitab

le fire retardant attire.

Anyway, enough of the history, we weren't going because we wanted to partake of a French tradition, we were going because it was free and there was music.

We all pitched up to the playground of the villa

ge school, clutching our picnics and wine, to find the place deserted and just a lone microphone and amplifier standing as testament to the fact that someone was there somewhere. No sooner had we rocked up than it started to rain so we decamped under cover amid much looking heavenward and assurances that it would pass, which it eventually did.

We set up our picnic and I have to say, we excelled ourselves. Without doubt ours was the best picnic by far and we were quietly smug as we tucked into quails eggs with celery salt, melon and parma ham, parmesan chicken, goat's cheese quiches, salads, charcuterie and cheese.

Eventually the entertainment started. Now this is when you realise the benefits of doing your research, because it's traditional in France to sing patriotic or traditional songs at the Fete de St Jean and we were just about to be subjected t

o a couple of hours of the songs of Georges Brassens sung by some beardy-weirdy. Brassens has many followers in France (but hey, they like Johnny Halliday too) but to me it is the equivalent of giving a manic depressive a very sharp knife and a large bottle of pills.

I gamely sat through 'La Mauvaise Herbe', 'La

Trompette de la Renommée', 'L'auvergnat' and 'Les copains d'abord' and a whole host of other well known (to everyone else) songs, smiling, trying to sing along and generally look as if we were having the time of our lives.

What we hadn't taken into account was the French reverence for Georges Brassens, who is treated as a favoured son who's every pronoun

cement must be savoured and enjoyed. Chairs were turned round to face the front, picnics packed away (it seems to be disrespectful to continue to eat while Brassens is being sung - or at least that's what we deduced from the dirty loo

ks we kept getting until ours was duly returned to hampers and coolbags) and the Fete took on the appearance of a concert which we neither knew about nor wanted to attend.

The thing about Brassens is that his is really poetry put to music and while the words are often quite upliftings, when put to music they seem to take on the appearance of a funeral dirge that makes Leonard Cohen seem positively upbeat. It's a French thing!

As I stared into the flames of our citronella candle, I mused that being attacked by a swarm of malarial mosquitos would be more fun that yet another Brassens song.

Eventually the fire was lit but at a good a 4 metres high the chances of any young blade, had there been one present under the age of 73 and a half, the chances of leaping it were, I would say, minimal.

Still, we must be grateful for small mercies. At least they have dispensed with the old tradition of cat burning, when a basket full of live cats was suspended above the flames and the locals would dance and sing as the cats were burned alive. Nice!

Does a Nobel Prize beckon?

Well, having failed so miserably with our self-sufficiency attempt last year - one aubergine and two peppers aren't really enough to feed a family of 4 for a year - I've been quietly confident about this year's effort.

We only planted a small plot but in a few weeks it's gone from this......

To this....

I planted 6 tomato plants, a mix of the coeur de boeuf and cherry types, loads of beans, two courgettes de Nice plants (the delicious round ones), some chillis and best of all, two melon plants. I've been dreaming of tucking into the delicious melons from my own garden for weeks. The plants have been tended lovingly, sang to, talked to, watered (but not too much), in fact you'd be hard pushed to find anyone who has lavished so much attention on their veggies.

When I first planted them, the CH came to admire.

"So, what have you got? Beans, tomatoes, courgettes, peppers and... more courgettes"

"No, they're melons" I corrected. "These are the courgettes".

"Well, they look like courgettes to me" he replied.

Well, what would he know, townie that he is. I was brought up (almost) in the country so there's not much I don't know about identifying vegetable plants.

So, a few weeks passed, the plants have all gone mad. The tomatoes are flowering nicely, the chilli plants have loads of little white flowers growing on them and the melons, in turn, have huge yellow flowers.

"Wow, I said to the CH "if every one of them becomes a melon, we'll be laughing!"

"They look like courgette flowers to me" he replied.

Oh for heavens sake! Does he think I don't know the difference? (And anyway, I took them from a rack that was clearly marked 'melons'._

So, you can imagine my excitement when he came in today and asked whether I had seen what had happened to my melon plants.

"What? What's happened? If the chickens have been at them they all be Coq au Vin tonight".

"No, it's better than that. You're not going to believe it"

"What?" I asked with mounting excitement, imagining the first fruits and tucking into luscious melons with the juice dripping down my chin.

"Your melon plant has grown a 7 inch COURGETTE. It's a bloody miracle!"

"WHAAAAATTTT? It can't have. It's a melon plant. It grows melons not flaming courgettes"

I dashed to the vegetable patch and there, winking at me from among the leaves, was a beautiful, shiny, green .......

No, this can't be? I mean, it's not as if I don't know the difference between a melon and a courgette plant, and there's the little matter of the garden centre having sold them to me as 'melon plants' so they must be, mustn't they?

I know what's happened. I've actually created a new hybrid melonette. It's a botanical marvel! It might look like a courgette but it's sure as hell going to taste like a melon. The world will go mad for them. In fact, I may even win the Nobel Prize.

Mon enfant trilangue......yeah really!

As it's getting towards the end of the school year, the children are starting to empty out files and get rid of a year's worth of 'controles' (school tests). I think schoolchildren in France must be among the most tested in Europe!

I came across a Spanish controle belonging to DS and, while I don't support the lack of effort he put into it, well, you have to laugh! I know people who mistakenly believe that their children will leave school here trilingual, having mastered English (if they didn't already speak it), French (if they didn't already speak it) and a third modern language, in our case, Spanish.

Here's an excerpt from DS's test and I'll leave you to make up your mind.

