New Years Eve

With Xmas over I can now turn my attention to " how not to celebrate the new year". As last week my only concession will be an increase in the quality and quantity of the food and wine consumed.

I had a close escape from attending a party night at a neighbours house, which having accepted in a moment of weakness, I then found that I had to concoct an elaborate subterfuge to evade it. They had asked to borrow a mobile heater, so the youngest boy and I had popped round to deliver it and take a post Xmas drink with them. The neighbours have all their children and grandchildren coming for the New Year, his from Spain and hers from Belgium and they were a bit upset to find the boy and I would be celebrating it on our own. So they invited us to join them

After we'd accepted we found out that not only were there no English speakers amongst the other guests but most of the Belgians and some of the Spanish didn't speak French either. My french is just not good enough to extract us from this situation without causing offence. So we withdrew to consider our options.

I came up with a "Jolly Wheeze" ( this is something dated back to my former work place, where if there was a problem it would usually be me that came up with the solution, which I would announce by saying "I've got this Jolly Wheeze"). The boy was to go down with the flu.

So I contrived to meet up with the neighbours yesterday when they were on their evening walk with their dog. I laid it on very thick about Andrew being ill, in bed all day with a high temperature, adding it was unlikely we would be able to make it tomorrow (today). I even made up a story that when taking his temperature I had realised that I was using the thermometer normally reserved for the DOG (and you know where they insert those!). When he found out he leaped out of bed,rushed to the bathroom and made prodigious use of the mouthwash; much laughter all round but a complete and utter fabrication.

I met her again this morning on her way to the shop and confirmed Andrew would not be fit enough and I couldn't, in all fairness, leave him alone tonight. She told me that Jean-Claude was still in bed and couldn't assist in the shopping as he had a terrible cold and fever.

Back home I repeated this to Andrew who said "Lying Bastard, he's just trying to get out of the shopping!"

FAT Old Fart (III)

It's about a week since I realised I must do something about my weight and general health and decided to do so by way of New Year resolution.

This last week I've been sort of practicing, the odd half bottle of wine in lieu of a full one, less potatoe,more veg and less bread. I've also established "Yard Arm Time", it relates to the time I start drinking. In my little world the (theorectical) Sun rises above the Yard Arm at 12.00 hours and that's the ealiest time I can start my lunch time appero! Similarily, in the evening it dips below the Yard Arm at 20.00 hours, at which time I take my evening one.

I did a weight check this morning and watched the dail slowly creak up to 95 kilos (again!), I wasn't REALLY expecting much change but non-the-less a little disappointing. I realise a little later that I had forgotten to empty my pockets and found that I had 3 euros and 75 cents in my one of my pockets.

This means that I have lost 3.75 euros in just one week and, what's more, if I keep this up I will have lost 195 euros in one year.

Pruning

A couple of weeks ago the boy and I had built a great pile of dead wood from the orchard and the woods, to form the base for a grand bonfire on which to burn all this years green pruning. Although we had covered it, the cover had shifted and I was feared that it might not burn.

Today dawned a good day to try it and the boy went down and managed to get a good blaze going, he then swarmed up the large willow tree and started to cut out all this years growth. I joined him as it's my job to feed the fire and put on all the green stuff. We spent a very successful and knackering 2.5 hours, cutting, lugging and burning. We left a tidy blaze and struggled to the top of the slope to the back veranda, which today was sunny and nicely sheltered, to open a bottle of local red.

Working like this after an hours walk with the dog is my utter physical limit and quite frankly I was desperate for a drink and convinced myself that I couldn't possibly put a bit of lunch together without a long sit down and a good slurp. This does not bode too well for my slimming resolve perhaps I will have to make a choice between slimming and DIY.

I did in fact get a local gardener to prune the willow last year and it cost 400 euros; I was so impressed with the hard, uncomplaining effort the boy put in that I might slip him a 100.

Christmas Cheer

A week to go and I can't wait till it's over because I've always thought it a load of commercialised humbug. With kids and a wife that was an even bigger kid about Xmas I had to go along with it. Now that I'm on my own I can do it the way I want.

I do confess to sending Xmas cards to friends and family, who, of course, reciprocate and my sole concession to decorations is two bits of string over the ingle-nook on which I hang the cards.

I get round the presents dilemma in two ways, firstly with direct family I pay their air fare out here and entertain them to a summer holiday each year in lieu of birthday and Xmas presents. If they can't make it or don't want to that's hard luck to them and a cash bonus for me! Secondly with indirect family and friends they get cards but no presents,surprisingly, over the years they have stopped sending me presents !! There is one exception, a cousin, who refuses to play my game and sends me a jazz CD every birthday and Xmas; always making an excellent choice.

Returning to the Xmas decorations theme, like the UK, french people are decorating the outside of their houses with flashing or not electric lights (in the worst possible taste as someone famous but dead once said). Even in this remote corner of the country they do it and almost every other house has a Santa swarming up a rope or drainpipe and what is most disturbing about it all is that the worst excesses are perpetrated by young couples !!! There's even a woman round the corner who has draped her garden shed with coloured flashing lights; presumably the budget doesn't run to buying enough to do the house.

The youngest boy (who's here helping with the DIY) has, I fear, been affected, even brainwashed, by the flashing lights and Santas. I don't blame him as a walk round the village, after dark is like some fiendish chinese torture . He has rooted around in the barn and found an old imitation Xmas tree, which, when plugged in, shimmers with multi coloured fibre optic lights.

Although he professes not to be interested in Xmas, he's not had the benefit of my years of practice as an Xmas Scrooge so he can't resist the temptation of turning on the tree. I have discovered the perfect counter measure. It's a digital radio station that, at this time of the year, plays non stop Xmas music, rather like the Xmas Muzak one finds in super markets and shopping malls through out the western world.

So he plugs in; I switch on and it's then a question of who breaks first !!

FAT Old Fart (ll)

So I've got to work out a way to reduce my calorie intake for my New Years resolution. There are already underlying health issues so I don't eat too unhealthily most of the time. I don't buy cheese and other dairy product nor paté or eggs for most of the year; I do when people are here on holiday and it would be churlish not to indulge when they are served. I generally eat in restaurants once a week and eat anything I want to. These are the concessions I have had to make to a normal diet because of a high cholesterol level and which have for a number of years kept the level largely within relevant ranges, albeit with the help of a daily Statin tablet !!

