Yeah, so I'm artistic. Is that a crime?

Bulldogs, geraniums and parrots

I got myself up in the dark, pumped Mr Rusty’s tubes until they were as hard as you like, and set off into the mist and drizzle.

The open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs! Camps, villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The whole world before you, and a horizon that's always changing!

I’m sorry. I appear to have developed a Wind In The Willows fixation, and taken on the persona of Toad at that. Bits of dialogue keep popping up in my head. Probably the sign of a misspent youth. I went off road on Mr Rusty and skidded along the muddy banks of the Dordogne, occasionally sliding a little closer to the steep edges of that lugubrious river than I had intended, and getting slightly scared by my own bravado. Rabbits, robins and rats dashed hither and thither as on and on I went, thinking things like…

Are Germans immune to German measles?
If chickens get a pox, what’s it called – people pox?
Are all kisses in France considered to be French?
What’s wrong with a dog’s life? Seems like quite a cushy number to me.
Do parrots really have a tendency to be sick more often than other birds?

And...

Is there anywhere around here where I can get my brain tested?

After a fair few miles, and a definite cardio-vascular workout (well, I was panting like a dalmation on crack and my heart was doing that pounding thing which I think is a sign of life) I returned to Bergerac some two hours later, dripping with mud and moister than a damp flannel on a wet day. After a steaming hot shower and a pint of black coffee I gave assistance where I could with the Guardian crossword in London (via email), wrote for two hours solid, paused for a bite of lunch and then wrote for another four hours. I am really getting into the spirit of this writing lark. It’s nice work if you can get it. And if you can get it, nice work. No fags mind you.

Those lovely people at a little place I know called L’Enfance de Lard had the nerve to invite me back, and it was most charming to spend a couple of hours in their company, amply provided with gin and tonics until the first of the evening’s guests had the bad manners to arrive. I slunk off into the night like a bad smell.

Home for a curry and more Curb Your Enthusiasm which I adore. So, goodnight then. That's me done for 2004. No New Year’s resolutions, no not, no nothing. Just me, a hot water bottle, a jolly good book and goodnight. That was the year that was.

Well done to 2004. It took a bloody long time, but I have found a different way. As the boy said in that dreadful NatWest advert all those years ago:

“It’s not all just work work work you know!”

See y’all in 2005!

It was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor

It's me dears!

Ageless! Just like Peter Pan

All along the backwater,
Through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
Up tails all!

Ducks' tails, drakes' tails,
Yellow feet a-quiver,
Yellow bills all out of sight
Busy in the river!

I don’t know why I thought of that today. It just got stuck in my head when I took a walk by the Dordogne and watched the ducks mucking about, and it wouldn’t go away until I had written it down. Isn’t strange the things you remember from childhood? Just when you least expect it, they pop straight into your brain. It’s from Wind In The Willows in case you were wondering. Kenneth Graeme has a lot to answer for – well he has in my case.

OK, so up at the crack of 7am and churning out words by 8am. Made soup (onion, leek, turnip and potato – wey hey!) mid-morning and carried on writing until lunch at 1pm. Oh yes, in between I must admit (otherwise they will point it out) I worked on The Guardian crossword with my colleagues back in London, who are clearly under a lot of pressure at the moment. Everybody knows sepia comes from cuttlefish for heavens sakes. Don't they?

After lunch, I thought this won’t do. This won’t do at all! I need to get out into the big wide world and make an impression. I did my very best Thora Hird all the way along the side of the Dordogne, but nobody got it. I settled on a bench and wrote copiously, then gave that up and wrote normally. After about an hour I began to appreciate this was the end of December and not exactly the ideal weather to be sitting around outside, and so I scuttled home like a cuttlefish singing the above ditty to myself. Do you see what I'm doing here - bringing all the threads together? And all the Freds - ah Fred - you must meet Fred.

More writing until early evening when I threw in the towel because the sun was well over the yardarm and besides, I didn't need a towel, and I wandered around to a little local restaurant I know (I believe it’s called L’Enfance de Lard) where I was provided with a survival kit of one bottle of fresh milk, a piece of steak, a Times newspaper, a pain aux raisin, a half-full bottle of custard and two large gin and tonics. If you ever happen to find yourself in Bergerac I heartily recommend this place either for eat-in or take-away services. The people who run it seem quite friendly too, although why they always shout ‘Get out! Just get out!’ every time I pop in, well, heaven only knows. I think it may be Tourette’s or a similar affliction. Whatever it is, I'm sure they don't mean the unkind things they shout when they throw stale bread at me as I run across the square.