Translate the following:

le voisin/la voisine (neighbour) el voisinos, la voisina

le fromage (cheese) el fromagos

un sandwich (no translation needed!) uno sandwichos

un oignon (onion) unos oignonos

l'huile (oil) el huilos

So, what do you think? Trilingual or not?

It's a regular form-filling frenzy...

Ooh, owww!  Careful now.  I've just finished the annual form-filling-in-fest that is the 'reinscription scolaire'. I have a severe case of repetitive documentation injury.  My eyes are crossed and my mind is boggled.

Being France you don't just have to enrol your child in school once, you have to do it every year. Well how else can you keep all these 'fonctionnaires' (government employees) in a job, with early retirement and a big fat pension. Sound familiar? 

It used to be the case that the forms arrived with all the information already filled in and it was just a case of making any corrections but clearly, with unemployment soaring in rural France they think we have more time on our hands. Either that or the revolving door that is relationships in this part of the world means that the forms serve as a reminder to the children who their latest daddy/mummy  is and which of their classmates they will share them with this year.

The idea of sharing information doesn't seem to exist here so the same information has to be written on the form for La Vie Scolaire, the school administration, the school nurse, the janitor, the class guinea pig... (what do you mean there isn't one?)

So, on top of everything else I've had to do today I've .....

a) written my children's names 14 times

b) written my name 12 times

c)  written my husband's name 8 times (well of course he's much less important!)

d)  written my address 10 times

e)  written my phone number 10 times

f)   written my mobile number 8 times

g)  written my emergency contacts details 8 times

h)  written the children's bus route 4 times

i)   written my doctor's name and address a mere 4 times

j)   signed my name 10 times

In addition, I have 12 pages of duplicated information about the school canteen, the new 'free' bus service which is actually costing me more than the free one the children already have and the latest bonkers idea for the beginning of next term.  They start back on Wednesday for a half day, have Thursday off so the new intake can have the school to themselves (normally the new intake starts the day before the rest of the school) and back again on Friday.  A good half acre of Amazonian rainforest must have been felled.  They know I have two children in the school, why not just one set of information?   Imagine if I was a good French woman and had supplied the state with a 'famille nombreuse' (4 plus children)?

So, off for a hot bath with a pack of frozen peas on my right arm.

Tomorrow, I have the school transport forms to deal with.......

Who rained on Sarko's parade?

Ooh la la!  There's nothing like the war to bring to the surface all those long hidden emnities not least in the British tabloid press.

'Queen snubbed' roar the tabloids after it emerges that the Queen isn't being invited to the 65th Anniversary of the Normandy landings. 'Nah, I didn't want to go anyway' responds HM.  So what's it all about? 

Thanks to the somewhat partisan output of Hollywood, which for many is regarded as a valid source of historical fact,  we all know that the liberation was the work of the US alone and a handful of brave French patriots don't we? We also know that the Great Escapees were almost to a man, lantern-jawed Americans, assisted by a few shiny cheeked British chappies with pinched vowels and handlebar moustaches. Clearly someone has forgotten to mention that in fact not one of the Escapees was American. And fortunately we have Saving Private Ryan to remind us that only the US was involved in the D-Day landings, so why would HM want to go anyway?  Apparently there's also a new film coming out proving the yanks won the Battle of Britain too. Oh how we will have to re-write those history books!

The British and Canadian troops didn't land on three beaches, compared to the US's two did they and don't forget we have the US to thank for breaking of the Enigma code, even though it was broken before the US even joined the war. 

So, it's understandable that the celebrity-obsessed Nicholas Sarkozy, who I'm starting to believe really is a Spitting Image puppet, should maybe not have that big a grasp of historical fact.

                  

The self-promoting Sarko wanted it to be an Franco-US lovefest to celebrate the 'special relationship' between the US and France. Hmm, where have I heard that before?

Really it's so he can brown-nose the 'homme du jour' Barack Obama - who of course visited Broon long before he dropped in on the poison dwarf. Jealousy is a strong emotion! He wanted that photo-opportunity with Barack all to himself  though what he'll have to say to him, seeing as he barely speaks English, is anyone's guess but then, that's what he's got the multi-lingual Carla for. And you thought he just married her for her shapely behind!

In doing so he insulted, whether intentionally or not, the countries who provided the troops who liberated France. France itself just provided the battlefields. While it's easy to dismiss the frenzy whipped up by the tabloid press, the Canadians are also less than impressed with the situation.  In fairness it should be said that many French believe that it is impossible to hold a bi-lateral ceremony without representatives of all the countries involved and look on this as yet another of Sarko's messes. 

Back in the UK Broon said that the UK wasn't going to commemorate the 65th Anniversary as it wasn't usual to do so but as it is going to be the last gathering of the Normandy veterans a campaign to change this was launched by, what else, a tabloid newspaper and Broon bowed to public pressure and asked for an invite. 

Barack then said that he wanted the Royals to be there, thus pooping firmly on Sarko's parade but HM may or may not have spat the dummy and said she didn't want to come anyway. Step forward Prince Charles, who had convenient gap in his diary, to represent the Royal Family. 

You gotta laugh at a French President so keen to impress an American President that he forgets some of the things that they have said about his country. So just in case he's reading... these are for you M. Sarkozy

'I'd rather have a German battalion in front of me than a French one behind' - General Patton

'Going to war without the French is like going deer hunting without an accordion' - Norman Schwartzkopf

'As far as I'm concerned, war always means failure' - Jacques Chirac to which the response was...

'Where France is concerned you are right' - Rush Limbaugh

'The only time the French want us to go to war is when the Germans are sipping coffee in Paris' - Regis Philbin

'The only way we'd get to French to join is if we told them we'd found truffles in Iraq' - Dennis Miller

You can really understand why he thinks France has a special relationship with the US!

