New Year's Message

And what a year it’s been. Monica and I have started a new life here in France. We are planning to find a new pace for our later years, slower, more reflective, more fulfilled. I’ve no regrets at leaving my job a little early. I could see there was an ever declining market for my particular talents. Of course, that is a sad indication of the way the world is going, but, as my colleagues at work said, you can’t buck the trend, old chap, not with what you have to offer. I took that as a considerable compliment at the time, but looking back, I’m not entirely sure that all of them were sincere, particularly Tony who I know had been angling for my post for many a long year. Well, good luck to him, the oily toad.
Still, never mind, Tony is welcome to the nine-to-five drudgery, the endless meetings and having to deal with Enfield. Here I am, happily ensconced in Rosbif-sur-Lie, not a care in the world, booze a third of the price of Sainsburys and a climate infinitely better than Essex. What do I miss? I suppose the pub, going for a swift one with the chaps, a game of darts and some of the most robust opinions you can hear this side of Basildon. Not much else to be frank. I certainly don’t miss commuting, squashed into some god forsaken train with some chap’s Guardian newspaper being waved in my face. Don’t the M25 either, that ring road round hell. There are inevitably a few niggles about our new life. Monica says I complain about the quality of the underpants here – can’t beat a sturdy pair of boxes from M&S in my opinion – and then there’s the really dreadful stuff that passes for paint. It’s thin and watery and falls off the wall as soon as you put it on. Oh well, can’t have everything I suppose.
I must say, our move to Rosbif has not been entirely without problems. We’ve still got the fosse issue. The stink is markedly less bad on cold days, particularly since I bought a sheet of fibre board to put over the hole. And the chickens have gone off lay again. They’re eating like small horses, but certainly not rewarding us with fresh eggs. I’ve told Monica they’ll have to go, but she tartly reminds me she never wanted them in the first place.
We did make a couple of resolutions on new year’s eve. Firstly we’re going to do our best to learn the lingo and secondly we’re going to install some decent heating. The stove is all very well, but it’s just one room and getting out of bed on a cold morning is no fun. I said to Monica, I don’t care what it costs, we’ll get a system installed that really keeps us warm.
So, good all round really. Bring on the next year, learn the lingo, integrate with the jolly old Frogs and bob’s your uncle, we’ll be happy as Larry, blending into village life like nobody’s business. Can’t wait.

M. Coq's Mission

I've always known that a local French mayor is a very big fish in a very small pond, but M.Coq has the bit between his teeth and has announced his intention of purging the local Augean stables. By which I mean he has called a meeting about the local sewage problem. And problem it is, if the stink that all too frequently assails us from the back of the house is anything to go by.
Jeff, my source of local information, explained that Rosbif-sur-Lie is afloat on a sea of shit, to put it at its most basic. There is no sewage system, no sewers just various holes, tanks and other receptacles in the garden of every house. And where there is no garden, like in the cottages just by the Mairie, there is just some noxious pit in the cellar which no doubt leaks away into the soil.
It’s to deal with this that M.Coq has called his meeting. Can’t come a minute too soon for us, I have to say. Monica got a fit of the vapours yesterday and had to go out shopping to escape the pong. I said, manfully, I would investigate to see what could be done when I’d finished the Telegraph. I got a curl of the lip for my pains and it is true I have been promising to do something about it for several weeks now. Trouble is, I simply didn’t know what to do.
Anyway while she was out, probably off with the hippy wife with whom she seems to have become pally recently, I donned my Hunters and ventured into the garden. Old Pierre had vaguely indicated where the fosse, as it’s called, was and I poked around in a patch of nettles, looking for a lid of some sort. No lid, but a large slab of stone, which I tried to lift completely without success. Being a resourceful sort of chap I got hold of a long plank from the shed (not chicken shed, the other shed) and shoved it underneath the slab. God, that thing was heavy. Unfortunately, it was also not very well supported and as I gave it a huge heave to get it to slide sideways, it sort of slithered on edge and with a frightful splash fell into the hole. I cannot tell you how ghastly that was. Apart from the tidal wave of shit that sploshed out, much of it going down inside the Hunters, the smell that seemed to explode from the watery depth was unbelievable. Thank god it’s cold at the moment. In high Summer, we would have had to clear the village. Naturally, when Monica returned I had a bit of explaining to do. She was not pleased. M. Coq’s meeting cannot come soon enough for me.
However, in every cloud there is a silver lining, as my old dad used to say. The dreadful stink seems to have excited the hens so much they've started laying. Probably think we're trying to gas them and they spitting out their last few eggs before they end up in the pot. Funny, that.

