Slugs and snails and nasty wiggly things

Well, my attempts not to chop wood until 2010 have come to naught and I was finally forced to swing my axe today (which is not secret expat code for something either sinister or sexual, despite the reputation our village apparently has for swinging - still waiting for my invite!!) .

Now, after a couple of years of practice I can swing an axe with the best of them. In fact, I was asked to appear on the documentary currently showing called 'Axe Men' but I thought it wouldn't be fair on the nutters, sorry, lumberjacks to show them up in front of their wives.

But I would challenge them to achieve what I managed today.

I brought up some old wood from the field to split for the woodburner. It's from an old elm tree that came down a few years ago. On closer inspection it was obvious why. It was covered in large oval shaped holes.

I placed my log in position, took a swing, nearly missed but managed to shave off a small sliver of wood. Sticking out from the very thin piece of wood was the biggest, yukkiest looking white grub I've ever had the misfortune to see.

Meet Hylotrupes Bajulus, otherwise known as the House Longhorn Beetle (not in my house mate!) or in France, a Capricorne (or he will be when he grows up, which of course he won't now)


Handsome fella or what? 'What', I'd say! He grows to a whopping 30cms and I'd say he was every bit of that, probably bigger, nearly a metre even (OK, so I exaggerate).

But what was really clever was that he was completely unmarked by his narrow shave with my axe. I mean, how brilliant is that. What an undiscovered talent! I'm like Annie Oakley with an axe!

(Sadly he fared less well when I fed him to M. Javel, one of our cockerels, who thought him a very tasty morsel indeed.)

Anyway, I've been on at the CH all day to let me try and 'chop' a cigarette out of his mouth but he won't let me. What a spoilsport but never mind, DD is currently strapped upside down to an old cartwheel and I'm going to 'chop' matches from beneath her toes blindfolded - me that is, not her toes. She's such an amenable child!

We have a lovely array of bugs here in the Southwest of France. There's Ammophila

or Thread Waisted Wasp

Then there's lots of these

The Praying Mantis (no-one's told him that France is now a secular country)

There's the very pretty Potosia Cuprea

otherwise known as the Rose Chafer, who flies drunkenly around, often crashing and landing upside down.

Really, the list is endless and fairly revolting. We have wasps that are big enough to carry off a small dog, big black bees and grasshopper that can run off with your dinner - and sometimes do!

(It's not very clear but he's running off with a bit of pasta!)

But at least we don't have this

Blattis Orientalis or 'THE COCKROACH'

Cassoulet Cafe has recently posted about her nasty Roach experiences which brought back some fairly horrible memories of my time in the Middle East, where Sheikh Blattis bin Orientalis was somewhat endemic.

Our weekly shop was not complete without several large cans of Raid Cockroach Killer. But did you know a cockroach can live for 2 weeks without it's head? What chance a mere can of noxious chemicals?

I remember a particular occasion, which I related to Cassoulet, when I went into my bathroom to see a pair of antennae emerging from the sink. I recoiled in horror and watched the biggest cockroach in the Orient climb out. He definitely was nearly a metre long.

I screamed for my flatmate. She recognised the 'Cockroach Cry' and came bearing Raid. We sprayed the beast liberally. He shrugged it off, mooned at us with his little cockroach behind, and shot across the floor and up the door jamb until he was hanging upside down over the top, effectively trapping us in the bathroom. We both screamed!

There was NO way I was going underneath him. I just knew he was waiting to drop down my neck the minute I ran past.

Bravely standing on the toilet, we sprayed him again. He laughed, stuck up two fingers and ran into the bedroom. We charged out of the bathroom and jumped onto the bed. We sprayed him again and he tried to climb onto the bed. We jumped up and down and screamed some more, until he gave up and headed for the hallway.

We cornered him by the front door and finished off the can of Raid, screaming as he ran round and round in circles. My flatmate ran for backup. More Raid appeared and we emptied a second can on to him. 20 minutes after our first meeting he was finally lying on the carpet, legs turned up, dead, most likely drowned rather than killed by the Raid.

Bang, Bang, Bang on the door.

We opened it to find the Police on the doorstep. Our neighbour had reported a 'domestic disturbance'! We showed them the corpse, hoping that we wouldn't now be heading for the Island Prison of the coast of Bahrain, where murderers often accidentally fall from the helicopter en route.