WARNING! WARNING!

The CH has announced ominously that 'tomorrow I will be doing the bathroom'.  Those long term readers will remember that DIY really isn't our thing so I feel it only fair to send out due warning of impending doom.

Actually, 'doing the bathroom' really just means removing the manky old tiled bath surround, complete with feature wooden shelf that is probably growing the cure to the common cold, Swine Flu, Bluetongue and every other ill of the modern world.

Really I'd like to gut the whole bathroom. It's OK but very tired ..... and worst of all, all white. White floors, white ceiling, white walls. White is alright unless you happen to be married to a dark haired man who's losing his hair. Sadly, with our credit well and truly crunched and the CH having been on gardening leave for the past 5 months while ITV re-runs Ballykissangel and On the Buses, it's not an option.

The bath surround has proved to be a classic feat of French building. It's held together by little more than tile adhesive and grout and how it's lasted this long is a mystery. But not for long. The CH has carefully removed all the tiles and cleaned them up and from tomorrow he will be rebuilding it.... better...... stronger.....faster than before. Sorry, got a bit lost in 1980s television for a minute there.

Bearing in mind that when he took the lid off the toilet cistern, a simple job which involved unsecrewing the flush button and lifting it off, we NEVER managed to get it back on properly ( in fact most of our friends have also failed to get it back on properly either) the chances are that the whole bathroom will collapse or he'll electrocute  himself or burst a pipe.... the options are endless.

Therefore, it is my civic duty to advise you all that tomorrow the CH will be doing DIY. This may be my last post and, if so, it's been real and it's been good... but it hasn't been real good (Oh the old ones are the best eh?).

Keep away. You have been warned!

It is with regret.......

....that I announce the news that French singing legend Jean-Philippe Smet (otherwise known as Jonneee Alleeday) has decided to hang up his guitar.Tomorrow he starts his farewell tour, called Route 66, a reference to the eponymous US route and, sadly, his age. He fears that if he carries on he 'will become pathetic'.  Here's a bit of news, Mr Hallyday......

Those of you outside France and possibly Belgium and bit of Switzerland could be forgiven for going... who?  

So here's  bit of catch up. Johnny Hallyday is a legend in France. For what, I'm not quite sure. Maybe just for being a legend, for being the Cliff Richard of the French music scene, or maybe even the Madonna as he is busily adopting the whole of Vietnam while Madonna makes her way through Malawi, or perhaps for the revolving door that is the title Mme Hallyday, previous incumbents having been Sylvie Vartan, herself famous for not being known anywhere outside France, followed by Babeth Etienne, Nathalie Baye then Adeline Blondiau. 

This is he with the current version, Laeticia Boudou who has held the title for the past 12 years. Clearly she married him in primary school.  Now what do you suppose she sees in him?

You have to feel sorry for the French. While other nations, many of whom the French consider culturally inferior, regularly produce international quality stars, the French since the heady days of the 1930s and with a small blip in the 50s for the likes of Edith Piaf and Jacques Brel (who was actually Belgian) have singularly failed to do so.  Even Plastic Bertrand (remember him?)  was Belgian.  Things may be looking up a little with the arrival on the scene of Justice and Daft Punk, both of whom have had a bit of success across La Manche.

But back to M. Hallyday. Back in the late 50s a young Elvis Presley appeared on the scene to bring rock n' roll to the masses. A few years later, a young Jean-Philippe Smet, calling himself Johnny Hallyday, appeared on the French scene, swinging his hips and making the right noises. And 49 years later, that's exactly where he remains. A couple of years ago, the BBC did a documentary to introduce us Brits to the lovely Johnny. That says it all really. After nearly 50 years on the music scene, he remained vitually unknown outside France.

Perhaps unwisely, Johnny tried, a few years back, to become Belgian. Perhaps it was so he could at least feature in that well-known parlour game 'Name 10 Famous Belgians'  (errr......... Jacques Brel?  Hercule Poirot? Plastic Bertrand?  Jaywalker?) . He claimed it was to rediscover his Belgian roots and exorcise the demons left after his Belgian father abandoned him (is it any wonder? Even Johnny's millions haven't flushed out the illusive M. Smet senior).  Closer inspection revealed, however, that it was more likely a ruse to escape the crippling wealth tax bought in by Francois Mitterand.

Sadly, his claim to Belgian-ness were refuted by the Belgian government who don't recognise illegitimate offspring such as he!. How sad is that?  To be turned down by Belgium.  Still, had he become Belgian, he would have had to renounce his only claim to fame, that of being the leading French rocker and then maybe the BBC wouldn't have made the documentary

Never mind, the tax haven that is Switzerland beckoned and there he remains, leathery to the last, like an iguana squinting in the sun.

Recently I had the dubious pleasure of sitting in our local cafe while a French friend regaled to me in tiny, minute really, details of his most prized possession. He boxed set of the complete works of Johnny Hallyday. All indexed and kept in chronological order. I'm just hoping that my slightly glazed expression wasn't too noticeable. His lasting appeal to the French mystifies me but then so does much about the French to be honest.

A few years back, a friend who is a tour manager for some real legends - U2, Rolling Stones - was personally asked by Johnny to manage his upcoming tour.  Said friend felt that having a Johnny tour on his CV would actually be damaging to his career and so declined, citing much needed weeding in his garden.

But, never fear, all you Johnny-rockers out there. It's au revoir, not goodbye.  He's planning to concentrate on his acting career now.  No doubt if the BBC ever decides to to remake Steptoe and Son, there will be a part for him as Steptoe Senior.