Waiting

I am waiting for the laying to start. Monica has started to smirk in rather an unpleasant way. “Boiled or fried? Or perhaps you’d prefer the curate’s egg?” was her snide comment as I came in from inspecting the birds this morning.
I told her we just had to wait, you can’t hurry nature. I’m afraid she is not really a country girl at heart.

Chickens

Somehow we’ve ended up with chickens. I’m very excited, unlike Monica. Quite out of the blue Pierre turned up with a grotty old sack slung over his shoulder. “Poulet,” he said and released them all over the kitchen. He grabbed my elbow and dragged me to the window, poking a knarly finger in the direction of the garden. “Maison,” he spluttered, making clucking noises and flapping his arms. I peered through the glass and realised he was pointing at the tumbledown shed we’d inherited. “Ah, a hen house,” I said. His face lit up. “Oui, oui, ‘en ‘ouse.”
“What do we want with sodding hens?” Monica grumbled from the touchline, but by that time it was too late to say no. Fresh eggs in the morning, a chuck for the pot every now and then, fluffy little chicks, what more could we want. Good old Pierre.
It took a lot of scrambling under the furniture and bruised knees to gather them all up. It has to be said they were a pretty scrawny lot and most of them had shat on the kitchen floor before I managed to shove them all back into the sack. Monica refused to have anything to do with it and retired to the sitting room with a stormy look on her face and a valedictory, “Don’t expect me to look after them. And the mop’s in the cupboard.”
On inspection, the tumble down shed didn’t actually look like it would be much use. There were several holes in the walls and the door didn’t shut properly. I spent the rest of the afternoon patching it up with old bits of wood I found inside, bashing my thumb painfully in the process. By drinks time it was all done, the chickens were out of the sack and contentedly pecking around at the kilo of rice I’d purloined from the kitchen store. Now it is time to wait for eggs.

Le Question

Frankly, I’m still a bit flummoxed by the fact we don’t seem to be meeting French people. We came to France for this very purpose. “Je swee un European” to misquote President Kennedy. And if I am – and Monica of course – to be Europeans we need to meet and integrate with other Europeans. Which in our case are our French neighbours. However the fact of the matter is that nearly all our neighbours are English. We had no idea when we plumped for Rosbif-sur-Lie that it would be full of “les anglais” but it seems that it is. Only old Pierre, he of the snaggle teeth and silent gestures, seems to represent the local French. There’s M. Coq, the mayor, of course, and the denizens of the bar and “Le chasse” but we haven’t really tried the bar and I don’t think I’m up for hunting. Apparently, the hunters spend their time shooting each other, so it doesn’t seem a good idea.
Monica and I were chatting about this last night over a glass or two of vin rouge and we came to the conclusion that perhaps if we were to learn to speak French it might be easier. Most of the French can speak some English, naturally, but it seems only polite to learn some of their lingo. Jeff, my source of local information, says there’s a jolly good class every Thursday night over in Bonville, which is only about twenty miles away. We’re definitely going to sign up. I’m sure in no time we’ll both be speaking like natives.

