Missing You Already

Leaving on a jet plane

2008-07-25T21:42:00.003+02:00

Well, I'm off on my hollies. Finally, I managed to get hold of a bikini. It's purple, grape, or hyacinth in hue, depending on how much of a pretentious twot you are. To give you a measure of my husband's abilities in this area, he refers to it as 'crushed parma violet'. Perhaps he means crushed by my gargantuan physique. I dunno. I've given up trying to understand him...it's better that way.

I looked at a Trikini, which are all the rage in St Trop, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out where the third bit was supposed to go. Short of growing an extra limb, tit or head, there seemed too much to go around. I tied a piece of it around my head in a She-Rambo stylie, but the vigorous head shaking of the sales assistant convinced me it was a look that wasn't working. For me, at least.

I have been checking out the weather in Portugal. It's shite. So the bikini might languish in the suitcase. I am now wondering if I should ditch all the sheer chiffony numbers and just take jumpers. Spouse and I were hoping for a bit of Margot and Gerrying around the pool, him in his golfing gear and myself in a flowing, gossamer kaftan.

Sprog is off the clock with excitement. He is running around telling anyone who will listen that we are going to Porkugal. And after a fortnight of Portugese pastries, sumptuous seafood and barrels of port, I think he'll probably be right. I have been told that the local delicacy is tripe. Perhaps that's one area of consumption where I might be persuaded to exercise a little restraint...I have never eaten tripe. Have you? What's it like? Worth a punt?

Mental cycle

2008-07-19T22:29:00.003+02:00

Countdown to the summer trip is underway. Operation buttock bronze is in full swing and reports of the attendant earth tremors are coming in thick and fast. The French secret service, who already have a file on me as thick as a king Camembert, have been asking questions. My ample twin globes have been showing up on their satellite images. They had to come around and check I wasn’t harbouring any stolen Semtex H in my secret buttock chambers. I told them straight, ‘listen guys, unfortunately, these babies aren’t hollow.’ They disappeared in search of lenticular clouds shrouding UFOs.

The millet twins have cycled off into the distance, yodelling probably. We chomped through a goat cheese and olive pizza and quaffed rosé while watching them chew less than joyously on their spartan grains. They were on honeymoon. Surely, it’s got to get better for them from here on in? I really hope so, for their sake. She told me she got married in Goretex. They treated the whole wedding day as a triathlon. They ran to the church, swam to the reception and cycled to the honeymoon suite on top of an iceberg. I’m relieved I didn’t get an invite. I've only got one decent hat, and it's not rubber. And how did their Grannies cope? We also established that we don’t really know each other. That also came as a relief. Spouse used to know one of their training mates. He actually thought he was dead. Apparently, not. That’s if we take their word for it.

After they’d gone, Spouse rather charmingly told me he would leave me if I ever got that hard and gnarled. He likes me soft and yielding. Or flabby and wobbly, he added…rather less charmingly.

Talking of sporting types, Mark Cavendish is doing well, isn’t he? What is he on? Oh yes of course…a bike. Silly me. The French are smelling a Rosbif rat.

Panic over

2008-07-13T21:40:00.000+02:00

They brought their own millet with them...

French flashers

2008-07-09T21:24:00.003+02:00

Now, there is one thing I absolutely love about the French. Without reservation. It is something that sets them apart from the rest of the world.

Can you guess what it is? Yes, I know...where to start? The French are over-burdened with top traits...I'd be the first to admit this.

Well...I just LOVE the way they religiously flash their headlights at oncoming drivers to warn of Gendarmes up ahead with speed guns. Twice in the past few days I have been saved from getting a ticket by benevolent drivers coming in the opposite direction, flashing their lights at me with great enthusiasm. It seems to be a matter of honour.

Before you all get on my case, I pretty much always stick to the speed limit, but the boys in tight-blue have recently taken to secreting themselves behind the plane trees on a stretch of road that is just within the confines of the town signpost...but really it is so remote and quiet, everyone has their foot down a little heavier. I suppose I should thank my lucky stars the Flics have time to dedicate to slightly speeding drivers. We don't get a lot of murders around here. The only stuff that gets nicked are tools. The crime of last year in our commune was Thierry's chainsaw getting half-inched. Oh, and the mysterious disappearance of Dolores the donkey. But, she turned up again, looking a lot fitter and happier two months later. Wherever she went, she was obviously getting her oats.

Summer hols mean summer guests mean cleaning frenzies mean migraines mean collapsing in an alocholic haze/heap.

To my mind there are three types of guest. There are good mates, where all the preparation involved is the chilling of the wine and the location of the corkscrew.

There are those guests you have to clean for (mother in law, various maiden aunts, some of Spouse's glamorous acquaintances, anyone who works in environmental health) and there are guests you don't really know, who are sort of ligging their way into your house via some dubious link with someone you once met somewhere, but can't actually remember their name now...but don't want to let on, for fear of offending anyone.

Tomorrow we are expecting just such a visit. I'm not sure who they are. They only eat macro-biotic...so I'm really praying they don't want to stay for any longer than an hour or so, as I might have to offer them food. And I don't think I have anything macro-biotic in the house. What is macro-biotic? Is it food that is rotting already? It sounds highly inedible to me. I have plenty of micro-bionic in the fridge, but people are so fussy about what they shovel down these days.

Do you know who my favourite guests are? The ones who turn up and yell 'Get in the car! We're taking you out for dinner!'

Invasion aversion

2008-07-05T17:54:00.003+02:00

It's started again. Every year is the same. The supermarkets are full of them. The winding country roads clogged with them. Cafes and bars packed with them. Swimming pools and lakes flooded with them.

Holidaymakers.

Don't you just hate them?

Exposing their pasty, white blubber to us poor unsuspecting, apple-cheeked country folk. There should be laws against it. Cycling in the middle of the road. Taking an inordinate amount of time in the bank to perform the simplest of monetary transactions. Jamming up the roads in their RVs (don't they ever give these people eye/intelligence tests before letting them loose with their sheds on wheels?) And they always seem to be driven by eighty-five year old Austrians who travel with all their biscuits on board, thus contributing nothing to the local economy whatsoever. They just seem happy polluting our beautiful, clean air with their exhaust fumes and the faint smell of cat piss and nicotine.