It's a swine, this flu

Well, I may live in deepest, France but even I follow the news so I know that I'm probably pretty much talking to myself now. The pandemic of Swine Flu, or Grippe Porcine as it's called here has, no doubt, killed off all of those who cunningly avoided Bird Flu last year and SARS before that.

Any suggestion that a convenient pandemic would deflect talk away from the pitiful state of the global economy is clearly cynical but I have a sneaking suspicion that if an audit was done at the Centre for Disease control a few vials of Piggy Flu virus would be unaccounted for. That would then be followed by a sneaking suspicion that said vials would be found in the undergrowth near an intensive pig farm in Mexico. A conspiracy theorist's dream!

The French government has been no less alarmist putting the country on alert level 5 even though there were no confirmed cases in France so when I went down with flu like symptoms I was sure I was about to be the first. Do those masks come in different colours to complement your outfit? Lipstick or not underneath? Should I be like the Frenchman on the TV who, when asked if his facemask was hot to wear, he announced that he'd already sorted that out by making holes in it! I kid you not! So, what to do? Call the SAMU or go to the doctor?

Figuring that the actual probability of having Pork Flu was slightly less than zero I opted for the doctors, with a whispered apology to my fellow patients for any infection I may pass on to them. People round here are from good peasant stock. A touch of Pigglywig Flu wouldn't stop them in their tracks anyway.

I explained my symptoms to my doctors - which was actually more difficult than I thought as we always speak in French, although he speaks perfect English. For some reason, that day he decided to talk in English while I was prepared to talk French so I mumbled some bizarre Franglais explanation about pains in my articulations and mal au throat which may be the reason why I'm here and not in isolation somewhere with TV cameras doorstepping my neighbours.

I left clutching the usual array of medicaments for every conceivable situation.... antibiotics, anti inflammatories, 1mg paracetamol tablets that look like horse pills. But a week later, I still feel like someone is ramming sharpened knitting needles down my throat. Maybe......

DS came downstairs yesterday with the start of a cold and announced he had 7 of the 9 symptoms of Hog Flu. See, that's how panic starts. The media has a lot to answer for.

Still, pigs of another variety, the ones in pinstriped suits, have now conveniently knocked this story off the news headlines and left the WHO and the CDC to think up the next 'pandemic'. Giraffe flu perhaps?

'What grows in the garden so lovely and rare...'

The Mayday bank holiday weekend is one of my favourites in France. Not because I want to celebrate the workers or their rights but because it's the Foire des Fleurs at Tournon d'agenais, followed two days later by a similar but smaller one in our own village.

We were very lucky to inherit a very mature and thoughtfully planted garden and throughout the seasons we have the good fortune to watch it unfold in all its colours and textures. The garden was less lucky to inherit us for I am to gardening what Einstein was to origami. In other words, no bloody use at all. Each year, I convince myself that I'll be different. I pour over my multitudes of gardening books and 'place that plant' ad nauseum. Each year, I shell out a not insignificant sum of money on flowers and plants which I often kill well before I've even planted them.

                                                              

My piece de résistance was, without a doubt, the very rare Chinese tree we bought at the Tournon show a few years ago.  It was thought to be extinct until 1948 when some seeds were found in some godforsaken part of China unseen by the 'long noses' for centuries.....  and with my help it will probably be extinct again in the near future.

It was duly planted, taking care that the roots were well watered and that it wasn't positioned under any overhead cables.  No worry about watering it as the irrigation system in the garden could take care of that.  Within two weeks it was yellow. 'Just the changing seasons', I gaily informed the CH.  He expressed doubt.  'It's dead'.  But how could that be? 'Well in that case it must be faulty. The irrigation system has kept it watered so why would it die?' 'Did you move the pipes so it was actually getting any water?' he asked. Ah.

Last year I thought that we'd try our hand at a bit of self-sufficiency. I planted 10 tomato plants, some aubergines, some courgettes and some chilis. (OK, OK, I know you can't really make much with that little combination).  End result, 2 aubergines, 1 chili and no tomatoes. They all got blossom end rot. Can that be passed on to humans I wonder?  

I went to the market to see if I could get any more tomato plants and found that our lovely old farmer, from whom we buy the best onions and garlic on the planet, still had some.

I bought one.

'Just one, Madame?' he enquired curiously.

Ooooh yes, you have no idea of my history with tomato plants. Better that I leave the rest for someone who has more than a passing chance of growing anything on them.

This year, I've planted tomatoes, courgettes de Nice (lovely round ones), strawberries, melons and peppers. They've been in the ground for over a week now and they are still alive.

The Foire des Fleurs was glorious, even the sun made a rare appearance.  I wandered around marvelling at all the different plants  - bougainvillea - killed three of those, trumpet vine - killed two of those, vast swathes of surfinia - I've killed vast swathes of those, olive trees - yep, got a dead one outside my front door.

Even more exciting were all the flowers that I've not yet had the chance to kill. I reached for my purse.  No, not this year.  I'll give the veggies another go but there will be no more summer displays of dead hanging baskets chez moi!

Crocs, shocks and socks..... a modern dilemma

When Crocs first sprung onto the fashion (or lack of) scene, my initial reaction to this bizarre cross between clogs and gardening boots was 'not in my lifetime'. Why on earth would anyone put anything so ugly on their feet?

A while later and, well, I've kind of grown to like them, and in La France Profonde, where comfort and utility take precendence over beauty, I appreciate their usefulness.

So, not long ago I bought myself a natty pair of sky blue ones decorated with flowers. I think it's fair to say that they've hardly been off my feet. They are supremely comfortable, and what's more, they don't make you feet niff. (If only I could persuade DS to wear them!)

