Oh B***er it's raining again!

"Oh b***er, it's raining again".

Thus started my day in the Sunny Southwest of France. Still Southwest but definitely not sunny.

"Don't swear, Mum" shout DS and DD in unison from their place under the stairs where I have decided to keep them until puberty passes. It's for the best, you know! When I had my two little darlings rather closer together than planned (or not, as was the case) I thought that at least I'd get the nappy stage out of the way quickly. Of course I completely forgot that they would, later in life, hit puberty at the same time.

DD seems to have been suffering from PMT for the past year - I dread her getting her little hands on a firearm - and DS has his own personal little black cloud that follows him everywhere.

It was one of those 'organised chaos' days which are becoming more and more a feature of my life these days and which isn't helped by, well, living in France.

"Quick, we've overslept, get dressed" I shout to DS.

"What's for breakfast?"

"Cereal"

"There's no milk"

"B***er" (again). "Toast"

"There's no bread"

B***er and thrice b***er. Now I remember what I forgot to do yesterday. Go shopping.

"We'll get a croissant from the shop".

We jump in the car and charge down the hill, safe in the knowledge that Ma Chere Voisine is in Burgundy so it's safe to travel at more than snail's pace for fear of meeting her charging up the hill à toute vitesse. She's always running as late as me but about 10 minutes before, leading to many near misses, accompanied by smiles and waving, as we screech past each other on our single track lane.

We arrive at the village. B***er yet again, we've missed the bus. This is not an unfamiliar scenario as I am, by nature, pathologically late. I dash into the shop. B***er, the boulanger hasn't arrived yet.

I grab a packet of chocolate biscuits and throw a few Euros at Gilles, the owner, who mimics driving a racing car at me. He's a regular witness to what is now affectionately known as the St Amans Dash - A hare-raising drive to the next village to try and catch the bus, with no regard for the safety of myself, DS or small animals. There used to be one stop before the next village but the family moved thus depriving me of a few more precious seconds in which to catch the bus. Selfish, selfish people.

I spy the bus in the distance, looks like we're in luck. I screech to a halt, offload DS who's still complaining that chocolate biscuits do not in any way form part of a balanced diet, and nearly run the poor boy over in my haste to get back to take DD to school.

I see the white van of the boulanger outside the shop. I grab a croissant for DD as we pass, not forgetting to give M. le Boulanger my best 'you're supposed to be here at 7.30am' look.

DD duly fed and watered, we set off for her school. We pull up outside and it looks suspiciously quiet. No cars, no teacher, no children. DD reaches for her school diary. "MUUuuuuummMMM", she cries, "It's a vaqué, there's no school today". B***er, b***er, b***er!

France has this bizarre system where some children go to school for 4 days a week, others do an additional Wednesday morning. To even it up, the ones that do the extra Wednesday morning, don't have school one Wednesday a month. Are you with me? Do you see why my life has the capacity to be so complicated? Why, oh why, can't they all go to school at the same time?

"OK, well I have to go shopping so you'll have to come with me". Shopping with DD is always an expensive experience and one I try to avoid at all costs. We drive the half hour to the nearest metropolis and pull up in the car park. I grab my bags and run... straight into the automatic doors, which fail to open up and let me in. Bemused onlookers stare. I notice the shop opening hours. It doesn't open for another half hour. Well what are they all doing here then? The fug of cigarette smoke should be a clue. It's the staff having a last fag before work.

For heaven's sake. What sort of country is this that the supermarkets don't open till 9.30am? No wonder it's nearly bankrupt. How come 'entrepreneur' is a French word but they don't have an iota of entrepreneurial spirit? There are two cafes in the complex. Think of all the money they could make if they opened up before people went to work, instead of an hour after!

I don't have half and hour to wait so we head across town to a different one. Now, this supermarket recently put together a panel of English/Dutch residents to advise them on how to improve the supermarket. I don't know if that's why this one opens an hour before the other one.

We buy our shopping then pop into Lidl for some gourmet peppers and a few other bits that I need. Bizarrely Lidl is the only place where I can find pumpkin seeds around here.

I pick up the regional newspaper to read about a young boy stabbed to death by his father. As the checkout lady goes to scan it, she stops to read the headline. Much ooh, laa, laa-ing (yes they do say it but here it's more oh, lor, lor with a rounded mouth like you are blowing out a candle). Then the lady behind me in the queue joins in. She hadn't heard the story so she wants the details. The checkout lady duly obliges and flicks through the (or should I say MY) paper to find the story. Meanwhile, I stand there politely, surreptitiously checking my watch as I have to pick DS up from school at 11.30am. (8.30am-11.30am! Hardly worth getting up!). By now a few more people have crowded round to read, discuss and otherwise comment on the story along with a few choice suggestions about what to do with the father.