I am also plagued by an elevated sugar level and because of this I rarely eat sweets,cake, biscuits or desserts, even in restaurants.

This existing diet doesn't seem to leave much scope for improvement other than reducing existing calorific intake, although I reluctantly concede that the problems could be alcohol related as I drink a full bottle of red wine at both lunch and dinner; except at week-ends when I polish off a bottle and a half at each sitting.

I think it unlikely I'll be able to give up fattening and unhealthy things entirely but have already made a start on a 50% reduction in potatoes and bread. Other sacrifices will have to wait for the New Year or rather the Monday after New Year. I need the delay here because it's my old firms Annual Reunion.

It used to be the Annual Reunion and Xmas party but the powers that be were warned that the heady aphrodisiac melange of mistletoe and booze could lead to allegations of sexual harassment that might open the company to the risk of complaint. So they moved it to after Xmas to take the mistletoe out of the equation !!!!!

FAT Old Fart

After a restless worrying night I've come to the conclusion that I have really let myself go over the last 10 years or so. This morning I decided to weigh myself and jumped on the scales after I'd had my morning dump, which must be worth half a stone in any ones avoirdupois ! The machine creaked to a shocking 95 kilos (almost exactly 15 UK stones). I'm determined to do something about it.

More exercise is a prerequisite of weight loss, and I've over time begun to slack a bit on the morning walks with the dog, so this morning I resolved to double the distance that has become the norm. Off we set and 100 yards after the normal turning point the dog disappeared into a field that's completely over grown with bracken and gorse and would not come out. I walked on a bit, not too far as it's not really wise to leave a dog untended in the hunting season in case a frustrated hunter is around.

After much whistling and calling she finally appeared, with a smug satisfied look that indicates she's probably found and disposed of a pile of excreta of the enjoyable sort! I put the lead on and vowed that the greater part of the new extended morning walks will be made with the dog under control. I also intend to start half an hour earlier.

Tomorrow I intend to analyse my calorie intake

The Tempest

Last weeks Tempest came round full circle over the week-end. The wind and heavy rain battered the cover of the swimming pool leaving it half on the bottom and half covering the garden. The last of the leaves from the oaks in the woods came down choking the pool.

As last week the next day broke calm and sunny so this mornings task was to clear the pool, refit the cover and make new elastic fasteners. Luckily I'd seen the impending storm and had turned the pump off, so no damage was done to the system.

Another side effect of the frequent storms we get here is that the not very legal TV satelite system doesn't work, so apart from French football (of which I am enamoured) there's nothing to watch. As luck would have it a friend had sent me a DVD made up from some old cam-corder footage from the mid-90s. This we ran early Sunday evening and sod me the very first clip was of me clearing out leaves and recueing the swimming pool cover. (the friend whos film it was is a frequent visitor but likes to keep out of the way when there's work about; hence the passion, I suspect, for amateur film making).

As the film played the youngest boy said " Cor! weren't you thin then". It's true I was. Over 10/12 years I've let myself become a FAT old fart and I've got to do something about it!

So that's my fucking new year resolution sorted!

Gavarnie

Gavarnie is a small mountain village and is a real summer tourist trap, it consists entirely of hotels, restaurants and gift shops, mainly gift shops! Its only claim to fame is that it sits at the bottom of the most picturesque cirgue in the Pyrennees; but it was my late wifes favorite place.

I went there today to light a candle in her memory but it was closed!! The village I mean; nothing was open not even the little pilgrims chapel (the village is on one of the pilgrims routes to Compostella). There were a few parked cars about but I didn't see another person. There is a shrine in the graveyard and I had gone prepared with a candle in a pot, so I lit that.

Clearly my fears of yesterday about the snow were misfounded, the snow line was considerably higher than the village but the cirgue itself was beautiful, snow covered and towering above and almost round the village and not a soul to appreciate it.

The Tempest

We've been in the midst of a tempest for the last 24 hours and more, or so I'm told by my dog walking chums.

This is sods law in action as the boy and I spent the week-end collecting dead and fallen wood from the woods and orchard. We built a huge bonfire with it, which we intended to use as the base for burning a large amount of green wood we've pruned from over grown shrubs and a couple of trees. Now of course the bonfire will be too wet to light.

It is in fact double sods law,as tomorrow is my late wifes aniversary and I always go up to a small mountain village and light a candle in her memory in the chapel there. All this rain has probably fallen as snow and I won't be able to make it through the snow to get there.

I have a real whimpish phobia about driving in snow. Many years ago, at easter, I was driving a car load up to a beauty spot called Troumouse when we hit a patch of snow. The car, without snow chains, was stuck in the snow and every time I tried to go forward it slid sideways and every time I tried to reverse it slid in the same direction. Looking out and down I could see the Auberge where we had eaten lunch, it was about the size of my thumb nail !

The 3 passengers with me had jumped out directly the problem arose, leaving me to my fate ! After a while they sheepishly emerged from the trees on the other side of the road where they had been hiding. They got me out of the predicament by pushing the car downhill into a snow bank on a hairpin bend, from where I was able to turn and drive down to a nearby parking area.

The ensuing fag was the best one I have ever tasted

The Census (again)

There have been more practical implications of the partial census, other than the poor old mayors monthly non-pay check. First I must explain a bit about the local council structure. A number of Communes (villages or small towns, rather like Parish councils in the UK) make up a Canton, which is centred on the largest unit. Round here we refer to this as the town (which has a population of about 5000).

We are blessed with a Canton council that are very environmentally concious, they have already changed the name of the Parks Department to "The Green Brigade" and now as they are responsible for waste collection and disposal they have been very quick to pick up on the European Directives requiring selective waste collection and recycling.


They, the council, have decided to provide 2 containers one for papers and the other for cardboard,tins and plastics. These they will collect alternate weeks and to save a special collection have had the carts converted so that the special collection goes in one side and general rubbish in the other. Clever really!

This is all hearsay because I haven't been issued with the 2 special containers and it's here that the row about the census re-raises its head. At the same time that the village population increased from 184 to 210 the count showed that the number of occupied houses increased from 73 to 84. BUT the powers that be can't accept that to be the case until 2011 ! So they have only issued containers for 73 households, presumably, me and 10 others will have to wait till then for ours.

Interestingly, an albeit partial, telephone survey that I have conducted reveals the amazing coincidence that it's the English and Dutch households that haven't been issued with containers!!

What am I doing here ?