Back indoors I looked through The Times and was absolutely sickened by the scale of the disaster caused by the tsunami. The photographs were absolutely shocking. I felt dreadful. How are you meant to deal with this kind of news? I stood staring at the paper in stunned silence. All those lives…and still it goes on. It is devastating. It makes one feel guilty for being OK and carrying on.

I cooked my steak and ate it while watching Curb Your Enthusiasm which I think I may have previously mentioned, is quite wonderful.

Tomorrow I have resolved to go on a cycle ride, and Saturday and Monday – I thought I might skip Sunday as the forecast is rain. I need to cycle – I am turning into a tub of lard. Fat and fag-free! Ooh, a fag....nope! Yippee, I am a non-smoker (repeat x100 twice a day).

A river runs through it

No pissing

Shall we go for lunch?

I was up before it got light – I can still do it – and writing by 8am. The sun came up and lit up the room where I write, and the sky was bright blue. Toast popping out of the toaster, coffee percolating away, me at the laptop writing nonsense. It couldn’t be much finer.

The doorbell rang and there was M&A ready to escort me into town. The strap on the watch H gave me for Christmas needed adjusting, and Michael agreed to help me out with technical jargon in French if needs be in the jewellers. It wasn’t necessary as the assistant spoke fluent English with an American twang – I’m never going to get any better am I? We walked around the market (for Wednesday is market day) and returned to collect my adjusted watch – a ferfect pit!

Next port of call – lunch. The last time I entered this particular establishment which is near the railway station, the barwoman was doing her ironing behind the bar, and we were accosted by a drunk. Today it was like a different place - a very pleasant restaurant, and I had an excellent lunch of fresh vegetable soup, leek tart, rabbit chausseur and cheese, all lubricated on its journey downwards by a generous smidge of rosé. After a spot of shopping (not me, I’m skint) we popped into a bar for a couple of swift halves, before I returned to my laptop to write for a few more hours. I wonder if anybody will be able to tell the bits I write before lunch from the bits I write after lunch…

An old building, yesterday

Still waters run deep

Act of God? Some God!

You don’t get to hear the news here as it happens – unless, of course, your French is much better than mine. If you rely, as I do, on somebody else’s copy of yesterday’s Times newspaper, you end up about 48 hours behind the rest of world. That’s why I have just spent the last hour and a half reading about the tsunami and its impact on Indonesia, Thailand, Sri Lanka and India, in total slack-jawed, shocked disbelief. It makes me question my whole outlook on life and my priorities. Most of all, it just forces me to put into perspective the insignificance of me, and all the things that I think are important, and it makes me realise that all the stuff we spend our days worrying about is mainly bollocks. And there was me troubling myself over stopping smoking and not writing enough, then looking at photographs of families being swept away by the sea. How humbling is that?

Well, what can I say? I’m tempted to sign off here for good.

But, I suppose for my own sanity I should continue with this. Sorry – not exactly a bundle of laughs is it?

OK, I’ve just poured myself a large glass of red wine and I’m ready to rock. Last night I started to watch the DVD of the first series of Curb Your Enthusiasm which I got for Christmas and is absolutely wonderful. If you’ve never seen it, then it comes very highly recommended from me. Total genius.

Today I was back on track with the writing. I got up early and put in four hours before Michael ding-donged on my bell and swept me off to Leclerc to recharge the larder. After lunch the rain stopped and I sauntered into town in a failed attempt to buy a copy of The Guardian after hearing about terrible things abroad. I ended up wandering down to the river and taking the above photograph of some fishermen, which I quite like.

Back home I wrote some more before popping over to L’Enfance de Lard for a reviving gin and tonic, cooking a rather marvellous curry and reading The Times which rather cleverly takes me full circuit back to where we started.

Did I mention that I don’t smoke? I'm so (what's the word?) proud of myself it makes even me sick. I know, everybody hates a reformed smoker...I won't mention it again.

Oh - nearly forgot. For any Manic Street Preachers fans out there - I adore the new album Lifeblood. If you haven't bought it because of the last two albums, then I suggest you have a rethink. It's a rather lovely thing.

The street where I live, earlier today

The lovely Hugo, the infamous fountain, and the notorious L'Enfance de Lard in the background

Analyse that!

What a weird dream. I returned to City Hall after my sabbatical, only to find the whole of the scoop and everything up to ground floor level full of murky water. Everybody was rushing around in a panic. Then a member of staff asked me if I could organise tea and coffee for their meeting – but they would only speak to me in French and I had trouble understanding them. Actually, that just sounds like another day back at work, so I won’t bother getting it analysed - I'll just take another one of these little green pills.

So, lazy days. A late breakfast, M&A popped in for a coffee and a hobnob and then Hugo and I went for a stroll around town to pick up some edible items, had lunch then it was time to deposit Hugo back at the airport and drive home.