Do I sound slightly peeved?

I am.

I hate the summer holidays. The whole fecking country ceases to function. Nothing gets done. Everything is closed.

Wishing time away is a dreadful thing to do...but right now, September can't come soon enough.

Rant ends.

Bugger me, Bergamot!

2008-06-29T21:49:00.006+02:00

More horti-porn, I'm afraid.This beautiful, spikey frothiness of a plant is currently flowering chez nous - it's called Bergamot or Monarda. You know the nice smelly stuff they chuck into Earl Grey tea? Goes well with courgettes too, I'm told.

My brain is currently sun-fried. We went on a long walk. Despite being larded up with factor 400, we are all slightly cooked. So, I won't attempt to write anything...it will only be drivel.

Yeah...I know...quoi neuf?

But, check out this pic I took today. On our walk, Spouse spotted this strange sight.

Yes, it is what you're thinking. The snail shagathon continues. Actually, being totally ignorant of all matters snail, I don't really feel confident that they are shagging. Perhaps I'm judging these poor innocent creatures by my own shockingly poor standards. Maybe I'm jumping to rather sordid conclusions too quickly.For a start, don't you think they all look a bit young? Do you get sexually precocious snails? Maybe it's a snail scout meeting, or a young conservative snail conference, or a juvenile snail stick clinging contest. What do you think? What exactly are they up to?

Shagged out

2008-06-24T15:18:00.003+02:00

Despite being wholly appreciative of your input, and in awe of your greater experience (in just about every arena)…perhaps asking you lot about the sex scene wasn’t such a great idea. Whilst I value greatly your opinions on the subject and your erudition (Dumdad, I can’t thank you enough for beaver-cleaver) I think I have now become authorially frigid. I cannot put a single erotic word down on paper without wondering whether or not it will pass muster. I have clammed up.My mental legs are tightly crossed - and it's bloody painful, I can tell you. My phwoar-writing muscles have constricted catastrophically. You get the picture.

I did start. My heroine got to the bit where she was about to drop her ~~knickers~~ guard and leap astride the handsome geezer, when she suddenly went all Babs Cartland, started swooning and demanding assurances that he would respect her come morning. It was spectacularly dreadful. If I hadn’t deleted it for shame, I would have posted it for your delectation. For the moment, I have totally bottled out and moved on to another,less challenging scene.

Watch this space. I will be updating you on the struggles with my inner porn-Queen in due course. And possibly asking for acceptable names for female parts.

Lunarially speaking (don’t look it up) my moon gardening calendar tells me it’s a good day for sticking in carrots. You can take that how you like.

I actually took my camera out with me to take pics of snails a-shagging. But could I find any? Could I feckers like. The searing heat that is blistering the paint on the shutters and melting the road outside, has clearly evapourated the necessary lubricant required for snail sauce. I saw one lone snail, dangling hopefully from a leggy weed – I think he was masterbating. Or maybe it was his tongue hanging out. Anyway…there were too many people around…I didn’t want them asking awkward questions.

For the record, my favourite term for the male appendage was/is cock. I can't help being a slapper. Of course, I know that context is everything, and that if I were writing a gardening novella, for example, it would be inappropriate to write: 'Stella gasped as the sweating horticulturalist emerged from the glasshouse, slightly breathless. She gazed wide-eyed at the bounty he held proudly before her, suddenly realising all that gossip at the WI was true...he had a magnificent ~~rhubarb stalk~~ penis.' That would be ridiculous. In that instance, you would obviously use the word tool.

Any old excuse to write lots of filth...

2008-06-17T16:59:00.005+02:00

I don’t know if it’s the wet weather. Or the time of year. Or the fact that I’m just noticing it more, because I have sex on the mind. But, I have noticed …something.

The snails are really going at it like rabbits, if you’ll excuse the atrocious mix of natural world metaphors.

On fence posts they cluster in their hundreds like barnacles, oozing and crunching against each other in a fevered (for snails) orgy of escargot erotica. Perhaps, being a regular on the French menu focuses their minds, compells them to slime on out there and procreate. Perhaps, along with their shells atop, they also feel the burden to keep the species alive.

Whatever.

I will snap a photo if I happen upon one of these filthy fifty-up snail shagathons when I’m armed with the camera. A bit of snail porn for you. That should bring the freaks out.

Further to my previous post, I have been ruminating and cogitating on the writing of the sex scene. I am having a little problem with nomenclature. I know not to use thrusting manhood, because Nunhead Mum of One says so. And she seems like the sort of woman who would know when is the right time to employ a thrusting manhood…and when not. I am not to use ‘pet names’ like willy, or zizi or tiddler (?) This advice comes from Non,Je ne regrette rien. And of course, my dear mate Brennig Jones encouraged me to 'peer review' my work. Well, this is a bit like that...in a loose sense. I can’t do a proper poll where you all vote, but if you respond in the comments box, it will point me in the right direction…so to speak.

1.Phallus

2.Penis

3.Love pump

4.Todger

5.Knob

6.Cock

7.Truncheon

8.Sausage

9.Prick

10.Tool

I have a firm (very firm, Mrs) favourite. But I’d like to know which you are most comfortable with, if any…and which ones you find offensive, ridiculous…and of course, which ones aren’t on the list which should be. And while you’re at it. Do you know the collective noun for orgasm?

Writing and sex

2008-06-12T09:36:00.005+02:00

In a blog sense, I’m a bit quieter than usual. I am trying to bang out a synopsis for novel number two. It’s tough. I’m very much a go with the flow, whatever feels right, let the story tell itself type of a writer. Plans and charts, graphs and programmes to assist me in my writing, leave me feeling a bit turned off. I have a really strong idea for a book that I think will both play to my strengths and could be very commercial. But how can I nail down all the action from start to finish at this stage? I just can’t. I need space for plot twists and turns. For happy accidents and good old fashioned strikes of inspirational brilliance (we can but hope.)I can’t commit. It's too early in our relationship. So, I’m going to bang out ten thousand words and see where I get to. That’s why I’m being quiet. And after this book idea, I have two others to work on.