But, I've come across a little problem with them. Within a few hours of wearing, I've turned into my very own Van der Graaf generator - and not the 70s prog rock one either. I build up so much static that I'm throwing little bolts of electricity like some sort of modern day Zeus. I've always had a bit of a static problem. I have fond memories of the firework displays that my bri-nylon nightie used to produce as a child not to mention the time in Harvey Nicks when I went to call the lift and a spark of electricity a good 3 centimetres long shot from the end of my finger when I went to press the call button. My loud shout of 'bugger that hurt' drew some very disapproving looks.

The cats don't come near me, having all got shocks when I stroked them, particularly Barney Bananey, who even got a little bolt of static right on the end of his nose. I was on the telephone out on the balcony when I accidentally touched a screw, discharged the static and promptly dropped the telephone over the edge and only minutes later as I walked through the french door back into the dining room, I produced a crackle of static with attendant mini-lightning bolt that even the CH pronounced impressive - and it bloody well hurt too!

So, my dilemma is this. If I wear socks with my Crocs will I have more or less shocks? I'll look pretty stupid but life might be marginally less painful for all of us.

The (head) Light that Failed (sorry Rudyard!)

Well, the Grand Gasguzzler has been playing up again - it's just like a naughty child. It waits until your back is turned then does something wicked.

In the past year we've probably spent more than double the value of the car on repairs to the braking system. Nothing important then! Each time I take it in, I get the combined forces of Monsieur L senior and Monsieur L junior telling me that 'Madame, it is really time to get a new car'. Of course I know that, but with british TV seemingly happy to show unlimited re-runs and commission nothing new and with the US money for films practically dried up, and, on top of it all, the ****** people who were supposed to be renting our house pulling out at the 11th hour, costing us thousands of euros, we are a bit 'fauche' to say the least.

"I can do you a nice family car", said Monsieur L junior, "and if it's a case of credit, I can give you a little bit".

"So how much are we talking about?" I enquired

"12-14,000 euros will get you something nice and it will pay for itself in a year with the amount you spend on petrol"

I blanched slightly. They might as well ask for the moon.

"When Monsieur goes back to work I'll have a look at it but in the meantime the Grand Gasguzzler is juddering when you brake and......" damn, what's the French for 'misfiring'? A visual display will have to do.

"I'll take it out for a spin and have a look" said Monsieur L junior.

We hopped in and set off in true French style, not quite burning rubber - it's an automatic after all - but I don't think it's ever been through all 5 gears so quickly!

"Ooh la, that's les disques" he announced. What? Again? We only had new disks last year.

"It's a design fault. It's very hilly here and I've been to LA, it's very flat. This car isn't designed for hilly terrain"

I didn't want to point out that LA isn't America, any more than Paris is France. When I last checked there were a good few hills.

So far the engine was running smoothly. Just my luck that it wouldn't play up with a mechanic at the wheel.

"It's worse going uphill" I said weakly.

"We'll find a hill then" and sure enough, it started to misfire.

"That's les bougies causing that"

The headlights? Oh come on, do I look like I just got off the last boat? How can the headlights be making it misfire?

I smiled politely and made a mental note to find a new mechanic.

So, he took the car in, replaced the disks, replaced all the headlight bulbs.... and do you think it solved the problem?.......... yes, it certainly did.

But my amazement was short lived when it was actually pointed out to me that I had misunderstood the word 'bougies', my addled brain had taken the word for 'candles' and transposed it into 'headlight bulbs'. In actual fact bougies are spark plugs. DOH!!!















It bloody did! 10,000 Frenchman can't be wrong and this little one certainly wasn't!

Wow, a social event!

"I've got us tickets to the soiree du vin in the village" announced the CH with a flourish the other day.

'To the what?' I asked.

The Soiree du Vin, as it turned out, was a fundraiser for our local cat charity, Les Amis des Chats. Wine tasting, nibbles and good company in the old hotel in the village that has now been renovated as a frou-frou art gallery. Fabulous! Except for one teeny weeny thing, I don't actually drink wine (meths and other assorted cleaning products yes.... wine, well, to be honest it's wasted on me if it doesn't come in a screw top bottle). Still, never mind, I was quite sure the CH could help me out there.

But first, what to wear? In La France Profonde, I have little need for a posh frock and tiara. In the summer it's light cotton flowing stuff and in the winter anything that doesn't go with wellies is pointless.

I rummaged through my cupboards in the hope of finding something that might fall into one (or even all) of the following categories a) vaguely fashionable b) clean c) still fits me. The last one was arguably the hardest.

I dismissed the gorgeous velvet suit I'd worn for my wedding (not as long ago as you may think) as hopelessly dressy, the MaxMara suits I'd worn in my days of gainful employment had little chance of doing up (note to self: you ain't never gonna get in them so just give them to charity) but the green bias-cut skirt looked hopeful and it even went with a vaguely new olive green cardigan. That's the clothes sorted out.

Now for the footwear.

Surely I must have something more than the green wellies or sky blue crocs with flowers on that are my normal footwear and my brown flatties really should have gone in the bin months ago. Time to bite the bullet and go in.

In the deepest darkest mouldering depths of my wardrobe, under the piles of painting clothes and 'things that were put out of the way' when the house went on the market were to be found a stack of real, proper grown up shoes.

I hauled them out.

A pair of gorgeous Marc Jacobs sandals - slightly mildewed

Another lovely pair of LK Bennett sandals - not bad nick. I put my feet in them......blimey, when did my feet get so big... or should I say wide!

