Epiphany

5th January
I took the Director to the airport last night so I was a bit sad and lonely this morning - and then the ants arrived.

Yup, this morning a lovely box full with test tubes of starter ant colonies arrived, here’s the email to explain everything;

Dear Lulu,

Best thing is to put the ants in the fridge, make sure they look like they are hibernating. They might look wrinkled, if they are moving around too much they will need to be cooled down gradually to 5-8 degrees C (don’t let them get affected by the frost). It is important to make sure they have enough water but not too much, most ants don’t make it through the winter because of either drowning or dehydration.

Best Wishes etc

I have been inspecting them anxiously all day for signs of wrinkling or death or life

Before setting off to the airport we had time to attend the annual epiphany tea party at the Salles Des Fetes; on the first Sunday of the new year the Maire invites our village and the two tiny communes next to us to join him for cider and special epiphany tarts, Gallette de Roi. Hidden inside each tart is a ceramic charm, the person who breaks a tooth on one of these charms gets to wear a crown and be king (or queen) for the day. We sat at the white plastic tables while smartly dressed village officials came around with trays of Galletes de Roi, chocolates and cider it is a polite sort of event.


The English man that I have unkindly named Fat Dad was there with his offspring. The French children sat with their parents all dressed in their Sunday Best while FD’s kids careened around like banshees grabbing at chocolates, keeping their mouths full as they shrieked at each other. Fat Dad was beaming as I went to wish him Happy New Year.
We don’t allow any sugar or refined or processed food in our house, so this is a real treat for them – aren’t they having a great time

Looking for the Chicken Nugget Tree

25th September
Most of the British population here are attending French classes as a way of trying to get to grips with the language. Fat Dad however, has taken the osmotic approach to language learning, that well known process where simply being in France makes the language absorb through the skin. He doesn’t believe in school so his children don’t go. And because it’s really hard communicating with French people when you don’t speak the language, the osmotic method is slow.

Sometimes I stop by his gate and let Fat Dad lecture me, he always has a lot to say about the evils of processed food, he doesn’t allow his children any sugar or salt and wants them to grow up eating food that they have grown or foraged themselves, living off the land 'like the French do'. Their vegetable garden isn't going yet, so it’s down to foraging for the moment. He asks if I have any idea what is around that they could gather. There are figs everywhere, I get him a plateful. He looks mystified - I show him how to eat the fruit. He tries a little and decides that figs are not going to be on their menu, they’ve also rejected tomatoes and apples - I’m curious to know what they do eat.

It was the eldest child’s birthday today, Fat Dad took his son to visit neighbours so they can announce the event. I passed by with a card and was invited into their house for the first time. The kitchen is dominated by a huge table mostly covered with power tools, screws and nails, children and mother are sitting at the table happily munching away from a big tray of cold white oven chips, a dish of hard boiled eggs and a tray of chicken nuggets. This is the food they like, Fat Dad says,
on special occasions we have this for a treat.

Mud Pies and Sandcastles

28th August
Fat Dad brought his boys round to see me yesterday morning. Keen to prove that he’s not grumpy all the time he stuck a veneer of joviality on his dogmatism. He has lots of opinions, the top ones being : Schools (bad –he does the education at home), Food (bad unless homegrown or 'foraged from the earth') and The Rural French (marvelous specimens of authenticity in this bad, corrupt world). His boys are demanding and I'm soon tired of them. Sensing my growing irritation, Fat Dad assured me that social skills will go on the curriculum next week – that’s OK then.

In the afternoon when I walked past their yard I was treated to the alarming sight of a trouserless Fat Dad (he’s not naked - a true Englishman he is still wearing his socks and sandals). He tells me that he’s decided it's time to start potty-training the four-year-old. Fat Dad is going without trousers too so that his son doesn’t feel embarrassed. As he chatted happily to me over the gate the boy, playing behind him, squatted in his sandpit and excreted a neat curl of poo as he continued to pat his sandcastle.

Grumpy old man

18th August
Fat Dad from next door turned up this evening as I was taking a handful of crickets to feed the praying mantises. He tells me that he feels too grumpy to stay for a drink but thought he’d better let me know. I made resigned-but-understanding noises while the crickets tried to escape through my fingers. He didn't seem to want to go and be grumpy with his family though, he grumbled on for a full half hour about how fed up he is to find himself living in an area with so many other 'Brits'. He plans to not socialise with any non-French people so he can integrate properly with the ‘real’ populace. I encouraged him in this plan.

The half-tailed mouse was back in the trap this morning I put him in the car and drove him miles down the road to let him go

New neighbours

Yesterday the English man who recently bought the property next to the Lovely House turned up in a battered camper van towing a trailer. I was out by our gate as he arrived and it seemed rude not to go over, say hello and suggest they come by and join us for a beer the following day. He is of retirement age, very overweight and has two boisterous young children. He also seems quite grumpy. There's a scared-looking wife but as she hid behind the van when I walked over I can't really say much about her yet.