Busy busy busy.

Oh yes…and there’s family and real work to attend to. So, all in all, I’m a bit frantic. I will be blogging for light relief.

There is a sex scene waiting for me this morning. I am not over confident with these - the last one I wrote I foolishly showed to Spouse. Why? I'm not sure. Maybe I expected him to like it. I didn't expect him to laugh, anyway. It sort of knocked the wind out of my sails.

So.I am braced. I've had a strong cup of coffee, I have a few clear hours stretching ahead. Here goes with a bit of raunch. Maybe I should go and put my sexy pants on? If this tome ever sees the light of day, it will probably win The Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction Award. I always remember when Alan Titchmarsh won it. Well, come on, it's hardly surprising. He's not exactly Mellors, is he? I thought it a bit unfair picking on such an easy target. It must be excruciating to win that prize, don't you think? I'm not sure I would ever recover.I'd probably have to join a nunnery.

I know I have a few writers among my regulars. I would be interested to hear how you approach the whole pitch process. Come on, what are your secrets for literary success? Apart from shagging the complete England football team, hailing from Oxbridge,sporting enormous nourkes, being a celebrity chef and having had a miserable childhood? None of which have helped so far.

Does my bum look slightly less gigantic in this?

2008-06-08T08:33:00.007+02:00

Owing to the ~~unbelievably shite~~ inclement weather currently being inflicted upon us, there haven't been many opportunities to wear my new bikini. That is, if I had actually climbed off my dimpled arsecheeks and waddled to the shops to purchase one. Which I haven't yet. Just can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm for a tearful afternoon of despondency, dejection and ultimate disappointment.

To ease the pain of this expedition, I thought I might wait until the Soldes de L'ete (The Summer Sales) - at least that way, I may still be a lardy bloater, but hopefully not quite so skint. As with many other French ways, the sales are strictly regulated - and they often all occur at the same time which leads to unedifying scrums and scraps and frequent Gendarme mediation at the bigger shopping meccas. Any self-respecting French summer-sale-attendee will have in their Kit de Soldes, a bulletproof vest (Decathlon do a nice one), gas mask, and pair of stout shoes in which to outrun the water cannon. I jest. I'm just trying to put you off, so that I can nick all the bargains. Most sales start on 25th June and are permitted to run for six weeks only. The date is actually set by The Prefect of the department, so it is best to check here for your specific area.

The local farmers are moaning about the weather. They are cutting their winter feed and leaving it on the ground to dry, only to have rain pouring down on it...and it starts to rot. One old codger told us this week (can't remember the French but the English translation is roughly) Mud in May is followed by dust in August. I bloody well hope so. And Lord knows what all this water is doing to the vines...this years vintage might be a slightly diluted tipple! Now, that is a worrying thought.

Gardening with the loon

2008-06-04T21:24:00.003+02:00

It's a New Moon today. You didn't know that, did you? I bet you never suspected me of a being a moon worshipper. Well...I'm not. But, this year, for the first time, I am (roughly) gardening by the phases of the moon.

Pause for cyber-eye-rolls.

I have a little calendar emblazoned with the words 'Jardinez avec la lune 100% naturel.'It tells me when is a good day for planting out my root veggies, pricking out my brassicas etc. The locals swear by it - they will tell you that if you plant your tomatoes out on the correct day according to the lunar cycle, your toms will be fatter and sweeter than the unenlightened geezer's next door who planted on a day better suited to whopping beans. After planting aubergines on the fourteenth of May you are required to dance naked around the garden, beating your bottom with a trowel and anointing the earth with something personal of your own (use your imagination.) Some hardcore fanatics bury a deer's bladder in the soil prior to the growing season - it is said to ensure bumper crops. I don't ask where they get hold of a deer's urinary-storage apparatus. I don't wish to know. I think I can manage sans Bambi bladder.

Everything is growing like stink - but how can I be sure this is the pull of the moon? Not just the wave after wave of rain we are being subjected to? At this time of year wellies should be covered in dust, mouldering at the back of the cupboard. Instead, my pretty pink flip-flops are loitering redundant by the back door.

It will be the summer solstice soon (mooning it again) - after which the days will start getting shorter. They haven't started getting fecking longer yet! Sun? What's that? Whenever I look up in that direction these days, all I see are granite clouds and water sheeting down. Right now I'm wearing three layers, socks and shoes. It's blimmin' well not on. Strewth. I ask you. Gordon Bennet. How's your father. Bollocks. And that.

Losing my cherry

2008-05-30T20:57:00.005+02:00

I could feel the little blighter, pushing upwards into the pale linen of my skirt. I wriggled, trying to set it free. This was going to be messy. The coiled lanes of our locale necessitate two hands on steering wheel duty at all times. None of this handsfree, answer-yer-phone, eat-yer-burger, mascara-yer-lashes mullarkey - that would be suicidal. No. I would have to wait for an opportune moment to set the lumpy little devil free.

I steal a glance in the rear view mirror. Sprog is grinning back at me. His face is dark purple, smeared with cherry juice. He looks like an extra from Little Lord Fauntleroy Chainsaws Peasants. He farts long and loud. Eggs for lunch.

Jerome, the sculptor, appears up ahead, thumbing it. I slow the car and he jumps in. His nose twitches. Sprog's fart is loitering. I want to tell him it isn't me. But that seems somehow disloyal to Sprog, who would certainly see it as maternal treachery...and a bit desperate on my part. Why should I give a flying fuck if he thinks I do eggy farts or not?

There is a bag of dark scarlet Duke cherries between the front car seats. We picked them ourselves, yesterday. I tell Jerome to help himself. I tell him we have eaten enough cherries to last us until next year. I tell him I must stop eating them in the car because I have just dropped one on the seat and I am now sitting on it. I tell him once I start, I can't stop -(eating cherries.) I tell him I have never eaten a cherry clafoutis. I tell him if life were really a bowl of cherries, frankly, I'd be pissed off. Too many cherries have loosened my vowels. He stares ahead, chasing the cherry around his mouth with his tongue.