What am I doing here ? It's a long story which began over 20 years ago when the organisation I worked for was taken over. The new bosses soon began a clear-out, offering most people over 50 a redundancy package. It soon became apparent that this was to be a continuing process and both my late wife, who also worked there, and me might be living on borrowed time !

We had 3 years in which to prepare for a work less future, and decided we would make a complete break and explore the feasibility of living abroad; so we spent our holidays looking at various European countries, quickly settling on France.

When our turns did in fact come in 1990 we had settled on the Perigord region (which is next to that much beloved by Brits.-Dordogne). I was pretty pissed at being thrown on the scrapheap at 50 but knowing that pensioners are secured creditors and frozen pension holders weren't, I decided to take an early retirement and redundancy offer. As did the wife.

In those days the take-over merchants were known as "Asset Strippers", then came "Pension Raiders" and now we have "Venture Capital", different labels but it all boils down to the same thing- to make a quick killing at the expense of other (usually little)peoples lives. Still we had a choice,which we both took and I have to concede neither of us ever regretted it.

We set off armed with a wedge of redundancy money and my French "O" level (circa 1956)arriving in Perigeaux, the capital of the region, on our late spring bank holiday (which isn't a french hol.). We went into an estate agent to find ourselves at the back of a queue of 5 English couples. Having friends in Spain, who live in a sort of English enclave, we didn't fancy the idea of living in a Little England, so we jumped in the car and drove 200 miles South towards the foothills of the Pyrenees.

During the journey we passed from the area where the purchaser pays the estate agents fees into that where the vendor pays the agents commission, saving 10% for the cost of half a tank of petrol. As I continue this occaisional series I intend to offer advice to potential purchasers in France on the pitfalls in the system and thats a good one i.e. check who pays the fees

Intrepid Hunters

Sunday,early morning,was bright, crisp and clear; pretty cold but you can't have everything. The hunt was out in force, as I was walking the dog, rumour has it that it's safest to keep dog on a lead as there's not much game about these days and frustration can set in.

They are on a drive for "big game" which round here would be wild boar or deer. Not the great highland type stags, it's much too wooded round here for their great antlers. The locals call them chevreuils which translates as roe deer but to my, albeit, townie eye, they seem too small even for that and are probably montjacs In any event both species are in very short supply round here and they are only permitted to hunt them once a month in season, and you don't hear many shots when walking.

Despite the lack of prey the intrepid hunters take the hunt very seriously and dress for the occasion, complete head to foot camouflage and combat boots. Unfortuneately over the years the camoflage has proved so effective that they occasionly shoot each so now they have to wear dayglow waistcoats and caps. I think most mammals only see in black and white so no damage, as they probably only see day glow grey!

The Census (French Style)

As in the UK, we have a census here every 10 years; the last one being in 2001 when the population of the village was 184. Now some clever spark in the higher echelons of Government has come up with a quintessentially french cost saving idea.

The idea is that, if they conduct a census of 10% of the country, every year, over a 10 year period, the cost will be less than doing a full census every 10 years. The logic somewhat eludes me as 10 x 10% =100 ! But then I'm not french !

It so happens that the village fell within the first 10% tranch and the informal (you will see later why I use that word) results show that our population has increased to 210 since 2001, due to a number of new builds and the renovation of derelicts. In french local government circles 200 is a magic number. It confers more powers on the commune, a larger share of the Taxe d'Habitation and most important, a monthly salary for the Mayor! (last time I saw reference to the pay of the Mayor of a small commune it was about 2000 francs (£200) and that was perhaps 10 years ago).

There was wide spread expectation that the results of the mini census would be formal from the date they were published but no, the idea of the clever spark at the higher echelons of Government had been to spread the (reduced?) cost of the census over 10 years NOT the results themselves. So our population won't officially be 210 until the year 2011.

So our Mayor, who only receives an honorarium, supported by the council, are up in arms that the new population and therefore the monthly £200 won't be official until the year 2011 !

A New Coat

The eldest grandson is 14 and big with it, weighing in at over 14 stone (90 Kilos). This summer he used part of his summer holiday pocket money to buy a winter coat in the hyper-market. I was quite impressed with it and said so,as I can't stand multi coloured stripey things. Further I won't wear things with 3 bars,ticks,little people or even crocodiles, certainly would never pay for a garment with a logo on.

AND YES!!! I was one of those annoying people, who, when asked to pay for a shopping bag, delayed the queue in the supermarket by turning them inside out, whilst muttering about "not paying for gratuitous advertising".

Anyway, back to the summer, as the 2 boys were getting their things into the car on the way to the airport I said to the eldest " Ere! you've forgotten your new coat" "No" he said "Mum said she'll take us to get new winter coats when we get home and I don't want to upset her! You can have it."

So in this cold spell I've been wearing my new coat, Black, no stripes, colours or badges of any sort, perfect. Apart from one thing I noticed this morning for the first time; it buttons up the wrong way. It's a ladies coat !!! So thats why he didn't want to wear it to school!

By co-incidence my previous new coat was also a free-bee. Order 2 items from the mail order catalogue and get a luxurious winter coat free! So I ordered 2 packs of Tea Towels, which duly arrived with the coat, which met all the criteria, single colour,no badges etc. Only the one small snag, the buttons were on the wrong side! Yes, obviously only ladies order Tea Towels.

I take slight consolation from the fact that I am the only early morning dog walker in the village with a choice of winter coats to wear when no-one else can see us!

Baby it's cold outside

It's cold inside too and has been for a couple of weeks now. Bizarrely I'm sitting out in the sun at lunch time, taking my apero and going indoors to light the log fire when I eat. There's this myth that old stone houses with their 2 foot thick walls are "cool in summer and warm in winter". Whilst there's some truth in the first part, with their overhanging eves and shutters pulled across to keep the sun off the glass, don't believe for an instant the warm in winter bit. Once it's cold it's bloody cold and the fire takes ages to heat it.

The temperature levels aren't helped by the fact that I've tried to preserve as many of the original features as possible so I've left a number of the old doors and windows in place and the best that can be said of them is that they fit where they touch. Oh! for the joys and comforts of the PVC double glazing.

Dirty Dog

Probably disgusting is more appropriate than dirty because my gold-en-re-tri-ver has a voracious appetite for shit, all types of shit, except that is, for dog shit. It's a habit that I've tried to break using pepper or tabasco sauce on selected turds but all that happens is that she takes one sniff and walks away, waits until the next rainfall washes away the offending condiment and THEN eats the shit.