Ah, those beautful Olivia Morris slingbacks - wrong colour even if I could manage to walk in spike heels.

Eventually I found the perfect ones. A pair of plain Escade court shoes. But wait.... what's this? Heels! I haven't worn heels in, well, nearly five years.

I slipped them on, a little tight but I'd manage. That's me sorted.

So, the evening arrived, I got dressed up in my finery and put on my shoes. So far, so good.

Half an hour later I was back in the bottom of the cupboard. How on earth did I ever wear these things? The balls of my feet were already numb. Another suitable candidate (or should it be candidates) was located, still had a heel but it didn't feel quite so much like walking with a pair of skyscrapers strapped to my feet and with less risk of broken ankles on our uneven French pavements.

Off we set, with the CH looking smart in his suit that hasn't fitted him in years - all that hard work he's been doing but it's soooo unfair. How come life in France makes him thinner and I've just piled on the pounds?

Now the great thing about any social event in La France Profonde is the lack of social conventions. Back in the motherland, a wine tasting evening would require, as a minimum, smart casual. In France it can mean anything from Chanel and diamonds to a clean tee shirt. Sure enough, the great and the good of the village were gathered in droves and the wine was flowing. We wandered round, him with a glass of wine, me with orange juice, looking at the paintings and objets d'art on display.

I admired a sort of basin type thingy on a tall wooden stand. Closer inspection revealed it to be a wine spittoon so that people could be proper wine tasters. He'd entirely misread his audience as there was no way they were going to let one drop escape, never mind a whole mouthful!

The evening progressed as expected.

The highlight of the evening was a silent auction. We perused the lots and listened to the various comments.

A painting by well known artist XXXX.
"Looks like it was painted by a child"

A resin sculpture by a well known local artist.
I honestly wouldn't give it to my worst enemy

Four hours with a builder.
Now you're talking I thought. No, it's just for building works. Damn!

An afternoon's quad biking with the lovely M. Snakehips himself
Not sure I really fancy having to watch his hands instead of the countryside (Mme O'D, I look forward to hearing how it went).

An Elm tree - guaranteed disease free
"How much did it cost?" asked someone of the donor. "About 8 euros", he replied. Some silly bugger paid 35 euros for it. Still, it's all for charity.

With these charity auctions I'm never sure if you're supposed to bid a ridiculous amount for absolutely nothing or come in below it's real worth and try and bag a bargain. As it turned out, we weren't really in the market for any of the lots, there not being one called 'Job for the CH', who really needs to get back to work.

A few went unsold and the Master of Ceremonies auctioned them off. The lovely Mme P gamely offered an opening bid and look vaguely disquieted to end up with all of them! Seems like the 'crise' had reached even our distant corner of the world.

By now my feet, squished into their ridiculously unsuitable footwear, were throbbing and the walk was more Dick Emery than Erin O'Connor. Every step was becoming agony and I was spending more and more time with my shoes off, cooling my feet on the tiled floor.

"Can we go now?" I asked.

One social occasion a year is more than enough - so that's 2009's out of the way but at least it was a success for the charity, which is the main thing.

Cheese wars

So, here we are, halfway through the first month of 2009, which may or may not be the year the whole world implodes according to the papers.

'Recession', they all scream except in France where they scream 'Cheese Wars' after Dubya's parting shot to those 'cheese eating surrender monkeys' as they are affectionately know by our American cousins was to shove a 300% import duty on their beloved Roquefort. (France is working on the premise that if you ignore the recession it will go away unlike in the UK where they tell you over and over again how bad things are then go 'Gosh, why has the exchange rate dropped?' Duh!)

Yes, that nasty Dubya has slapped a 100% import duty on a whole list of EU goods but singled out 'The King of Cheeses', made in my own region, the Midi-Pyrenees, according to a 1000 year old recipe, for special treatment.

Le Monde said that the US action meant that Mr Bush's presidency "will end on yet another crisis".

Hmm, not sure I would equate the global financial crisis with a decision to slap a whole load of duty on a smelly French cheese!

Robert Glandieres, the president of the Roquefort Producer's organisation, is quoted as saying 'this affair doesn't smell good'. A bit like his cheese then!

Last time this happened, the French sheep farmers retaliated by destroying a MacDonalds restaurant in Millau, in the Aveyron, and they are threating the same again. To be honest, as the French are the biggest consumers of MacDonalds in Europe, the chances are they will be hurting their compatriots more than the US but hey, you can't argue with a Frenchman on a mission, even if it is just over his cheese.

Vive le gilet fluo.........!

While the rest of the world sits head in hands, contemplating global financial implosion, the French have got better things to do.

"C'est jaune, c'est moche, ça ne va pas avec rien mais ça peut vous sauvez la vie" (it's yellow, it's ugly, it doesn't go with anything but it can save lives) shrieked fashion icon Karl Lagerfeld from the thousands of posters that littered the French road network.

What could he be talking about? Ugly, yellow? Christina Aguilera's latest hair colour hair colour? A mutant kangaroo? No, it was, of course, the high visibility jackets that became a legal requirement in all our cars from July 1st (Well, October 1st really as the French aren't always that quick to take things up).

Theory and practice have long proved that the use of a celebrity to endorse a product generates a lot of publicity and attention from the public. Perfect for a road safety campaign.

And here he is, looking all cool and mysterious, sporting his fabulous 'fluo gilet'

The stuff of nightmares!!!

But even he couldn't have foreseen the fashion trend that he'd be inadvertently leading. The PASSENGER SEAT IN FLUO JACKET effect.

Everywhere you go in France, drivers by the thousands have kindly put a little fluo jacket on their passenger seats. But who started it? And why? What made everyone else do the same?