I nearly drive off the road. Sprog shrieks with delight.

We get to school. Jerome stays in the passenger seat, spitting pips out of the open window.It is a deeply unattractive image.

Sprog falls out of the car, a whirl of bags and coat and skinny legs. He gleefully announces I have red juice stains on the back of my skirt. And demands if I have been sitting on a cactus? Oh...the mirth...

Anyone got any surefire stain removal tips - or shall I just dye the whole thing red?

Mud, rain and a filthy mind

2008-05-25T15:53:00.006+02:00

Matters horticultural have been eating up my precious time.The weather has been shite. Don't move to the south of france if you're seeking sunshine - it's a rare sight this year.

Here are some pics from the garden - the flowers are far more photogenic than the veggies.

I had quite a laugh this week when I saw my friend E. She's not a good friend...more of an acquaintance, really. She lives in the UK but has a house here that she visits a few times a year. We enjoy chatting about our gardens. She's always picking my brains about which plants thrive out here. I do my best to help by telling her of my successes and failures.

E is a bit bohemian. Nothing wrong with that, I'm not exactly a twin-set and pearler myself. She wears hemp clothing and heavy jewellery, her hair is deep conker red and her nose is pierced. You know the type. She must be pushing sixty years old, near as dammit. She listens to Courtney Love and goes to raves. She's not your average Granny. In fact, I don't think she is a Granny. Kids have never been mentioned. I believe she is happily without encumbrance.

For the two years I have known her, she has referred mysteriously to someone called her 'lover.' When ever she says the word, 'lover' her voice seems to quiver and become husky as if just saying the word is enough to give her a nano-orgasm. It's all very Germaine Greer. It seems to suggest that (maybe it's just me and my filthy mind) that the relationship is based upon...you know...just sex.I can't deny I have been curious about her 'lover' - but I felt it would be too rude to pry. In my mind I have always pictured him as an art curator called Jolyon, rangey and athletic with an insatiable sexual appetite and dab hand at a vinaigrette.

So, when we were strolling around her weed-choked garden the other day, discussing low maintenance planting options, my ears pricked up when she announced that her 'lover' had joined her on this trip.

At that moment, a figure emerged from the backdoor of the house, carrying a can of beer.

His name is Trev.He's a suspended ceiling specialist from Thurrock.And he's E's 'lover.'

I dearly hope the look on my face didn't signal the extent of my disappointment. I was expecting a sex-God on a stick. Not...Trev.

It got me thinking...what do you call your other half? Insignificant other? Better half? Him/her indoors? Arsehole? Cheque-book on legs? Fella? Geezer? Oi? Sweetness and light? Biggest mistake? Long term life partner? M'colleague? The commandant?
Come on...Cheer me up. It's Fetes des Meres - and it's raining outside.I know you want to tell me...

Dead French

2008-05-19T23:00:00.005+02:00

Maybe it’s all the philosophy, the introspection, the rampant hyperchondria…the garlic…the tight pants...who knows? All I know, is that the French attitude to death is…different.

Whilst driving through our nearest medium-sized town recently, we spotted a new shop. The garish red, blue and yellow plasticky façade screamed across the street at us.

We thought it was a new fried chicken restaurant.

But we were wrong.

Then we thought it was an internet café.

Erm..no.

Dog grooming salon?

Woof, no.

Sports shop?

Loser.

Burger joint?

No fries.

Funeral parlour?

Bingo!

In huge letters, beneath the name of the establishment, a snappy little slogan proclaimed: ‘Parce que la vie est deja assez chere!’ – which translates as ‘Because life is already expensive enough!’

Well. This got me thinking.

My first thought was to inform Spouse that if I happen to indulge in a bit of premature-clog-popping, should he choose that particular company to send me on my way to the boiling fires of hell, I will spin in my grave as fast as a revolving door at an Airbus board meeting. And I will haunt him. None of that amateur sheet over your head crap. Nope. We’re talking real professional hauntress, maggots in eye sockets, vampires in vitals, scaring you so shitless that sleep will be but a dream forever more.

Woooh! Woahwoooh! Wooooeeeeeewwwwwoooooh! Yeah…I’d be that scary… Cackle, cackle...

He went pale. Ghostly, even.

If I am going to be worm-food, I want a stylish send off. Not a bargain basement, cheapo tacky do. I want a Harvey Nicks funeral, not an ALDI price-reduced, damaged goods, out of code, end of line affair.

Spouse isn’t convinced. ‘Why are you so bothered? It’s not like you’ll be able to enjoy a fancy funeral. And it will just push Sprog and I further into penury.’

He throws the car around a corner and we screech to an abrupt halt as a ninety year old suicidal maniac steps into the traffic.

‘I bet that old git’s not as fussy as you.’ Spouse gesticulates at the old man as he squints through the windscreen at us – unsure whether to continue. To make his mind up, Spouse, who’s in a thoroughly bad mood by now, punches the horn with the heel of his hand.

‘If you don’t calm down, we’ll find out bloody quickly about this guy’s funeral arrangements,’ I screech, calmly. Sort of.

The codger suddenly finds an impressive (and frankly, suspicious) stab of accelleration, and makes it safely to the pavement on the other side, just avoiding the pantechnicon bearing down on him from the opposite direction. The words time and borrowed flash through my mind. And mothballs, weirdly.

‘You’re not going to die, alright? Not yet, anyway. Unless, you keep banging on about it – and then I might just have to kill you myself.’ Spouse is cross.

I remain silent. Trying to look hurt. But he’s driving, so he can’t look at me. Bugger.

‘If you kill me, there won’t be a funeral, though, will there?’

‘Oh, you’re right. There’ll be a massive celebration.’ He starts to hum Kool and the Gang.

‘No…I mean…you’ll dispose of me…by other means…in secret...’ I am solemn. Deadly serious. Grave.

He pulls over into a petrol station, involuntarily wincing at the 1.49 cents they are asking per litre.