Carol Trouble

Utter disaster, total balls up. After all that work to get the carol service right it was completely cocked up by a ridiculous arse called Toby. Until we got to the church – nice little building, spruced up and full of Christmas cheer with holly and mistletoe all over the shop – no one had mentioned a word about Toby. Some friend of Mrs Boothby – god knows, after this total balls up I am not going to call her Patricia – who is, apparently, a bit of a musical chap, plays the bassoon and lives in London, over here for a Christmas visit. No wonder she’d kept the gurning little creep under wraps. I have to admit Monica and I were a little late for the service. Car wouldn’t start, then we had an argument about how to get there. We went my way, but regrettably Monica was right and we had to drive half round the country to find the place. Then there was nowhere to park nearby and I put the front wheels into the ditch. That’s the trouble with rural France, ditches everywhere, several feet deep and just an inch off the edge of the road.
I had my best shoes on which ended up covered in mud. Monica was wearing boots and was a bit holier than thou as I scrapped the mud off my brogues at the entrance to the church.
It was a pretty good turnout, quite a few faces I seemed to recognise, including Rupert and his hippy wife, Jeff and Megan and of course, Nora and Harold. She gave me quite a glare when she saw me, then looked the other way. Harold came up to shake my hand and stuttered out some kind of greeting. I didn’t see the embezzler there, probably in the chokey by now.
Mrs Boothby, clad in some kind of cloak, waved us up to the front. “This is Toby”, she said, indicating a young man with floppy blond hair, wearing what I can only describe as a knitted sack, probably something an adoring aunt had given him. “Toby is going to conduct,” she said. “He’s at the academy.” What academy she didn’t say, but in the light of what happened I would say the academy for the terminally insane.
We were all lined up, all twelve of us singers, facing the audience. There must have been about sixty crammed into the very small chapel, expectant faces like a nest of chicks expecting the imminent delivery of a worm. Toby rose to his feet and addressed them.
I will not inflict on my gentle readers exactly what he said, but it was a hundred yards of complete drivel. He went on and on about the history of the English carol, then about the music, then about himself, then about the carols again, then a bit more about himself. Talk about arse achingly boring. I could feel sixty sets of eyeballs drilling into him, wishing him dead. And then all of a sudden, he stopped, turned round to the choir (us), whipped one of those tuning pipe things out of his pocket, blew on it, yanked a baton out of the interstices of his knitted sack and started waving it frantically as though we all knew it was time to start.
By this time several of us were getting the giggles. Monica kicked me in the ankle. “Behave,” she whispered between gritted teeth. Well, we did our best in front of the gurning Toby. I have never seen so many maniacal expressions on one human face. And all the time I could see Mrs Boothby beaming away in the front row as her idiotic protégé proceeded to turn quite a nice little carol service into comic turn.
We were, of course, brilliant, in spite of Toby’s antics. The best thing we could do was entirely ignore his baton, which seemed to be knocking out a beat entirely different to our singing. And at the end he had the effrontery to say, as we left, that it would have been better if we had followed his beat.
We still had the problem of the car in the ditch. Monica said we’d have to be towed out, but I said, nonsense, I’ll reverse. All I got for my pains was an avalanche of mud up the windows. “Now what,” said Monica tersely. She wasn’t about to make a suggestion, so I got out, inspected the damage (the front of the car was somewhat deeper into the ditch), then went in search of someone to help. Just as I was wondering what next, there was a tap on my shoulder and there was Harold, stuttering away. “C,c,c,c,c,” he tried to say, and I saw he was pointing to his Landover, with Nora sitting stonily in the front seat. It wasn’t an offer I particularly wanted to accept, but when needs must… He was clearly well prepared with a tow rope and everything and in a moment or two managed to haul us out of the ditch, with only the loss of our front bumper.
“I hope you never, ever do that again,” was all Monica said, once we were driving back. I shall be having a few words with Mrs Boothby about all this.  

Medical Emergency

Just our luck. A few days after Monica was savaged by a rampaging donkey, her hand turned septic. Overnight it blew up like a football. I must say, I had not been that sympathetic, but the sight of her hand looking like a rubber glove inflated to an enormous size with fingers like sausages, all bright red and throbbing was not pretty. I called Jeff, my source of all local information, and he said take her along to Dr Ciseau, the village quack. Apparently you have to grab him between gauloise and it is true that his surgery smells like a pub after a heavy Saturday night. But he’s meant to be “sympa” and doesn’t chuck you out after five minutes. Anyway, we trotted along and after a lot of sniffing and squeezing – Monica yelped a few times – he gave her a shot of something in her behind and handed over a prescription. All for 23 Euros which seems pretty cheap. You’d have to take out a hefty mortgage in the UK. Then it was along to the pharmacy. It’s the most modern building in the village, all neon and plate glass. Monica ended up with about fifteen items to swallow, dab on and bind up. M. Marteau, the chemist, speaks some rather comical English and was very keen that we understood precisely what to do with all the medications her handed over. Quite amazing.

This business has certainly got me a bit annoyed and I shot off an email to Nora and Harold to the effect that their wretched donkeys are dangerous. I mean, all poor Monica did was offer one of the things a carrot and now look at her. The tone of my email obviously got under Nora’s skin because she shot one almost straight back – she must spend a lot of time crouching over her computer – accusing us of “annoying and upsetting” her precious donkeys. To top it all, she said it was us who owed her an apology, not the other way round. Clearly the woman is a potential menace and we need to keep out of her way, though, according to Jeff, that won’t be easy as she has a finger in many a pie. The village, it seems, can be a nest of vipers, what with her, Reggie the embezzler and M. Coq, the mayor. No doubt there will be others. Tant pis, as they say here.