Luftwaffe Gretcha

5th February
The day after the Hair Rubbing Supper I made an English Sunday Roast lunch for my French neighbours. They found many aspects of the meal bizarre, I demonstrated pouring gravy over my chicken and roast vegetables, my friends watched agog and commented that it was un idée trés original, in a tone that translated as 'that looks weird and disgusting'.

Chicken eaten and cleared away. I am about to serve my best walnut-and-treacle-tart but am interrupted by the sound of a car drawing up outside. One of the guests said 

That's  Bic and his wife, I have asked them to bring my ducks here.

The Bics came in and agreed to join us for dessert and coffee, the ducks, being of the deceased variety, were popped in the (food) fridge* and I once again prepared to put  knife to tart... but once again, the sound of another car this one squealing into the yard, then someone pushing open the front door, shouting. An elderly lady burst into the dining room waving a shoebox, telling us in her strong German accent that she was Gretcha ... had seen the November film show ... wanted to donate her butterfly collection ... kept forgetting ... came straight over before she forgot again.

We all stood up and peered in as Gretcha lifted the box lid revealing a mass of jumbled up bits of butterflies and moths. I accepted the gift and thanked her. There was more.  Gretcha pulled out a screwed up knob of tissue from her pocket and handed it to me with much gravity. 

I unwrapped a grey and rapidly decomposing leech. Everyone recoiled. 

I said
Lovely, I’ll put it in the fridge with the others
There was quiet, people were looking at me strangely.

* I have two fridges, one for the usual reasons and the other for dormant ants, butterfly pupae and any other creature we might find useful for filming later on

Salmon Supper

8th January
We celebrated the first yoga class of the new year with an after-class supper, I attempted to take some initiative with this one, proposing that I could contribute a big tart. Mme B, astonished that I still misunderstood the etiquette of these events put me firmly in my place:
I will bring a whole salmon, we will have it cold with mayonnaise, Mme Bic can make her salad, Mme Eena will bring rillettes, you bring bread

We decided to hijack the maire's conference room for our meal this time - it has a nicer table, The Bontettes, The Bic Biros, Church Cleaning Lady, The Bank Manager, The Sheep Farmers, Scary Eena, The Instructor and myself all eating Scary Eena's rillettes under the gaze of Sarko. My neighbours are forthright in a way that some people might find rude, mostly I find it amusing. During supper the conversation turned to 'The English’, I’m used to this conversation now, it usually starts with someone asking me a question like;
Do the English eat soup?
The questions can get a bit repetitive and sometimes I answer in a way that amuses me but my flippancy will always come back to bite me and I will be informed at a later date that 'The English think soup has aphrodisiac properties’ or 'soup is only drunk at midnight in England’.

After the soup conversation we got down to the real business
The English certainly do like a drink don't they?

During Sunday's Tart Party, Bic Biro toured the tables constantly with bottles of cider, the village ladies have explained to me that the polite rule here is to accept no more than a glass or two, no matter how much the host insists. English participants, who don’t understand this game and wanting to be seen to join in properly will accept more than the correct amount of glasses - the side effect being that their French improves.

M. Bontette suggested that
The English are not a nation of alcoholics they are just Bon Viveurs

Mme B actually snorted at her husband
But they are incontinent in all ways … sex, drink, food, it’s all stories of bottoms with them … they don’t know when to stop

Cocktail Hour

30th October
After the yoga class this week we had our picnic supper in the Salle des Fetes. Pulling together six small plastic picnic tables we were completely dwarfed by the cavernous hall. Bic Biro brought out his apperitif drinks; bottles of Muscat (sweet wine), Ricard and a French brand of Whisky. Mme Bontette had got her fish soup simmering away on the bar counter and was in exuberant mood. She wanted everybody to try a Manhattan - which in her head means equal parts Muscat and Whisky. We don’t have ice and the bottles have not been near a fridge. It takes very special circumstances before I can look at cheap, warm whisky with anything approaching desire. French people think it’s very odd that English people often opt for red wine as an aperitif.

Despite the echoey, swimming-pool quality of the hall I asked Bic if I can use it as a venue for our film show, he’s thrilled with the idea - we have a date.

Food - and Yoga

23rd October
My reasons for not mentioning my background as a cook to French people are different from my UK reasons;
a) They will laugh heartily at the idea of an English person cooking. French people from all regions and in all age groups absolutely love recounting stories about their friend's old auntie, who once went to England and how terrible she found the food.

b) French people like the idea of 'stability', people who chop and change careers, are instable - and if you do use that word in a sentence when you're discussing someone, say it with a shocked upturned note.
I let my neighbours assume that I have the correct insectologist and fluffing qualifications and have been doing this job constantly since graduating.