‘Oh yeah…I see what you mean…’ He thinks about it for a moment, and then smiles indulgently.’Which would you prefer? Being chopped into pieces and discreetly posted into the fosse septique? Or...we go with the fried chicken outfit, assume I get a pussy-whipped judge and a shortish prison sentence, and pray that no one comes to the cheesiest funeral in history. Which they probably won’t…with you being such an annoying cow.’ And with that, he gets out of the car and violates it with his nozzle.

Charming.

In sleepy rural France, when mort strikes, certain things happen.....

Usually, the first thing you know about someone having taken a kick at the old pail, is a completely bonkers cacophony of bells tolling - from the direction of the church.They are totally without sequence, rhythm or…sanity. I imagine the person hanging on the end of the rope is either beside themselves with grief and just cannot hold it together. Or, they’re exploding with happiness at the recent departure of Monsieur X, and can’t help leaping up and down, swinging Tarzanically joyful through the din. Let’s just say, it sounds as if they’re not really: a. in control of their bells, or b. concentrating.

Now, if you happen to miss the bells, the next sign that something is afoot, is the appearance of The Condolence Book. It is usually parked outside the front door of the house of the deceased, on a velvet swagged lectern. Not to be mistaken for a knitting pattern book or Index/Argos (do they still exist?) catalogue. To avoid causing offence, only comment if you actually knew the person who has snuffed it. I know this now.

And if you are still completely unaware of a fellow villager’s demise, you surely won’t be able to miss the scruffy gathering of folk standing behind a metallic grey Renault Traffic, sliding out a large wooden box. The cask will take its place in a spacious, family mausoleum in the cemetery, which will be festooned with plastic lillies. A few weeks later an enamelled photograph of the deceased will appear on the tomb, so that you will be able to pass the time of day with them, when you go on your graveyard strolls.

Then it’s time for the will to be read. And that’s a whole other barrel of laughs…

Pain in the arse

2008-05-15T22:00:00.004+02:00

The hatchet-faced bitch in the boulangerie has got it in for me. Two days running she has deliberately given me the smallest pain au raisin in the shop. When Spouse goes in, she's all smiles, he gets a whopping pain au chocolat and a sweet bon journee into the bargain.

But not me.

When I plucked up the courage and asked in my haltingly hesitant French 'Could I have that one please?' pointing rather desperately at the huge Arnie of a pain au raisin at the front of the glass cabinet - she snapped; 'They are all the same weight, you know' chucked the tiddliest, tiddler in a paper bag, and threw it at me. Scowling.

So now I'm having wild fantasies about beating her to death with a stale baguette. Is that wrong?

No strings

2008-05-12T22:27:00.002+02:00

This is a women only post. Men are welcome to read – but comment at your peril.You won’t understand and you’ll only say the wrong thing.

Two weeks in the Douro region, in July. We will be staying in an old Quinta, with pool and tennis courts. I am looking forward to it. Mostly.

Apart from the baring of flesh bit.

There will be ten other people there. Ten people that I know. Not strangers. That would be so much easier. I really couldn’t give a toss what a stranger thought of my buttocks. But friends are…different. I want them to think well of my arse. It’s only natural. Isn’t it?

Call me delusional, but I’m clinging to the hope that a new bikini will divert attention from known trouble spots. If I can locate a two-piece of poolside perfection, its contents might be …overlooked.

Okay. I admit it. I need a chuffing miracle. One that slims my thighs, tautens my tummy and bolsters my bossom, airbrushes my stretch-marks and vanishes my cellulite. A full latex bodysuit in the style of Elle Macpherson would work, although it could be a tad sweaty under the Portugese sun – and can you imagine the nause of peeling Elle off when you needed to go for a pee? Unless, of course, I just did it in the pool. But I’m sure Elle isn’t a pool-pisser. She’s far too polished for that.

Bikini selection is fraught with danger. The only hard and fast rule is not to wear white. I know from experience the effect of water on this colour is never good, if you’re of a modest nature. Which of course, I am. Or hairy and lumpy.

I am not ready to completely throw in my beach towel and surrender to the sensible one-piece brigade. Swimsuits always look so…functional. I admit a bikini that slides down to my ankles when I dive into the water is not ideal…but I’d rather be fishing out my knickers from the pool bottom than forever looking like I was competing in the school swimming gala. Goggles and rubber cap, anyone?

Women’s magazines trumpet the perfect swimwear solution for every body type. Apart from mine, that is. They talk about pear-shaped and apple-shaped. But what about gourd shaped? In fact, to be honest, I’m a market gardener’s wet dream – thighs like marrows, an arse like a couple of pumpkins and my up top region can resemble anything from a couple of walnuts to a pair of honeydews. I look like I’ve been thrown together by a blind greengrocer.

And the preparation?

It needs to be planned like a bloody military campaign. I still have time to shed a few pounds and tone up all areas of flab (yeah, like that’s really going to happen - pass me another slab of Camembert, Camille). There’s my hair to sort out – and that’s just the stuff on my head. A friend was telling me the other day that there is a local wax-woman – she’ll visit you at home and strip you bald in a matter of seconds. I tried to make myself sound knowledgeable by asking if she did Brazilians. My friend replied that she wasn’t sure, but she didn’t see there’d be a problem with a Brit.

I’m always terribly self-conscious poolside. I hold my stomach in so tensely, it’s a wonder I don’t pass out with the effort. And my back aches with the constant striving for perfect posture in order to minimise belly roll. Whenever I emerge from the water I am compulsively checking for escaped pubes and wayward nips – it’s supposed to be bloody relaxing. By the end of the afternoon, I’m ready for a proper holiday! Over the years I have developed a rather cunning strategy of befriending people more swedgy than myself and sticking to them like toffee. Conversely, any lithe bodied stunners that come too close get short shrift and pushed headfirst into the foot bath.

Oh it’s all too depressing. Perhaps we should cancel the holiday? Maybe cruising the Norwegian fjords would be better? At this moment a cagoule sounds deliciously tempting...

Brain emptying

2008-05-09T14:29:00.003+02:00

We did the Vide Grenier. It means barn emptying which sounds slightly more bucolic and enchanting than car boot sale. But isn’t. A lot of tat was off-loaded. Unfortunately, a lot of new tat was acquired. So, not a lot of new space created chez nous.