There is some small element of preference and certainly cat shit is a favourite, this she can scent and pounce on much quicker than I can react to attempt to stop her. This means I've had to fence off half the garden to separate the feral cats (after I'd driven them out of the barns) from the dog. After cats would come horse dung and cow pats followed by other small mammals like badgers and hedgehogs

This whole process is really upsetting and I get very worked up about it, so much so that, even though I have a slightly dodgy knee, I have stopped taking a stick on the morning walks. I am frightened that I will lose my temper to such an extent that I might hurt her with it. There has been much publicity over the years about outbreaks of road rage or air rage but I am a walking epidemic of turd rage.

I have to organise the morning walks round this problem and I have a large walking map of the district on a pin-board in the kitchen onto which I put coloured pins to mark the location of different types of excrement so that I can avoid the danger areas. Red is cow-pat, blue,horse dung and yellow for badger pits and other small mammal shit. This gives a constantly shifting multi-coloured abstract of shape and form, especially in the summer months as the sun rapidly leaches the goodness out of the various deposits rendering them unpalatable and then a thunderstorm will temporarily refresh and tenderise the dried pile.

Strangely no-one has ever offered to purchase this work of art!

Probably the most unsavorary aspect of this habit is the dogs love for human faeces, these are not generally widely available to the dog except, as now, in the hunting season. You may have noted that I don't allocate a colour on my pin-board when a human has dumped, this is because there is usually other evidence indicating the location there-of. There are normally sheets of toilet paper wafting across the path; obviously the perps have regular movements, possibly due to the healthy gamey diet they consume and come prepared with paper.

What I can't understand is why is the paper always pink? It's such a girlie colour for such a manly pass-time.

Toulouse did lose

So after all the stress and vacillation I finally made it to the match only to see them lose. A strange experience in this vast 50 thousand seater stadium filled with only about 10 thousand fans, with their voices echoing round the empty concrete. TFC, whom I had thought I would be supporting in the future, were 2-0 up with 20mins to go and seemingly likely to score more, when they completely lost concentration and gave away 2 soft goals in 2 minutes and then a third at last knockings. Not, I think, an experience I will repeat !

Despite the game it was a day full of experiences; firstly an excellent late lunch in an italian restaurant, where-in I nearly treated myself to a bottle of Barolo, but as the price at 39.90 was only 10 cents less than my ticket I thought it a bit too extravagant and settled for Chianti instead !

The real drama came in the hotels underground car-park and was caused by the receptionist; in common with most french people who speak pretty good english they insist on speaking it when they recognise a "roast beef" murdering their beautiful language, as did she. But there are certain nuances that they can miss. For example she asked me if I had a BIG car, which I haven't, but I do have a TALL or HIGH car, which with the roof bars (fitted as standard) on, got jammed under the low roof !

A dilema easily solved as long as one can exit the said jammed vehicle, unfortuneatly the entry ramps as well as being very low were also very narrow. So like an utter prick I had to sit there till two fucking americans arrived but as we're helping them out in Irag they helpfully opened the hatch back so I could climb out over the seats. This was no mean feat for an old fart of my age, excessive bulk and minimal level of agility.

I let the tyres down (as it turned out) to about half pressure and after re-entering in similar fashion was able to get the car to a space, luckily it turned out that there was a service station in the next street, which next morning after (I was going to say hair-raising but it was more an embarrassing) 50 metre drive the wrong way down a one way street I was able to restore correct pressures without any damage to the tyres.

I don't think I shall be going back to that particular hotel ever again in case they recognise me

The Marathon

Yesterday was the day of the villages annual marathon race and it meant that my normal access to the footpaths was blocked off to allow the entrants a warm-up area. For the morning walk it was necessary to drive round and through another village to get to the footpaths. On the way back they were setting up a refreshment point at the half way mark and laying out tresle tables with paper cups to be filled with water,soft drinks or sports drinks.

This being France, on the corner of one table there was a bloke busily opening bottles of wine!

Part of the route the runners took covered the same footpath I walked that morning and I followed the distance markers to prove that the walk from the Metro station to the football ground is easily undertaken, so I shall book a hotel near the Metro. Problem solved I hope

From The Ridiculous To Toulouse

My head hurts. Got taken out for a curry lunch today and learnt that there is an hotel within walking distance of the stadium. It's about the same distance as the metro station of yesterdays plan, but I'm not certain if the route passes an early eatery ! The same source also informed me that all the parking near the stadium is free. She has been to the exhibition centre, which is on the same island (did I ever say that the stadium is on an island in the centre of the river?) and knows these things.

My head still hurts and I haven't the faintest idea what to do next or where to book an hotel; the way things are I'm going to end up missing the game.

AND the curry was crap

AND I didn't have the bottle to say so

Another Day Another solution

Following yesterdays abortive search for first parking space and then hotel accommodation within walking distance of the TFC stadium I had a thought that could lead to a jolly wheeze. "What if I find a hotel with parking/garage facilities near a METRO STATION that connects to the one near the stadium??" This is just about within (my) walking distance.

Over recent years Toulouse has been developing an underground METRO system and earlier this year opened the second line. Unlike London with its mix of the pragmatic (Circle line) and the romantic (Bakerloo) names the Toulousians have immaginatively named them "line A" and "line B".

I shall be searching the internet for hotels on "line B" later.

Toulouse Or Not To Lose

I'm knackered, I've spend all day in the pink city, not admiring the brickwork (after which it gets its nickname) of the old town, nor it's varied cultural facilities, nor its famed space centre. I've been making an abortive search for an hotel within walking distance of where I want to go on Thursday next week. I spent seemingly hours driving through mile after mile of low-rise apartment blocks in the suburbs without finding one hotel. I've never been in this part of a major french town before and it seems so different from the miles and miles of suburban UK housing (or little boxes as Pete Seeger called them many years ago)

My quest started because, as usual, I've done things arse about face. I've never been to a french football match, I regularly watch football on TV and many years ago watched live footy in UK but not here. Toulouse or TFC have qualified for the EUFA cup and I thought I would treat myself to tickets for their 2 home games between now and Xmas. I've been on the Internet and ordered them and as the games end at past 22.00, the 2 hour drive is a bit much for an old fart, so an hotel is in order.