I stand there.... politely.... the smile on my face becoming a little bit more 'fixed'.

Eventually, the discussion draws to a close, my now well-thumbed newspaper is scanned and handed to me and I have 10 minutes to get across town and pick up DS.

If there's one thing that I've learnt about life in France, it's the art of being patient!

Lawnmowers

Yesterday was one of those day when I marvel that the French could have managed to develop chip and pin technology, put a spacecraft in orbit and and build an aeroplane, yet they can't manage to keep the shops open during the lunch hour. It's like the 21st Century in a 19th Century overcoat.

I needed to buy two things - not your everyday things mind - but two things nonetheless. I needed a new lawnmower and a toaster. A lawnmower that makes toast would have been excellent but sadly that's yet another invention I don't have time to invent.

Living in a rural area, there is no shortage of suitable places to buy a lawnmower. However, with only three hours between opening time and the 2-3 hour French lunch hour, during which just about everywhere, and certainly anywhere selling lawnmowers, will be closed, it meant a mad gallop around the countryside at breakneck speed whilst trying to digest the pros and cons of the different models.

Now this leads nicely on to one of my other gripes about France. How come 'entrepreneur' is a French word, yet the French seem to be the least entrepreneurial race I've ever come across. Too much socialism if you ask me. No-one can think for themselves. Every shop sells the same thing at exactly the same price. Even in the market (sorry Dulwichmum) I looked at the same cardigan at the same price on three different stalls.

Now, I'm blonde, but even I know that if you puts your goods up for sale at a slightly lower price, chances are people will recognise a bargain and you'll probably sell twice as much. If everything is the same price what's to make you choose one shop or stall over another? The appalling nature of French after sales is legendary, so that wouldn't sway you. Whoever you brought it from, if it broke the next day, they'd refuse to refund your money and blame 'La Direction' with a gallic shrug.

So, gallop we did around the various shops looking at the different models of lawnmower. Now what I know about mowers could fit on a lilliputian postage stamp but all I knew was that it needed to be self propelling.

Our very expensive (and only 5 years old) Honda mower has developed a seemingly irreparable problem with it's self propulsion meaning that you have to push the flaming thing over hill and down dale, sometimes in temperatures approaching 46 degrees. I have not so fond memories of a time last year when, due to the imminent arrival of guests in our cottage and some untimely rain, the grass had a sudden growth spurt.

It was a hot day in mid-August and the thermometer registered more than 40 degrees as I pushed the great weight of the mower around the cottage garden.The garden has a slight slope which appeared to mysteriously transform into a 1:3 hill by the time I was half way round. What's that old saying 'men perspire, horses sweat, ladies glow'. Trust me, I was way beyond glowing. I was lathered up like a Grand National racehorse on the final stretch after Bechers, dripping from every pore, in a most unladylike way. In the end, I stripped naked and finished the lawn in the altogether - a liberating experience, but not recommended in suburbia.

So, eventually a suitable model was found (by suitable I mean the cheapest I could find) which was sold in an unmarked box with 'Made in China' in large letters on it and no mention of a Briggs and Stratton engine.

On opening the box at home, the assembly instructions appeared to have been translated straight from Mandarin on Babelfish and were just that, babel, but I've always worked better with a picture so I just used the one on the box and the end result bore more than a passing resemblance. However, the 'spanner' provided for the purpose of tightening the various bolts proved to be a plug spanner which was worse than useless. Now, before you think to congratulate me on recognising a plug spanner, I have to admit that it was in fact my dear old dad who illuminated me on this point. Personally, I wouldn't know a plug spanner if it hit me on the head.

Oil was added, petrol put in and the moment of truth arrived. One pull of the cord and it started straight away. Even our 'easy start' Honda used to need a couple of tugs and that was after I'd called DH to check which lever had to be pulled, which one pushed and did I need it set at the hare or the tortoise? If you have a Honda lawnmower, you'll know what I mean.

The lawn was duly mown (or is it mowed?) and the end result was excellent although if I have a tiny criticism, it's that the self propulsion is a little on the nippy side. You kind of have to jog to keep up (no MBT shoes or funny flipflops needed to tone my bum!) and it does tend to drag you into the bushes. Precision cutting is a little tricky too but hey, it's great for deadheading your flowers!

DH (also known as Mr Brandname) was, of course, horrified that I had bought a major piece of garden equipment without him. "What sort of mower is it?" He demanded. "A lawn mower". I replied. "Yes, but what SORT of lawnmower?". "A GREEN one".