For ten hours I was enthroned on one of those horrible plastic garden chairs you can buy for £3.50 at B&Q. Let’s just say whoever designed that ubiquitous style-offender had flagrant disregard for the spinal health of the globe. Like they care. Next time I’ll take a rusty spike to sit on.

So, today we are tired.I think the word best used to describe the household mood is ‘tetchy.’ We are a small clan of snappy terriers, on the lookout for metaphorical ankles to savage. There have been two run-ins with Spouse over minor admin cock-ups and one major Sprog tantrum over toy batteries (lack of.) I am currently glowering on a medium heat sulk because Spouse allowed me to speak to our rather elegant Parisian part-time neighbour for ten minutes, neglecting to advise me of the large lump of green snot dangling from my left nostril.

And… the filthy crockery that littered the kitchen this morning was swarming with ants. Again.It took a whole hour to straighten/hammer things/them out.

And… we have a large, angry hornet in the attic that buzzes you every time you attempt the stairs.

And… the bathroom is smelling quite revolting – something horrible is languishing in the pipes. Please….please….not the French plumber…I can’t bear it. Fate…I beg you…do not plunge me (sorry) into that particular vortex of doom.

Apart from that….everything’s absolutely, bloody wonderful. No complaints (apart from those previously expressed.)

Enough about me…how the hell are you lot? I’m dying to hear how you’ve been getting on…Do tell. I’m all eyes.

Yes, of course I realise grenier means attic. What kind of a nob do you take me for? I'll thank you for not answering that one. You can see how I get myself into trouble over here, can't you?

Smashing time

2008-05-01T22:06:00.005+02:00

I am a bit run off my feet at the moment, what with the olds being here and all that entails. We have been having a fantastic time, mind you. Today, I threw myself into the task of demolishing a small cabane - haven't had so much fun in ages. Especially when I left my father holding the roof up whilst I disappeared inside for a cup of tea!

Oh what larks...

And we saw this delightful couple whilst out on a day trip. Aren't they beautiful?

Happy Birthday Blog!

2008-04-28T14:19:00.003+02:00

Quite how I have managed it, I do not know...this blog is one whole year old today.

Who would credit it?

On the 28th April 2007 I began a journey of discovery I could never have imagined beforehand. I have had such a fantastic time, I'm afraid I have no intention of giving up just yet.

Sorry!

I never stick at anything, unless I'm enjoying myself...so, thanks to all my lovely mates and readers out there in the Blogosphere who have made it such a wonderful ride.

Mwah!

Here's my first post. Things don't appear to have changed much...if at all...

Right. Where's the flipping cake?

Braced

2008-04-22T22:27:00.003+02:00

Tomorrow life will change.

Strange objects will appear in the house. Even stranger people will accompany them. Items that have their allotted place in the great household scheme of things…will move. Inexplicably.

Poltergeists?

Scarier than that.

My parents are arriving.

I think I am about as unprepared as it is possible to be. There has been no time for cleaning or cooking. No time to make the house look any less rank than usual. They have a nice comfortable bed with freshly laundered linen, and I shall cut a few stems of lilac to prettify their relatively spartan quarters. That’s about the limit of hospitality chez nous. Oh yes, we are a proudly no frills operation. But the views are spectacular.

There are things that I just know are going to happen during this visit. These aren’t forecasts or predictions. They are dead-certs.

1.My hours spent in the kitchen will be trebled.

2.Sprog will ask my father to remove his dentures about three seconds after he steps off the plane. And then about ten times a day thereafter.

3.I will nearly lose my voice.

4. I will have to suffer the ignominy of being referred to (repeatedly) by the names of my two elder sisters, before they finally alight on the correct moniker.

5. My father will develop a minor ailment that will necessitate a confusing and bewildering visit to the chemist.

6.I will silently lecture myself not to get irritated when mother demands to know exactly what time we ate, slept, left, farted, whatever. As if accuracy to the last second was somehow …important.

7.I will secretly nag myself not to get frustrated that I can’t get on with the millions of things I need to do. How selfish do I sound? What a moany cow. (Hope you don’t mind me using your lovely expression Stratford Girl – it just seems the right one for this moment. Not that you have the monopoly on moany-cowdom or anything…oh crikey…I’m digging a hole here,aren’t I? I’ll just shut up.)

8.I will guiltily chastise myself for thinking these thoughts.

9. I will shout at Spouse (again) for not having fitted a lock on the bathroom door.

10.I will warn myself not to rise to the bait when my father is looking for an argument. I always lose.

11. I will simultaneously want to scream and laugh on a regular basis.

12. I will cry like a baby when they leave.

I love my parents dearly. They are good people. Warm, clever and funny. And so precious to me. I am keenly aware that they’re not getting any younger. I am determined to have a good time whilst they are here (in my house that is, not on this earth. I'm hoping they're planning to hang around for a bit longer.)

Spouse disappeared this afternoon. He didn’t tell me where he was going. I was worried. We aren’t that sort of a couple. We always tell each other if we’re going out. I wandered outside to look for him. The grass was wet and slippery. A cuckoo was calling. But no Spouse.

How could he bail on me? It’s not as if his mother-in-law is as intolerable as mine.

But I needn’t have doubted him. He eventually returned an hour later with a boot full of wine. He reckoned we’d be needing it. How could I be cross with him?

Awards and sock removal techniques

2008-04-19T23:18:00.004+02:00

Thanks so much to the lovely Irene at Sweet Wood Talking for the wonderful awards she has passed my way. I am displaying them proudly in the sidebar, they are the You Cheer me Up Award (I think she must have me confused with someone else) and the I've Got A Friend In You Award - well, she's got that bit right, at least. She also bestowed upon me A Good Chat Award the other day - but as is my flakey habit, I have completely forgotten where to find it - so can't display it.

Erm.

I'm also a bit embarrassed to admit that scintillating wonder-mum, Jo Beaufoix handed me a Mad Skillz Award absolutely AGES ago - I think perhaps my mad skill is that I am able to totally forget things the second they enter my head. Goldfish have nothing on me. Anyway, check out the mad Mad Skillz award over there in the sidebar.