Even though a daily morning walk is necessary for both dog and health reasons this is one old fart who's not really designed for excessive walking, and as a glance at the TFC website showed a number of parking areas close to the stadium my first priority was to see if it were possible to get a space there-in. So I started my day in town at the stadium box office. I told the young thing there that I had an Internet ticket for the game against Sparta Prague and asked if it was possible to book parking. She said "not for the moment!"

I had no idea what this colloquialism actually meant ! Did she mean "later" or "perhaps later (if a cancellation)" or " first come first served on the day" ? I just can't think fast enough in french to respond to a dilemma like that so I just slunk off into the car park (empty, of course!) and invented plan "B". That's the search for a local hotel.

Plan "B(2)" was to look for on-street parking within walking distance of the stadium but on a Wednesday morn (albeit in the half term hols.) every possible inch was crammed tight and that's not an exaggeration because the reason that french cars have bumpers is that as they park so close together they have to bump their way out!

It's The Dog That Counts

I'm quite proud of the fact that my dog is a champion crapper, on the odd occasion that other people take her for the morning walk they invariable comment on both the frequency and volume of her performance. If there were an Olympic event she would definitely be gold medal potential; could be our only chance for 2012, perhaps I should write to Lord Coe about this!
I sometimes find the morning walk a bit onerous but have to allow sufficient time for the dog to finish her business, which varies between 3 and 5 squats. So on a bad morning I tended to turn for home after the 3rd crap, the dogs a quick learner and now after her 3rd she automatically turns for home even if I wish to continue

No Flies On Me

There's another gold-en-re-triev-er in the village and the two dogs play well together when they meet on the morning walk. Jean-Claude and Adrienne,who take turns in this sometimes onerous duty are friendly and we have exchanged a couple of meals and looked after each others dogs from time to time.
In the long dry season we intrepid dog walkers are much plagued by little tiny flies that seem to go for the moisture in the eyes and this season Jean-Claude has taken to plucking a large fern like leaf of bracken and using it as a fan.
I have read somewhere that the pollen or spores of bracken is one of the most carcinogenic naturally occurring substances known. I have no idea what part of the plant produces this deadly substance nor at what time of the year but wondered if I ought to warn him of the danger he might be facing. In the end I decided not to- because I quite fancy his wife.
In matters of the heart (or in this case a bit lower down) it is necessary to plan ahead !!

The Hunting Season

With the end of summer comes the hunting season, which starts off with the wood pidgeon shoot. The locals build hides high in the trees in the depths of the woods which they reach with the aid of immense hand built wood ladders and well supplied with wine,bagettes and sausage crouch there all day. It seems that mankind having origionally decended from the trees is returning to it's origins !
The other old farts tell stories of octobers in which the skies went dark as the birds passed over on their annual migration and bemoan the fact that so few arrive this year. In fact the son, who lives in Toulouse,of one loacal old fart comes down and spends his 2 week annual holiday crouched in a hide with his dad; this year he hasn't seen a single wood pidgeon. When I put it to him that it was because they'd killed them all in previous years he vehemently denied the allegation, putting the blame firmly and squarely on "Les Espagnols" who massacre them for pleasure rather than the pot.
They go to great lenghts to compensate for the scaresity of prey, their cars are hidden

Summer's Over

The summer is over, all the summer guzzlers have been and gone. July and August were for the kids, children,grandchildren and ,this year, great grandson. September and into October other family and friends, although these two seem to get fewer year on year not by natural selection but by choice. As well as restarting here I shall also start restocking the wine cellar.
The two early teen grandsons stayed on for a futher two weeks after their parents returned to the UK and fancied camping in the woods. Not brave enough to actually go down into the woods but at the bottom of the garden NEAR the woods.

The youngest lad Andrew arrived back from a summer in Spain and took his one man tent down there to join them. One night they were all sitting around their camp fire when 2 badgers came out of the woods, making lots of screeching noises and chasing and fighting each other, or so the grandsons thought ! Andrew explained to them, probably in the smutty vernacular beloved of early teens, that far from fighting they were doing something else.

Days later, after I'd taken them home, Andrew came out of the shower room and said "go and look at the mirror in there!" You know how when a mirror has steamed up you can write in it and then the message disappears when the steam evaporates only to re-appear when the mirror re-steams. Well the message left by one of the grandsons read " Andrew is a badger shagger!"

Clear Water Revival

A clear water revival, that's what the organisers of the tour de france had been hoping for when they test the riders samples. As in 1998 and again last year, this year the tour again ends amidst embarrassing scandal, positive drug test and confessions of corruption.

Again the designer drug EPO has been found in team wide abuse. I think it safe to say that the first sportsmen to shave their heads were the cyclists, they had long depilated body hair. Some say to reduce wind resistance, some that smooth, bronzed, muscular legs are a real turn on for the ladies, others of a slightly more cynical nature, knowing that the best test for EPO measures irregular growth patterns in the hair, wonder just how long EPO has been around !

However some sort of macho vanity precludes the depilation of the pubic region and this is how the Gendarmes get them, by the short and curlies one might say ! Can you imagine a suspect rider, standing in a dank, dark cell with his lycras round his ankles, faced by 5 burly Gendarmes all brandishing the wifes borrowed eyebrow tweasers, of course they are going to confess.

It's common knowledge that no Gendarme leaves home on the morning the tour is passing through his patch without borrowing the wifes eyebrow tweasers in the hope of making a significant and promotion earning arrest. They obviously don't tell the wife exactly what or where they intend to probe with her tweasers and this is leading some of the wives to question what is going on down at the station, that an otherwise exemplary husband needs to pluck his eyebrows for.

I understand the powers that be are considering offering counselling !!!

