Mud, rain and a filthy mind

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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?