I’ve joined the weekly yoga class that takes place at our Salle des Fetes. Half the class are couples; The Bontettes the Bic Biros and the Sheep Farmers, then there is a pregnant postlady, the lady that cleans the church and Jeanne who runs the lunch café in the next village. My bank manager takes part and Scary Eena does the session in her slippers. The instructor is lovely and helps Eena and the Postlady into reclining postures while the rest of us find new ways to stand on one leg.

The evening always starts with lots of kissing and lengthy greetings. After this week's session Mme Bontette declared that next week we should have a group picnic supper after the class and that she will provide fish soup, Scary Eena immediately volunteered her rilletes, Mme Biro offered a salad and Mme B then told the rest of the class what they must bring – having failed my tomato-chopping task at last month’s sports day I am appointed bread monitor.

Two Crowds

22nd September
More people than I’d expected turned up to the Grand Sunday Barbeque. I’d asked everyone to bring along something to share: a salad or tart perhaps? an elderly neighbour handed me a huge washing up bowl full of cooked green beans and told me to get them dressed immediately while they were warm and that I’d better find a larger bowl to do it in.

I have a suspicion that Mme Bic Biro is a school teacher, she has short, shiny, stripey hair and a voice for reaching the far end of any school playground. When I realised how many people were turning up, she conjured up extra cutlery and made enough rice salad to feed a small country.

It was really hot yesterday. The French and non-French contingents kept pretty much separate during the afternoon, the two groups were clearly differentiated by the fact that the French guests sat in the shade and they did not bring their dogs.

We’re all trying not to scratch our itchy red aoûtat bites. I'd never come across them before coming here, my body looks like it has measles.

Sports Day

1st September
We’ve just had a Fete des Sports. Given that on any summer weekend there will be at least two villages nearby having a Fete Locale identical to the one we celebrated in July the low population level here means that attracting participants can be tricky. Villages have tacit agreements to support one neighbour over another and supplementary fetes are a bit of a risk, especially with all the boycotting going on in our village lately. Undaunted, the Entertainments Committee organised two days of activities which included several meals, a cycle race, ping pong, card games and pétanque.

In my role as Chief Community Liaison Officer for our household I’d offered my services for the event. Last week I sat in on a meeting where schedules were made and tasks delegated. I was assigned the role of assistant tomato chopper for Saturday lunch.

The schedule posted on the door of the Salle des Fetes bore no relation to actual events, preparations for Saturday's midday barbeque (with tomatoes) started at 3pm. Unfortunately I'd failed to stay au courant and in a convoluted misunderstanding I missed the opportunity to show off my tomato-chopping prowess.

What was really needed was bodies. On Sunday afternoon, the last game was won at 6pm, the winner zoomed off on his motorbike and the few spectators ebbed away. Half a dozen of us remained resolutely spinning out our drinks, waiting for the 8pm closing ceremony. When the time finally arrived, two visiting dignitaries solemnly waited to present the prizes. Bic Biro and the President of the Entertainments Committee made speeches and we applauded as the dignitaries held aloft the trophies that would have been handed to the victors had they been there.

Let the good times roll

Bic Biro is the pointy-nosed dynamo who runs our village with help from Mme Bontette. The actual Maire prefers to be left alone with his bees and is entirely happy with this arrangement. Once the graveyard is tidy, and if we don't need another road sign, the main task at the Mairie is to organise the events that take place in the Salles des Fetes, an activity that Mme Bontette throws herself into wholeheartedly. But Mme Bontette is considered a foreigner because she's from a town 40 miles away and not from the actual village, so naturally there is much scurrilous gossip about her. She tells me that there will be gym and yoga classes starting at the Salle next month and a coach trip is being organised to stock up with cheap booze in tax-free Andorra as well as monthly dances. Bic only got voted in at the election by the narrowest of margins - I can't understand why anyone wouldn't want to vote for this 'Good Time' party?

Supper at the village hall

17th August
We're usualy too tired to go out in the evenings but last night The Director and I went to the Salle des Fetes to join in with the annual summer dinner party. Bic Biro, the Bontettes and Scary Eena were there, and Bruno the Knob Destroyer, drunk, he simultaneously sprayed me with the cracker he was eating while bashing my left breast as he gesticulated. The dumb smiley girl I washed bottles with last month was also there with a man I took to be her twin brother until she introduced him to me as her boyfriend. I watched The Director gradually nodding forward as the evening wore on, he straightened up with a jerk now and again until he finally gave in and dropped off. His snoring drew a bit of attention but not as much as I would've expected, no one pointed and laughed like they do in England.

My humane trap stayed empty for a couple of days, then yesterday, sitting happily in the cage with a walnut in his hands, was a half-tailed mouse. Clearly none the worse for Thursday's adventure, this time I took him a good mile up the road to let him out.

Health and safety

17th June
I visit the Mairie to find out if there are any ‘dangers’ I should know about such as scorpions or bad snakes. The Maire’s sidekick who looks like the Bic Biro man is there and so is a man with a military haircut who, it turns out, is my neighbour.