The tour de farce

The first lot of grandchildren left today and I've 3 days till the second and much bigger bunch arrive.
We did have the tour pass through our village on the day it was dubbed the tour de farce, because of all the drug taking. Double farce for me; I had planned a TV appearance, the juxtaposition of the road and my garden would be exactly right to be face on to the helicopter camera ! I had both my not very legal UK TV system and the French one set to record and as the eye in the sky followed the main bunch towards me I stepped forward, with a cherry wave, at that instant the bloody machine veared off down into the valley to join the leading group ! Foiled!
The racers always work this very transparent ruse, for the first part of the days stage a few (but never a rider who might stand a chance of gaining the lead) are allowed to build up a substantial lead. During the latter part of the stage the pellaton (main bunch) push to catch up, creating considerable tension and excited full pitch commentary and coincidently all finish together !
They are probably a bit more blassée in the big towns but out here it is made into quite an event, a buvette (portable bar) was set up outside the town hall and a B-B-Q organised in a nearby field and of course the roads are closed hours beforehand.
I was quite surprised, on taking the dog for it's morning walk, to see at least 4 camper vans parked on the green across the road, the greenis no bigger than an average municipal bowling green. Given that the riders pass a given spot at 40 kph (drug assisted!), they are through in seconds, so these happy campers spend their 3 weeks hols

Suck a duck

It's almost six years since we went to pick the dog up as a 12 week old pup, with us, in the back of the car we took a furry toy, a duck, so that she wouldn't miss her mum ! It came complete with authentic quack, she was too small to activate the quack by biting the toy but she soon learnt that bashing it on the floor she could cause a very satisfactory quack.

That toy is still her favourite but is now a bald duck, all the fur chewed off and most of the origional stuffing, including the quacker, eaten. Much repaired and re-stuffed she will still bash it on the floor in search of a long lost quack but what she does is to hold it between her front paws and suck it like a baby will a dummy. This is what she was doing last night out on the gravel in front of the house just before I took her out for a late night pee.

Bit later than usual and the street lights went out at midnight (their usual time) so on the way back we only had the glow from the house lights to see by. I thought I'll pick up the duck and put it in the dry in case it rains. So I picked up this darker shape on the gravel to throw it under the front porch, My scream of surprise, caused the dog to bolt and hide in the barn and the dark shape to give a loud hiss and curl up, me? I just dropped the bloody hedgehog!

Saturday night--Alone

Local time, just after midnight and I've just taken the dog out, for her usual "pee-pee de minuit".

I nearly always treat myself to a bottle of the "GIGO" for saturday dinner, a bottle of Gigondas from the Rhone Valley region. Getting a bit gloomy as I'm on the last glass !!

But last week-end, before the summer visitor panic set in, I went down to the coast, didn't stay long, just TOO many people. I often, out of season, go either to a little place place called Narbonne Plage (plage being beach) or to the northest corner of the cost brava, this being in reach of the Salvador Dali museum (here I get a bit of beach and a bit of loony culture!)

Like anywhere between Tuscany and Gibralta these little places are backed by acres of little villas and flatlets, all rather reminisant of a Butlins holiday camp. Out of season there's the odd little gem that still retains a hint of it's former charm, not when mobbed out though. This silly old fart hadn't realised that the school hols start at the begining of July here.

Driving down on the saturday and pulling into a couple of service areas (these are every 25 K on the motorways ) unsuccessfully looking for coffee and dog pee I was amazed at the places a french familly can leave a car and even more so where they can balance a lunch time pic nic table!!. It seems to be a pre-requisite of a holiday, to picnic en route; I've seen them beside a six lane highway, clinging onto their table-cloth as a juggernaught hurtles by and enjoying every mouthfull!

On the way back a stop for reasons of personal comfort (as we say) and whilst I'm watering the porclain I hear this voice "quel qu'un" (anybody there?) coming from one of the cubicles. Warily, I admitted my presence, to learn that the poor bloke was trapped inside, presumably in the squat position, with NO PAPER ! However he thought help was at hand (do I mean to say it that way?????) because in the red car parked outside were his 3 travelling companions. Could I ask them to assist him. Of course, so on exit I told the 3 young people of their mates predicament and they all fell about laughing. As I drove away they were still propping each other up roaring with laufter.

Presumably the poor sod is still there to this day!

DONT PANIC

Dont panic?? Well I am, it's about 10 days until the first batch of the family arrive for their summer holidays and I've not even started on the preparations, let alone the spring cleaning. You might think that "what does all that matter", it's only family after all. But it does to me because I know when they get home the inter-familial phone lines will be buzzing with " I told you the old fart wouldn't cope on his own.

Perhaps I should get a char lady (and the current local rate is only 8 euros an hour) but to me it's an admission of failure, so I'd rather live in shit most of the time and work my bollocks off, cleaning up , just before people arrive. Anyway it's much worse this year than ever before because me and the youngest boy have spent the winter sanding down and painting newly created ceilings in 3 new rooms in the loft. The dust is everywhere, and he's pissed off to spain for the summer!!

I had resovled to start on monday (it's thursday nite now) and did make a start by checking the water in the swimming pool, although it's been on automatic all winter/spring there was a worrying hint of green about the water. Fuffing and farting about with various tests I've had to conceed that the pump is fucked and a new one needs to be ordered, it's debatable whether this will arrive in time.

Green water could be the least of their problems, when they arrive, because I've always kept the B-B-Que in the barn as the only place that's always shaded from the sun (which can be extreme down here) but this year a pair of birds have nested in it- so B-B-Ques are off for the summer, as well as swimming!

For me the best thing about summer is that I pay for all their air fares out here, there's my 3 boys and their partners, the seven grandchildren, two of whom are old enough to have their own partners and also have produced the 2 great grandchildren. At a rough count thats 17 bodies I'm paying for this year.

Expensive? Yes! but I pay for their trips out on the basis that it's in lieu of their birthday and xmas presents. Can you see what a wonderful wheeze this is ; it means I don't have to worry about having to THINK about what present to buy for birthday or Xmas 34 times.

Health Matters

I've been on 3 monthly check up visits to my "medicin generalist" (whom we would call GP) for nearly 10 years, when I'd had a mild heart attack. But I can't count myself a proper patient yet, to qualify as such, one has to be seen leaving the pharmicists proudly clutching a bulging carrier bag full of prescribed medicines and tablets. My pathetic haul each month fits into a small plastic bag not much larger than an envelope; I have to edge out of the door and make a dash for the car in the hope that no one who knows me will see me.

Things are looking up a bit, as this month he prescribed an extra daily tablet, an anti-allergy non sombulent pill, whilst not promoting me to carrier bag status it does have an impressive list of potential side effects. They are tiredness,dry mouth, head aches, shortness of breath, bronchial wheezing, itching skin, hives, swelling, skin eruptions, palpitations, rapid heart beat, stomach upset, nausia, vomitting, heavyness of stomach, diarihia, vertigo, insomnia, muscular pain, hallucinations, epileptic fits, trembling and inflamation of the liver.

What ever my symptoms were that caused him to prescribe this pill,they've been cured by just reading the blurb.

