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?

It's not that easy being 'Green'

It's one of those once in a lifetime, rare, natural (or maybe unnatural), phenomena. A Perfect Storm of sorts.

The offspring are both on a sleepover tonight and the CH is on the same landmass!

"What shall we have for supper tonight, beloved?", I asked (because whatever it is, you'll be cooking it)

"I was thinking that as the children are away, perhaps we could go out" he replied

'Out? Hmm, what is this place 'Out'?"

I looked at him quizzically then rushed inside to consult the oracle.

I thumbed through the dictionary.

"M, N, O....ob......op.....ot.....ou........out. OUT"

Blimey, apparently it means that I leave the homestead after dark (and it's not to collect the offspring from one of their many social events) with the CH on my arm and we go 'somewhere' and be all grown up. Out.... we're going OUT!

How exciting. Where shall we go? Good point, where shall we go? Living in the deepest, darkest France Profonde and it being November, that's drastically reduces our options. No gourmet food markets where we can sit under the stars on a balmy night munching on some local delicacy (like the unmentionable parts of a goose) or going all 'foreign' with a Paella. No open air concerts around the lake watching shooting stars and listening to Country and Western, or maybe a bit of Country and Western, or even some Country of Western.

Still, our local cafe is open and it's also very good. Occasionally in these little villages you find something quite surprising, like a chef who trained with John Burton Race and worked for Rick Stein and at the River Cafe.

This is such a rare event that I shall have to brush up on 'things to talk about' but hey, at least I won't have to watch 'Children in Need'. I'm not being uncharitable. We always give money but do I have to watch it?

I've just checked the calendar of events and, thank goodness, they don't have a 'Soiree Anglaise' tonight. That would really finish me off. I shall report back later on the success, or otherwise, of this leap into the unknown.

In an effort to reduce our carbon footprint/electricity bill* (*delete as appropriate) I've replaced all our bulbs with energy efficient ones and even poor Prudence, our golden non-Retriever, is no longer allowed to have a nightlight on. She thinks she's afraid of the dark so think of this as aversion therapy.

The only trouble is that our light switches seem to be in the wrong place. Come bedtime, I have to turn off the light at one end of our lounge then make my way across the room to get to the bedroom. How difficult can that be, I hear you ask. Normally not very, but with the arrival of autumn and chilly nights all the livestock (chickens excepted of course) are now spread out on the rug in front of the woodburner, a living, breathing assault course.

On the first night of our new energy saving routine, I make a mental note of where each little body was before I switched off the light. Dark here is really, really dark. There's no light pollution to help you out.

Off went the lights. I negotiated the sofa successfully, before stepping into the void that is the rug in front of the woodburner.

Step 1 Miaaaaaooooooooo! Ooops, a tail

Step 2 Yeeeelpppp! Damn, that was the dog

Step 3 Oowwwwwouuuuuhhh! A hatrick!!

Three out of seven animals trodden on in under 10 seconds!

I've also invested in some Washing Nuts (quiet at the back!) Anyone tried them? I don't know what I was expecting, but they really are nuts. Brown, sticky things that stink of vinegar but apparently very 'green'.

For those that don't know about them you put a small handful in this little environmentally friendly unbleached cotton drawstring bag. Put in your washing then bury them in the middle, turn on and... voila!

Your wash ends, you spend 20 minutes searching around in your wet washing for the tiny drawstring bag mumbling "bugger this Green nonsense, next time I'm buying a big box of Fairy" (I've found our little bag under the washing machine, in the garden, in my knickers - not while they're on me of course) then another 20 minutes trying to prise open the wet drawstring bag - major design fault - to change the nuts. Exasperated, you stick the bag in the tumble dryer, thus cancelling out any benefit you've gained from using a 'green' alternative. Your average time spent washing has now increased by about 50% but at least you're saving the planet.

The CH is busily building an extension. Those that know him, pick yourselves up off the floor, it's for the chicken house. He busily sawing and screwing and even has a pencil behind his ear.

I built our chicken house out of reclaimed wood, (very green!), having baulked at spending 400 euros on a purpose built one. I mean, they're chickens for heavens sake. They don't stand around with their wings folded saying "well I'm sorry, but it's just not as des res as Martha's down the road", do they? (Do they?). It's the first thing I've successfully made since domestic science days at school - and thinking about it, my successes there were few and far between. I'd never get a job as a carpenter's mate and the slight Leaning Tower of Pisa effect probably can't just be put down to the slope in the garden but I was so proud of it that I even shed a tear.

Unfortunately, our chicken population has increased and so it's now time to build a small extension. It also had a couple of design faults in that the sliding panel at the back through which you collect the eggs, swells up in the wet and you can't open it to reach them. I had a mini EU egg mountain in there last week.

So, the CH drew up plans, discussed practicalities, site visits were made and eventually a design was agreed and approved. He's been working on it day and night (well, day at least) for two days now and it's nearly finished. Watch this space. (Not this one..... that one!).

Well, I'm going to sign off now. By the law of Sod, I have a nagging pain in my head, I'm typing words backwards and have the vaguely nauseous feeling in my stomach that often heralds a migraine. Just my luck. I want to go OUUUUUUUTTTTT!