'He was trying to escape when he fell Sir'

'Really, that's the third this week. Wouldn't you think they'd learn?'

But my best cockroach story came from our neighbours, Drunken Eddie, the lovely Nick and Jerry of the Pink Pimpmobile. They really were the best neighbours. If I ever have time, I'll tell you about them.

Jerry found a cockroach in his bathroom. He sprayed it with Raid then, when it was looking faint, he picked it up and threw it down the toilet. Just to make sure, he sprayed more Raid down the pan. Now Jerry was an architect, but years of expat life (for that read alcohol abuse) had rendered him a little 'vague'. Relieved to have safely despatched the cockroach, he lit up a cigarette, chucked the match into the bowl and promptly blew up the toilet!

What a boy!

Une histoire anonyme.......

I heard a really funny story the other day but the person involved threatened to delete my blog if I wrote about it so I'm going to make it completely anonymous.

Once upon a time, there was a blogger who didn't live in France, didn't have a part-time husband and didn't have two lovely children - that bit at least is true!

The son known as The Blue One, who was nothing like his mother for getting caught undressed at inapproriate moments, hated using the toilets at his school so would always wait until he got home.

One day, his sister, known as The Pink One, suffered a monumental breakdown in communications which meant that he was delayed getting home while he waited for his sister's school bus in a little village that wasn't in Southwest France.

He told his mother that he was going to use the village toilets. He must have been truly in extremis to have even considered this option as the village toilets are notorious for being fly-infested, disease ridden holes in the ground, not to mention the fact that just getting to them requires belays and crampons, being as they are down a very narrow, steep track.

His mother carried on chatting to her neighbour who was also waiting for her daughter to arrive. After a quarter of an hour, The Blue One reappeared, walking strangely and announced he was 'going to the cafe' which isn't called the Cafe du Centre and isn't run by a Franco-Australian couple called Michelle and Jean-Marc.

Eventually, he reappeared looking a lot more comfortable. On the drive home, it transpired that the following had happened.

Using a convenient pair of crampons that he had secreted about his person, The Blue One had managed to reach the fly-infested, disease ridden toilets where nature played a cruel trick on him and he needed more than a No. 1. His first mistake was not to check for the (albeit unlikely) presence of toilet paper. The village toilet is generally cleaned once a year on the Maire's birthday at which time half a roll of toilet paper is also added to last until the following year. No self-respecting person leaves the house without at least two rolls of Charmin in her handbag, but having a complete flake for a mother, she had forgotten to impart this vital part of 'life in rural France' (where of course he didn't live) to him.

The deed being done, he looked around for the toilet paper, only to discover that there was none. A quick check of the pockets revealed them to be devoid of any useful bottom wiping equipment, so espying a conveniently large leafed tree, he waddled out of the toilet, trousers around his ankles, only to come fact to face with a couple of hikers.

Wishing them a cheery 'Bonjour' even though he didn't live in France, he grabbed a suitable looking leaf and waddled back into the toilet. Unfortunately, it being autumn, the leaf was a bit dry and not really 'fit for purpose' and promptly disintegrated in his hand.

A brief panic ensued before he decided that the only thing for it was to head to the toilet in the Cafe (why oh why didn't he go there in the first place?) while trying to ensure that there was minimal damage to the insides of his jeans. So, underpants half way down his thighs and hands in back pockets pulling jeans away from his posterior, he waddled up to the cafe which, in a miracle of 21st Century techonological development had both toilets you could sit on and a nice, soft roll of toilet paper.

Equilibrium restored!

This is, of course, a work of complete and utter fiction and any similarity to any person living, dead or soon to be dead (that'll be me!) is purely (un)intentional and just for the record, the photo shows a representation of a village toilet, not the real thing, as I wouldn't even consider entering it without full HazMat protective clothing that's of course, assuming I knew where it was....... which I don't.

It's a funny sort of day

It's been a funny sort of day, one of those days when you feel strangely detached from reality. (Actually, the days I feel strangely detached from reality seem to far outnumber the ones that I feel attached to!) You know, when you walk into the kitchen then can't remember why you are there, completely failing to notice the vat of chilli con carne bubbling over on the stove, then walk out again. "MUUUuuuuummMMMMM, you've burned the tea again" shouts DS while at the same time failing to rouse himself from 'doing his homework' (on the Wii?). Ah well, at least I've only burnt the tea. Last year it was the whole kitchen, but that's for another day.