How cool is that?

I'm not handing these out. If you want one, leave a comment explaining your suitability for the award you covet - I will judge each (there will surely be millions of you) application on its merit.

It is Saturday evening. Late. I'm knackered. It's like Hound of The Baskervilles in the village tonight - an unseen dog is making itself heard. Holding on to long, chilling howls...then it winds down, like a siren...and all is quiet...then the bloody thing starts up again. It is unusual for a dog to be howling in such a way. I wonder if Jerome the sculptor has left his beautiful husky alone, and she is pining for him? If I thought I wouldn't be savaged, I might check.

Spouse has just kissed me goodnight. I can hear his footsteps now upstairs, moving about slowly...and then noisily. I picture him pulling off his socks, losing his balance...he never sits down to perform this task. He could easily sit on the bed and remove his socks without fear of endangering his person.

Anyway, I'm off. I want to get upstairs before he falls asleep.

Night all. Sweet dreams.

Weather affront

2008-04-16T22:00:00.004+02:00

For my sins, I watch French TV. In a previous life I must have been an über-bitch. Because now I’m paying for it - big time. Although I'm sure I wasn't a famous bitch, like, for example, Cleopatra or Alexis in Dallas – hang on a minute, (she was real,wasn’t she?)

Erm…

Anyway, I’d have been a really insignificant,lice ridden,illiterate serf-bitch – much like I am today, in fact. A nobody. I find myself getting irritated when people harp on about reincarnation and their conviction that in a previous life they inhabited the body of an historical A-lister. What arrogance. Why weren’t they a latrine operative? A midden manager? Something big in dunghill logistics?

I digress.

The three of us have sat on the sofa for five long years, incredulous at the televisual pap served up. Obviously, our sofa-perching hasn’t been continuous (before some pedant points this out) – there have been occasional forays to the fridge. And back.

I jest.

But, I wouldn’t wish French telly saturation on anyone. It seems there are limits to my wickedness.

We have made a conscious decision not to have a satellite dish pumping in daily fare of Blighty culture. From time to time I hear vague murmurings of strange beings called Jeremy Kyle or Russel Bland. But I have no idea what they are or do. I suspect I’m not missing much. I still hanker for Newsnight Review, book discussion progs for The Costa, The Orange,The Whitbread or whoever sponsors the literary prizes these days. And Bill Oddie doing his Birding, and that bloke who used to discuss ancient landscapes…erm Aubrey Manning. And Brian Sewell and Jeremy Paxman being irritating – without even opening their mouths….Ah yes…those were the days . I don’t suppose they show those people on telly anymore? Do they? Please say they do.

So, why did we decide on French telly?

Bloody good question.

We thought it would help us integrate better, quicker. Getting the bearings on a nation’s popular culture is important in order to better understand it, no?

Wrong.

If our cruel experiment is anything to go by, when you’re fed a TV diet of rowdy, moronic quiz shows and manga cartoons you just go slightly demented.

Quickly.

At first I thought it was altitude sickness. Then we realised that nobody with an IQ exceeding 27 watches French TV – if you admit to being a viewer, prepare to be pitied and patronised. Over here, it seems that anyone with a brain cell or two to rub together listens to the radio.

So you become very selective. Our regular daily TV viewing is now restricted to the news and weather on TF1. In the evenings we will sometimes spend a while looking very hard and we’ll find a film or documentary worth watching on Arté, the Franco/German station. I quite like Thalassa, a documentary series which reports on marine habitats around the world. Also, the food and cooking programmes are well worth watching – these Frenchies don’t mess about when it comes to their grub.

But, on a day to day level, the only TV we watch with any regularity is the weather forecast. They call it the Meteo. You can take the girl out of Britain etc…

As far as we can make out, the privately owned channel TF1 has a fixed number of staff who they deploy in various roles throughout the televisual arena. It’s virtually impossible to fire anyone in this country, so presenters tend to stick around. Newsreaders pop up as quiz masters, sports commentators as chat show hosts and political analysts on kids shows. This confusing job-hopping leads to an erosion of confidence in the integrity of the talking heads. It’s off-putting to suddenly realise the scientist who is explaining a revolutionary new cancer treatment on a medical programme is also the geezer who was getting slimed on the French equivalent of It’s A Knockout the night before.

But the weather presenters are strangely constant (apart from when they are on strike – which is often). On TF1 there are three of them. Two women and a man.

Let me introduce you…

Evelyne Dheliat

This woman clearly knows her isobars from her chocolate bars. She is the archetypal French woman who will never ( that’s NEVER!) get fat – no matter how many profiteroles she downs. Her sinewy, gym-junkie arms wave gracefully over the weather map as she confidently predicts that it might rain, sun, snow,hail, blow,whatever. Her clothes are always well chosen to show off her trim physique; pencil skirts and bolero jackets being current favourites. She is the ultimate professional. Slick, calm, assured, elegant and frankly, a bit too Stepford Wife for my tastes. Spouse has more time for her…

Catherine Laborde

There is a nervous edge to her delivery that makes you suspect she’s completely winging it and waiting for a tap on the shoulder. Her manner is overly sincere and big sisterly which just makes me doubt her more. Again, she is super slim. Painfully so. Her clothes are ill-fitting and billow in the studio breeze. She dismantles emphatically the outmoded view that French women have the style monopoly sewn up. When Catherine is on screen we play a game in our house. She has a fondness for clothes Liberace might consider tacky. Not so much in a sequins and lamé way, more in an over-adorned, let’s throw everything at this outfit no matter how tawdry it looks, way. Less is more cuts no ice with Catherine, no Sirreeee. Her favourite trick is to wear an outfit which from the front is deceptively plain. But the minute she turns to the weather map and you get a rear view, you are treated to an explosion of appliquéd butterflies or mad buttoning details, or a great big slash in the fabric. She never fails to deliver – we love it . Oh how we ooohhh and ahhhh over Catherine’s dreadful attire. She is the weather forecaster of choice chez nous. Definitely our favourite…

Finally, there is Sebastian Folin. He is a dumpy little chap who obviously has a love-hate relationship with the biscuit tin. His weight balloons in the Winter then dives in the Summer when he starts popping the minceur tablets again. He has a fantastic head of thick, shiny black hair that glistens under the studio lights. His manner is cheerful but slightly bored by it all. You get the impression he’d rather be somewhere else. Perhaps presenting It’s A Knockout.