Chez Dennis

I promised Dennis (donny) I would visit and finally, yesterday, I did ! I needed to check things out first as I couldn't quite understand the relationships, when I'd first met him at Claude et Fabiennes lunch. The little girl there had called both Claude and Dennis "Papi". This is the diminutive for grandad but it's also what grown men call the patriarch of the family ( if I ever run out of things to say I will tell you the near fatal story of the "papi-mobile").

I spoke to a mutual friend, who explained that Dennis was, to my great surprise, Fabiennes first
husband, and therefore the kid his direct grandchild and how in view of his handicap, they all looked after him. He also told me of the terrible accident where he had fallen out of a window and fractured his hip.

Armed with detailed instructions to find chez Dennis I went down into the village in the valley below me; I drove back and forth, trying to find his house; his village is, in fact, twinned with mine, we share a school system, a post office service and most importantly, charity bingo evenings and telethons, so I thought I knew it well.

But I had to ask their Mr Postmaster where the "F" does he live. He directed me back to where I'd started, a little tiny bungalow, which I'd discounted on the basis that no-one could possibely fall out of a window that low and do serious damage. Obviously Dennis could !!!!

As I entered his bungalow I said what a great view he had and he agreed that the mountains were pretty spectacular . No! not there, I said, look the other way, up there , you can see my house!!

The Sunday newspapers

The english sunday papers don't arrive to our remote little corner of france till tuesday, if they arrive at all!! So I've been looking at pictures of the Blairs leaving No. 10 and the Browns moving from No. 11 to No. 10.

The reality is that, because the accommodation in No. 11 is larger, the Blairs with their 4 (I think?) children have lived there for the last 10 years and the Browns in No. 10. So what must have happened for these photos, is this :-

The Blairs removal men must have taken their furniture down the back stairs 0f No.11, into the back garden, passed it over the garden fence into the back garden of No. 10, in through the back door and down the corridor to emerge out of the front door of No. 10 for the photo shoot and then into the van.

Meanwhile the Browns removal men are taking their furniture down the backstairs of No.10, out into the back garden, humping it over the fence into the back garden of No. 11, in the back door, down the corridor and out the front door of No. 11 for the photo shoot as they enter No. 10

Can you emagine the chaos if the Blairs front room sofa on the way down had met the Browns front room sofa on the way up, but of course they've had 10 years or more to plan for this day!!.

Acacia Avenue

At lunch the other saturday, Fabienne had prepared a local delicacy as nibbles with our "aperos" as they call aperitifs. Its acacia flowers, on the twig, dipped in sweet batter and deep fried. You eat it or suck it off the twig,discarding the latter. Bit sweet for me, but it set me off on a nostalgic trip down the lane.

I have always wanted to live in an Acacia Avenue (Road, Street or even Crescent would do!), a lust prompted by envy. When I was at junior school all the posh, rich kids used to live in Acacia Avenue and the only redress we scabby-kneed impoverished snot-gobblers had was to call it " Ack- Ack- Eye- Ah Avenue!

Meeting Dennis

I've met this other old fart called Dennis, of course this being france it's pronounced Don-ny; we were both invited to lunch at Claude et Fabiennes house down in the town. I'd first met Claude a few years back when he helped install the swimming pool; since then he et Fabienne have popped in from time to time so that he can put coke in my best malt whisky ! ! Still I get my own back when I'm down there by not putting coke in his cheap supermarket own brand whisky.

They'd passed by the house (as they say) during the week to invite me for the Saturday, bringing their grandaughter with them and had explained to me that she was not academically gifted but was very good with horses and wanted to work with them. Both she and and this other old fart who was introduced as Dennis, were there when I arrived.

My dog is a gold-en-re-triev-er and she will nearly always pick up a stone or stick and carry it back to the car at the end of our morning walks. By amazing co-incidence, that saturday, as we neared the car I turned and saw that the dog had found and was carrying a riding crop, which I just left in the boot with the rest of the debris she'd collected. When I got to their house at lunch time with the dog in the boot of the car, I saw the little girl there, so I put the crop in the dogs mouth and took it over to her saying "my dog has brought you a pressy".

This stupid little bit of theatre created a sensation, there were tears,cheek kissing (and that was only the blokes!) hand shakes and back slapping. This also prompted Dennis to invite me to pass by his house. No great effort (in theory) as I stand on my back terrace on top of the ridge and look down into the valley and the village in which he lives; chances are I can probably see his house from there!

It was agreed by all present that this would be a jolly wheeze, he is practically housebound, hobbling arround on 2 sticks following operations on a broken hip and would appreciate the company whilst I need to practice my french,they tell me, much more than I do. So the reason for this, is committing to print that I WILL VISIT HIM TOMORROW !

No smoking, french style

So today's the first day of the smoking ban in the UK, we've had a similar ban over here since the begining of the year and it doesn't seem to have made much difference. In part this is because eating /drinking outside is part of the culture; but the main reason is that "small bars and restaurants" (which seems to be pretty much all of them!) have a 12 month excemption. As, with typically french logic, have tobacconist shops ! !
One or two of the more upmarket retaurants locally have imposed the ban; it's a very french thing to eat, with familly or a group of friends, on saturday eve or sunday lunch and on these occaisions the menfolk leave the women and children "a table" and gather outside for a drag and a chat. When the next course arrives the waitresses shout through the door " come in table 4 your times up!"

The Green Brigade

There was a knock on the door last week,it was the Green Brigade; four blokes in a lorry, with assorted mowers,brush cutters and chain saws in the back. They used to be called the Parks Department but we're very environmentally concious round here these days
It transpires that the Tour de France is coming through here next month on their way into (and up) the Pyrennees and what they want to do is to cut back all the trees that overhang the road. "For health and safety reasons " I enquire, non, not at all, it's all to do with the over-riding power of television; their helecopter must have an unimpeeded view of the race.
OK by me, a lot of the 2 and a bit hectares (5 acres) here is woodland along the road and there's at least 2 large overhanging oaktrees which could be dangerous. The Green Brigade also volunteer to take the wood away even though it's not really part of their job; but, on the other hand, it does fetch 55 Euros a stere (thats a cubic metre with air gaps in it ).
This week there has been quite a bit of excitement generated (as excitement goes in the backwoods!), because at the same time as the the trees are being tidied the grass verges are being levelled and the ditches cleared alongside the road leading up to the villagefrom the town. This 3 kilometre climb has reduced my grandsons, on their bikes to tears, but doesn't even feature as a category 4 climb on the tour.
Oh yes ! The excitment? Well as they cleared the ditches they also cut out the bridges that gave access to the fields. Like all french work, it starts, most of the work is finished but then the workforce disappears before final completion. In this case they have left the concrete pipes in the fields ready to remake the bridges but that means there is no access for the farmers.They are desperate to get to the hay crop,which is already weeks late (due to wet weather) and could soon be flattened and useless.
They are blockading the Town Hall with their tractors, demanding action! In the country that developed the blockade into an art form, this is surely the most un-successfull one ever. You see our Town Hall is only part time and is open for only 2 hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during the lunch hour. No french peasant farmer is going to miss his lunch, so when the church clock, across the road strikes 12 they start up and leave; a few minutes later the mayor rushes back from work to open up