I put it down to the weather. Two sunny days in a row after what seems like years of rain has thrown me completely. That or spending the day filling in our French tax return. A greater work of fiction than Mme Bovary. It's not that we are evading tax or anything, it's just that the French and English tax years don't coincide so I have to do a certain amount of 'intelligent' projection. All well until they phone you, as they did last year, to ask you how you arrived at your figures. ''Errrrr, not entirely sure' I smiled.

I can't seem to concentrate on doing anything and a million and one unfinished jobs surround me. With the return of the sun came the return of the flies so I dug out my lovely silk fringed fly screen to hang over the door - also a good chicken deterrent as mine have no compunction about coming into the house whenever the mood takes them. But I got distracted and left it on a chair, so now Mad Baz is having an eppie in it and it and he are all tangled up. I've extracted him three times but it's obviously the most fun he's had in years and he's straight back in before I have a chance to move it.

He's now alternatively sitting on my lap, walking on the keyboard, deleting my post and nibbling fingers, nose (ouch! Fang up the nostril - nasty!) , toes, anything he can sink his pearly whites into.

I have a broody hen, the first one ever, who's sitting entranced on her little pile of eggs. Boy will she get a shock when he little chicklets hatch and she discovers they are three times as big as her. She's a tiny little bantam but she's sitting on a pile of eggs from one of our Marans, which are one of the larger breeds of hen. I can identify with that. It'll be pretty much like the shock I had when all 10lb 13ozs of DS was handed to me. He had a full head of hair, looked 6 months old and was practically walking (unlike me, who struggled to walk for months afterwards!). I've no idea what we need to do for maman-to-be so today maybe I'll do a bit of research. She looks very contented, all puffed up and oblivious to the world. That must be nice. No need to worry about bills, break-ins, how to get the pool to change from a delicious Chartreuse green to clear blue in three weeks when the first guests arrive, no housework. All she has to do is sit.

I had an appointment at the Gendarmerie today to 'porter plainte' about our losses in the theft at the Salle des Fetes at the weekend. Gendarme Adjoint S was barely out of nappies, with a fresh crop of pimples and a very large gun. It was quite weird to think that this young boy could pull his gun and shoot someone dead. I have a huge horror of guns. Must have been shot dead in a past life. That doesn't however, explain my morbid fear of toilet cisterns. There's no word for a fear of toilet cisterns although I know I'm not alone. I listened to a phone in on phobias years ago and someone else phoned to say they were terrified of toilet cisterns. "Hooray", I thought, "I'm not alone!"

Epibiphobia is a fear of teenagers. I've definitely got that if it means a fear of your children turning into knuckle dragging, hissy fitting teenagers, rather than a fear of teenagers per se. There's even a fear of chopsticks for goodness sake, Consecotaleophobia but no word for a fear of toilet cisterns. I feel robbed!

M. Le Gendarme Adjoint is going to personally interview everyone who holds a spare key for the village hall, probably most of the village I would think, to see if he can get to the bottom of the break in. He's also told us he'll be going to visit M. Le Maire to tell him that he is responsible for our losses. That should go down like a pork chop in a synagogue!


The Conquering Hero phoned to tell me that due to a much better offer, sorry, a business meeting with the director of his current tv series in Dublin, he won't be able to get back on the 14th June to see DD in her starring role in the end of school play then have dinner with some horsey friends. He'd probably rather have dinner with the horses than the friends themselves anyway, which would be useful as he could then suss out which end is which, which would be a huge step forward! Did I mind? Well, not really as he's missed all the shows, both Christmas, end of term and Carnaval for the past three years so I don't think it makes much difference.

CH had to have a tooth removed today and was in much pain. (Much pain.... try childbirth!). He broke it months ago but was too busy to see a dentist so he paid the price when he spat it out with his Aquafresh into the bathroom sink. I was suitably sympathetic, and made lots of soothing noises. Well, you have to, don't you. He called me back later to recount the soft, squishy things he's managed to eat for tea. "Don't write about this in your blog" he told me. "OK", I said.

Tonight is Karate night, which is just an excuse for the mums to nip off for a drink or a coffee leaving our little darlings in the care of the smallest karate teacher in Europe, possibly the world. DS takes it terribly seriously, and you can see that every chop and kick is, mentally at least, aimed at his sister. DD, laughs, pulls faces, gets her feet the wrong way round and farts occasionally! Money well spent if you ask me.