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.