The Dog

The first thing every townie does when they move to the country is to get a dog! Of course it also has to be a country sort of dog and there's no exception here!

Much research on the net produced the ideal breed,fitting ALL the above criteria; a golden retriever. It's the same breed in french, except that equal weight has to be put on each syllable, so it's one word "gol-den-re-triev-er"..you try saying it! Through the same research I also found a suitable litter and the last remaining pup, the runt, was available. The issue of two champions she was a bit too short in the leg to win big money so available cheap, as long as I agreed to have her speyed.

Still a very pretty little thing, she became a great aid in learning french,because everyone we pass stops to talk, usually with the exclamation "Ah! petit mignon". This is usually followed by me trying to explain that it's not a labrador but a gol-den-re-triev-er, when this is established there's a natural progression to the weather and, if I'm really lucky, the other persons (whom I might never have met before) latest operation. I've aquired an extensive meteorological vocabulary and an equally extensive knowledge of the human body, except, that is, for the bits I'd really be interested in!

Like everything there are pitfalls and I have learned, with great embarrassment, not to make assumptions about the french language. All french nouns have a gender, most either male or female but some like dog decline with a generic and male gender i.e. chien and a female i.e. chienne. This often occurs when a noun ends in a consonant, the female gender doubles the consonant and adds an "e", like chat and chatte for cats

So chien has it's chienne and thus it follows that chiot (pronounced she-oh) for puppy has the female chiotte (she-ot) but NO "chiotte" translates literally as a SHITHOUSE !!! Oh Dear!! (which translates literally as merde)

You've also got to be carefull with a female cat because of the pussy connection

The Front Porch

These days I'm taking my morning coffee, refreshment breaks, aperitives and indeed post pranial digestives in the shade of the front porch.

It's not much of a front porch, being a bodge-up of iron tube and plastic corrigated sheets, but I've let a creeper grow over, which both disguises it and also provides a pleasant dappled shade, until the sun disapears behind the house after lunch. It's replacement is on the list of DIY jobs and there's half a palet of matching roof tiles in a corner of the barn, in truth, given the amount of time I spend sitting under it, there's not a lot of hope of an early start to working on it !

The older part of the house and thus the front porch forms an "L" with the barn and faces east across a gravelled court-yard to a small garden area. This later is dominated by a huge old cheery tree and this is a very special tree to me. Many years ago I was offered redundancy and although a very generous early retirement pack was also on offer I was pretty pissed at being thrown on the scap-heap at 50. We came over here for the first 3 weeks of March and I sat on the front porch, sipping a chilled glass of white wine or two and watched the cherry tree come into full blossom. I came to the conclusion that, without too much pain, I could probably do this for the rest of my life.

Went into work on monday, saw the peronnel bloke and left on the friday. (I know it's P C these days to say H R but to me they will always be the plonkers from personnel and what's more I'm not even certain how to spell it. )

Then, as now, the cherry tree always has a magnificent head of blossom, but I never seem to get many cherries from it. This year I have spotted the reason. The tree seems to be a magnet for every magpie, jay and red squirrel in the neighbourhood all of which seem to like cherries before they are ripe. The death blow for the crop is the blackbirds, they fledge on the day that cherries are ripe for picking and mums and dads from all over the village bring their young to learn all about the delights of cherries.

I have made an interesting and, I think, origional ornithological observation about blackbird behaviour, they are frightened of heights, as they only eat the fruit that I, otherwise, could reach to pick and leave those out of reach of even my longest ladder at the very top of the tree to rot and fall to the ground

Lunch

I've been over here, on my own, for some years now and am really getting into the french way of lunch.

Within easy reach there are pushing a dozen restaurants with a Menu du Jour at between 10/13 euros, thats £7 to £9 in english and is a four course meal with wine included. In most parts of provincial france most restaurants have a space with small tables laid out for one, this is generally known as "old farts corner", it's where they feed the lonely and the useless.

Personally, I prefer to ring the changes and visit a couple of different corners each week, but generally little social clubs build up amongst the regulars, many old farts eating at the same place every day or I should say every WEEK-day because from friday night through the week-end the single tables are pushed together for the more lucrative friends, lovers and familly trade: we old farts are on our own then (a bit like meals-on-wheels in the UK I suppose!).

I do have a favourite, where I eat quite regularily and although not a fully fledged member of the club am greeted with hand shakes and Ca va?s. But recently the corner has been thrown into utter confusion and panic; our old fart space has been invaded by a comely lady, albeit of a somewhat indeterminate age. Now whilst the old farts are not above flirting with the pretty young waitresses this is an entirely different and very threatening developement. They,as one, decide to counter this threat in tipically french style, they all turn up an hour later.

Unaware of the subtle nuances in play, I arrive at my normal time to find the corner deserted except for the said comely lady. Discreetly positioning myself one table away, I took my seat (this is not a french thing, they would instinctively take the next seat,not seeming to need defendable space like us). Soon to find that she's asking me a question and it's something about "Le Retro". There is much french slang that abbreviates a word to end in "O" for example, "frigo"=refrigerateur and "veto"= veterinaire; so retro? For the moment I can't think but suddenly it clicks !

All french provincial towns have what seems to us to be a throw back to earlier more romantic times... afternoon tea dances!!! These are invariably held in a hall called "Le Retro" So she's asking me if I'm going to the local tea dance; not wanting to cause any undue offence I answered in complete honesty that I don't dance because I've got two left feet. To confirm this unusual deformity she lifted up the table cloth and peered underneath

I found out later that I should have said "I dance like a duck"....viva la différance!