On auto forums across France they are asking the same question. "C'est quoi cette nouvelle mode avec le gilet de securité?" (what this new fashion with high visibility vests?)

Photos are being posted .......


Here's one fashionista ......


and another


and another

This one's just plain
greedy



Oooh, a different colour

Everyone's getting in on the act.....

Be proud of your Ch'ti heritage with this high visibility anti-
spitball jacket (ideal for footie matches!)


Even the dogs want one ....


They're mad for em!

But why on the back of the passenger seat? It's one of those strange conundrums that maybe we'll never understand.

But I'm not the only one that thinks it's a ridiculous fashion, second only to

This or this

or this..(although I
rather thought the CH
looked quite dapper!)

But it's not just me that hates this new 'fashion'. So far it's spawned over 200 Facebook groups
"Contre ces blaireaux qui enfilent leur gilet fluo sur le siège passager !" (against these idiots who stick their high visibility vest on the passenger seat). Some have over 30,000 members.

Who needs 'La Crise' (not Le Crunch as some anglophones call it - that's a chocolate bar folks!) when you can occupy yourself with 'real' issues!


No fluo gilets were injured in the making of this blog

It drives me flipping mad!

Oooh err! December already! That means one thing..... by the end of the month I'll be another year older, something I find immensely depressing, not to mention a little bit galling because twice now I've thought I was a year older than I was.

"So, how old will you be on your next birthday" asked a neighbour of my parent's politely a few years back (and I'm not saying how many!)

"36" I answered confidently. After all, I'm a mature, intelligent person, educated to degree level, held some fairly high powered jobs in my time. I must know my age mustn't I?

"No you're not", said my mother

"Ummmm" I replied slightly less confidently

"You were born in 19XX (see, I'm really not telling) and this year is XXXX that makes you 35 next birthday"

A quick add up and damn, damn, damn, I am in fact a whole year younger than I've been telling everyone. I feel cheated.... I've missed a year of my life. Just think what I could have done with that year? I could have found the cure for warts (I won't go so far as to say AIDS), I could have been the first British astronaut in space, I could have invented some fabulous object that would have the Dragon's Den drooling. I could have been a double agent for MI6 and been parachuted behind enemy lines in Afghanistan (except I don't think there were any then), I could have directed a Bollywood blockbuster......I could have done so many things. But the year was lost so I did the decent thing and did nothing for the next year as I bemoaned my fate, to be 36 two years running!

A few years later and 'rebelote', as they say in France. I did the same thing. So now I've lost two years of my life.

Anyway, this year we're feeling the pinch a bit as the CH's last employer has failed to pay him. A minor oversight I know but not one they seem in any hurry to sort out. It would, of course, be churlish to 'name and shame' them and I'm far too mature to do that.

Bugger it, no I'm not! I lost two years of my life, does that make me two years younger do you think? Young enough to say GRAND PICTURES IN DUBLIN, you know who you are. Stop fannying around being media types and pay your poor freelancers or I'll put a hex on youse. An old Tinker's curse, so your Orla Kiely bags will turn to potato sacks and your account card at Brown Thomas will turn into a Netto storecard, you'll become invisible when you go to Lily's Bordello and Bono will forget who you are. Be afraid........ be very afraid.

So, no power tools for me this birthday or Christmas and the poor little offspring are really looking forward to their Christmas IOUs.

Anyway, it's great to have the CH back on the same landmass as me for a prolonged period. Ask me again in a month and I might be saying different. When you spend a lot of time apart you have to get used to each other again. He needs a gentle reminder that I watch every single property programme on the TV and that CSI is de rigeur (sorry, I'm letting myself down now!). That the world will keep turning if he misses an episode of 'Deal or No Deal' (I think it's his addictive personality that's responsible for his obsession with this dreadful show - given to us by the French actually).

But most of all he needs to know that adverts aren't evil and the homestead will not be permanently polluted by consumerism if he allows one to air. He has an almost bizarre (actually, there's no almost about it!) dislike of adverts and the minute they come on, he rugby tackles the 'holder of the remote control' (even though it's most likely him) and starts manically flipping through the channels. To be doubly annoying, he flicks through all the channels we can't even get so the TV shows a montage of 'You need to subscribe to watch this channel' and 30 second clips of the different programmes that are airing while we invariably miss the first few minutes of the next part of whatever we were watching. How can this be less annoying than adverts?

Answers on a postcard please.....!

Come on baby light my fire....

I reckon I'm pretty good at lighting our woodburner now. I had a few dodgy moments in the early days with wood that was too green

"Mais bien sur, Madame, I cut the wood last year and it has been drying in my barn since then"

More like he cut the wood last week then left it out in a field a monsoon-type downpour.

And chucking a bit of paraffin on to get it going was not my cleverest idea.

WHOOOOOOOOSH! An almighty roar and the door flew open.

Flaming (literally) hell, it was like my own private 'Backdraft' !

This morning I was laying the fire ready for the evening. Lots of nice dry paper, some kindling and a few small logs and off we go. Easy peasy, citron, squeezy!

The newspaper was in short supply (since I've given up reading the odious British offerings) so I happened upon an old telephone directory. Perfect! Several hundred pages of nice flammable paper.

I started tearing it out and screwing it up.

"But Mum......" said DD

"Quiet dear, I'm busy".

I carried on tearing and screwing up.

"Ummm, Mum" she tried again

"Just a minute"

More tearing and screwing up.

"Muuuuuummmmm" she shouted finally, "That's this year's telephone directory".

"What? Oh don't be silly. Look, it says 2000 and...............8"

Bugger!