There you have it – all you never wanted to know about popular French TV weather forecasters but were too bored to ask!

Oh…and just in case you’re wondering…they aren’t very accurate with their predictions, either. Looking out of the window is usually your best bet.

Incidentally, I would welcome any French TV recommendations from those of you in the know…

Stroll on

2008-04-13T21:03:00.004+02:00

I am fatigued.

We walked a long way today.

It was great fun.

We saw an enormous red squirrel. It saw us too - just sat there on its branch, quite calm and confident.

Now I'd kill for a bath.

A shower won't melt the knots in my muscles.

Perhaps a glass of wine will do the trick...

Shutter madness

2008-04-10T10:34:00.003+02:00

Shutters….

Good thing? Bad thing? Discuss.

You know…those wooden things the French hang outside their windows. As iconically French as baguettes and berets.

If only it were that simple…

Where to start?

As always with the French, there are rules. At first, I unknowingly flouted these, mainly due to ignorance of the strict customs observed governing shutter usage. Now, although I’m a well-swotted up student of shutterology, I still flout the rules. As a Northern European the desire for sunshine in my life is one habit I just can’t kick.

I can tolerate the tutting and sucking in of cheeks of my neighbours. If abuse of shutter-tradition was my worst crime, I’d be doing well.

Down here in the South, here’s what you do…

1.You throw your windows and shutters open wide in the morning to release the pent-up stench that has accumulated within your four walls overnight. Obviously, this varies from household to household, but just so’s you know, try to avoid walking past Antoine’s house at 8am, the morning after artichoke farçi.

2. Around mid-morning, when the sun is climbing in the sky, the windows are left open but the shutters are pulled almost closed and secured with an iron pin. Note, I say almost closed. For the French are in the habit of leaving the shutters ajar by three inches so that they are able to snoop unseen on unsuspecting passers-by. This keeps the houses cool, aired…and dark as tombs.

3. Later in the day when the sun has cooled, the shutters are again thrown open and light and air floods in and face to face gossiping can take place unimpeded through the window.

Well…I’m afraid I just open my shutters in the morning, then close them at night. I like to keep things simple. We have wooden shutters with old wrought-iron fixings. They are very noisy and creaky to operate and can be heard over the whole village. I have grown used to the shame the klaxon screech of our shutters invites on a daily basis.

There is an old dear nearby who has just had automatically operated, metal shutters fitted into her house. They are wholly unsympathetic to the style of an ancient village dwelling, more in keeping with a shopping centre, however, I understand why she needs them. Her old shutters were so arthritic (and there were a lot of them to open) that she nearly fell out of the window on occasion with the effort of it all. She hasn’t quite got the hang of the remote-control yet, and you can hear the shutters whipping up and down like guillotines at all hours of the day and night.

Shutter colours….The scattered Brits in the area tend to go for tasteful shades of lavender and olive. Apart from us, who have opted for pillarbox red. Nothing like blending in with the community. The French go for the brown option more often than not….well…some of you will remember how I feel about that particular shade…

You’ll be staggered (relieved) to learn that this interminable pre-amble is actually leading somewhere. Whether or not there is any point going there….I’ll leave that up to you.

Spouse and I were tucked up in bed last night. Summer has suddenly arrived and we had the shutters closed, but the windows open as it was so hot. It must have been midnight-ish.

Obviously, we weren’t the only ones feeling hot.

As we lay there, a sound began to make its presence felt.

‘Can you hear that?’ I whispered to Spouse.

‘Yes.’ His voice sounded strange…strained.

‘Who?’

‘Donkey farting.’

‘Not that sound….that one! Can you hear it?’

‘I don’t want to know.’

‘Oh, come on, ‘I giggled.

‘Well…which direction is it coming from?’ He knew it was pointless trying to feign sleep.

‘That way,’ I pointed in the dark.

He sighed and turned over.

‘It’s H and L,’ I gasped, in disbelief. (H &L are our octogenarian neighbours.)

The unmistakeable sounds of amour and creaking bed springs floated on the still night air.

‘I can’t listen to that,’ moaned Spouse, disconsolately.

An owl hooted (I think.)

‘Do you think they keep their dentures in?’ I mused aloud.

Spouse emitted a horrified grunt and stuck his head under the pillow.

I didn’t.

I listened. Right until the (admittedly muted fireworks at the) end. And I have to say, I was quite impressed.

When I saw H at the bread van this morning, still wearing her fetching grape dressing-gown and matching slipper ensemble, she didn’t appear any more bandy-legged than usual, and she certainly had a smile on her face.

And when I next see L, I will look upon the dirty old git with renewed respect.

How would you have played it? Head under the pillow or shameless voyeur?

A load of old bollocks

2008-04-04T19:39:00.002+02:00

As I’m sure you all guessed, but were largely too polite to venture an opinion, my previous post was in fact, a load of old bollocks. You may well be of the mind that my entire back catalogue is a load of old bollocks too – and that this one post was no different from the many others I inflict upon you.

And I’d be the first to agree.

However, being as it was the 1st of April, I had to do something. I couldn’t not.

Could I?

Anyway, I had great fun, if only to be able to use the phrase ‘Knees bent, from a couple of metres away they started tossing in their berets.’

Yes, I know. I should grow up.

If it's any consolation to you lot, my weekend is going to be shite. I will be digging. Engaging in a little spadework. Forking about. Trowelling on. You know the kind of thing...au jardin. It won't be fun. It will be dirty, hard work. Not whimsical. Floral. Pretty. If Monty Don happened by, he'd probably faint.

What are you up to this weekend, then? Come on, indulge me. Let me live vicariously through the glamour and glitz of your exciting lives...please!