So, if you live in a village or town beginning with A,B,C or D, I won't be phoning you or at least not until after the delivery of the 2009 phone book.

Quote of the Day....

"Mme VliF, Mme VLiF, your dog is stuck to the door"

Yup, we're doing DIY again!

TAKE COVERRRRRRR!

I'm not a celebrity but get me OUT of here!

So, the 'Perfect Storm' came and turned into a bit of a damp squib and not even a whisper of George Clooney to make it worth my while.

When the CH suggested this mystical place 'Out' I stupidly believed the Wikipedia definition - and we all know that Wikipedia can't be trusted.

I was assured that I would go somewhere nice, have great adult conversation with my beloved CH, some delicious food and fine wine, then home and a long, long lie-in without the dear offspring making dawn raids of the duvet.

Well, we went to our village café which is indeed nice but it kind of stopped there. It became clear fairly early on that the point of going OUT was to give him a semi-legal way of catching up with his cronies without getting into trouble for leaving me home alone.

We got the offspring ready for their sleepover and I was looking forward to a nice long bath, a bit of primping and preening, a clean housecoat and wellies and a bit of slap. With minutes to go before he left to drop them off he called up the stairs...

"Are you ready then?"

"Ready for what?" I replied

"To go out"

"Erm, I thought we were going out later. It's only 6pm"

"No. Let's go now"

Ahhhh. He just wants to spend more quality time with me. I grabbed a clean housecoat (Kath Kidston for going out of course) and banged the mud off my wellies.

We dropped the kids off (slowing down just a little bit to shove them out of the car) then set off on our big adventure.

The café was heaving when we arrived, as you'd expect for a Friday night in a little French village in the autumn. We said 'Bonsoir' to the three people at the bar, Monsieur V, with whom I once had a very cerebral conversation about Molière, Monsieur C, fresh from working the fields and Monsieur J, always aimiable but usually drunk, then bashed our way through the crowd of...... OK, OK, there wasn't anyone else there. I'm just trying to make it sound more exciting!

CH ordered a beer and I had a glass of water. (I'm a really cheap date if anyone else wants to take me out!).

A few more people arrived but the trouble with the new No Smoking-in-a-public-place-unless- it's-the-Hotel du-Midi laws is that most people being smokers (The French haven't quite cottoned on to this lung cancer business) they stand outside. Me, I don't smoke and I'm not about to stand outside in the cold with them that do.

So that left me inside. Me and a man sitting next to me at the bar.

Well, when there's just the two of you you have to talk. It would be rude otherwise. Now I can usually chat to most people but........

Mme La Patronne had previously dropped into conversation that he was a Professor.

"So what are you a professor of?" I enquired politely

"Art" he responded monosyllabically while looking at me eagerly - and a little bit needily. I'd already noticed that he'd booked a table for one so he was clearly on his own.

"Oh really, and where do you teach?"

"I'm a professor. I don't teach, I profess"

I wasn't entirely sure if he was trying to make a joke or not. This was going really well..... not!

"So, where do you profess then?"

"University of XXXXXXX" he replied.

Oh yes, XXXXXXX Poly that used to be called. I remember doing a Humanities course there once. It was a memorable weekfor two reasons: my dog died and I learned how to say 'F**k Off' in sign language, a skill that has been put to regular use ever since.

"Oh right. And what's your discipline?" I asked, thinking that maybe I could wow him with my knowledge of obscure Irish art (some of which hangs on my walls) or even regale him with the stories of my Marky Robinson collection.

"Video art".

Bugger! What the hell's that?

I looked at him, he looked at me, I looked at him some more.

"I'm sorry but I don't have a clue what that is"

Here endeth the conversation.

"Your table is ready Professor S-J" called Mme La Patronne.

Phew. Saved!

The CH said he reckoned he was a most likely a janitor and not an artist. Still, it would have been rude not to Google him when I got home.

'Professor S-J', it said. 'Internationally renowned artist.......'

Maybe I should have tried harder!

So the evening wore on. The CH ordered more beers, then a carafe of wine. I sipped on my water (See, I really am a cheap date.....) and wondered when we might eat.

Mme La Patronne bought us the menu. Hey, things were looking up.

"It's our new one. What do you think?"

I think I'm so hungry I'm going to start chewing it very soon and by the way, it says November 2007 not 2008 at the bottom.


"Sound nice though" she said, politely prising it out from between my teeth, I was that hungry. Things are looking down again!

The CH retired outside for another cigarette but fortunately the Nutty Professor was engrossed in his meal so I didn't need to try and make polite conversation so I chatted with Mme la Patronne, discussed the new salsa classes that are starting in the village - Whohooo! and noticed a very drunk Monsieur J fall over quietly.

"I am living the Dream...... I am living the Dream....." I chanted silently to myself.

The CH returned.

"I hope you don't mind but I've volunteered you to take Mrs X to the doctor's tomorrow. She's got a 'women's problem' and she can't explain it in French. You don't mind do you?"

Great, this is going from worse to worserer still!

"No of course not". I smiled, always happy to help out with the old lingo, especially for Mrs X, a true delight, of whom I have fond memories of being the 'naughty girls' at the back of the French classes when I first arrived. "What time?"

"I think she said 9am".

There goes my lie-in. Still, I will, no doubt, be rewarded in heaven.

Eventually, the CH disappeared into the kitchen.

This is it! He's going to order something really special for us.

He returned a few minutes later clutching a cling-film covered ramekin.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Creme Fraiche. I thought you could make a pork strogonoff when we get home"

A hex on Wikipedia. If this is 'Out' then next time I'll stay 'In'.

So, who wants to come out with me next time?