It does feel strange being back in the house on my own after a series of visits from lots of lovely people since the beginning of the month. Time to get on with some serious writing…oh hang on, there goes the doorbell!

Hugo enjoys a post-Christmas Day constitutional beside the Dordogne

The last fag in the village

I’ve been wondering whether or not it’s wise for me to put this piece of information out for public consumption…but then I decided that if I’m serious about it then I shouldn’t have any worries. So, are you ready? Because this is going to shock one or two of you…

Here goes…

Fag-ash Geoff has stopped smoking.

There, I’ve said it. I am now officially a non-smoker. The funny thing about it is I wasn’t thinking about stopping. Hugo just happened to leave one of those ‘self-help’ books on the coffee table which I picked up with the sort of cynicism I usually reserve for the Daily Mail. Then I read it from cover to cover and before I had even finished, I didn’t want to smoke another cigarette. So, damn me and my sceptical ways. You were right all along. I have always been wrong. So that’s that then. The end of an era. Marlboro Man better go seek out a new sucker.

So, Boxing Day. The sun came out for a bit and so we went for a long walk along the Dordogne to use up a bit of energy – all this sitting around and eating can really cause the lethargy to set in. I got on with a bit of writing, then we popped around to M&A’s for a swifty before returning home for champagne and a roast dinner cooked by yours truly. Now I’ve been a little bit afraid of the oven, especially since last time I used it the results of my culinary efforts resembled the product of the end of a busy day at the crematorium. This time I kept a constant eye on the proceedings and my roast looked like something Gary Rhodes would have been proud of. The most fantastic bottle of St Emilion wine (purchased in St Emilion back in November) accompanied, and then a couple of crème brulee and raspberry tarts. Mmm hmm.

We finished the evening with a screening of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind which was one of my Christmas pressies. I love that film – and yeah, OK, I had a tear in my eye at the end – but that’s probably something to do with the nicotine withdrawal.

So long and good riddance

Whisky and wine

I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas

Mmm, a bit drizzly this morning – and that was just me. A well deserved Christmas lie-in was followed by a brisk walk along the Dordogne then back for a glass or two or several (I’m sure the bottles aren’t as big as they used to be) of Madeira and present unwrapping. I got some great presents, as always.

Spot of lunch, Ice Age on the laptop, phonecalls around the world and a couple of glasses of champagne and then off to L’Enfance de Lard to feast on the leftovers from the Christmas lunch. There was a mountain of oysters and prawns to get through alongside a groaning buffet of fabulousness. Next up, roast turkey with all the trimmings followed by mince pies, stilton and lashings of fine port. The evening was rounded off magnificently by a two knee-trembling rounds of dominos. Extraordinarily André won twice, despite that fact he claimed to have no grasp of the rules, apparently wasn’t quite sure where he was and spent most of the game looking for a mystery fifth person who only existed in his mind.

Happy Christmas one and all.

Weir here!

Kids on the fire and logs in the tree

Christmas Eve in France, I ask you. Who’d’ve thought it could happen to me? Well, after yesterday’s shenanigans I felt ever such a little bit world weary, so I set off on a long walk to clear out my passages. I headed off up through town and then walked in an arc until I met the Dordogne - we exchanged pleasantries of the season - then I continued along the river to the weir and back home again. It was mild out, and I worked up a bit of a sweat. That’s the weir in the picture you see. Well, no it’s not very Christmassy but it’s all I took today so you’ll just have to make do. If I had a picture of someone wearing a paper crown face down in their goose platter then I’d put it up, but I don’t and that’s that. Subject closed. Period.

I actually managed to get along quite well with some writing this afternoon, but by seven I called it a day and got ready for our evening out at L’Enfance de Lard. It was fully booked – so it was just as well I had booked – and we dined on scallops, French onion soup, duck consommé with foie gras, deep fried camembert, goose and steak with potatoes dauphinoise and chocolate bavarois gateaux. Just a snack. Drop of red, splash of Monbazillac and a smidge of champers all helped give it a push in the right direction. Good job I had that front door widened.

Returns that are both happy and many

Two for tea and forty-two

I appear to be back on form – off to get bread first thing and a good hour and a half’s writing before the Christmas food shopping trek to Leclerc. We even found a bottle of Madeira for those cosy winter Christmas evenings at home in front of the gas heater.

Happy Birthday Michael (one of my more dedicated readers)! We were invited to L’Enfance de Lard for a handful of kirs before lunch, then I wrote all afternoon while Hugo slept it off on the sofa. Then I got one of my heads, drank two litres of water and felt a helluva lot better. This is as good as it gets folks! Dehydration and rehydration in that order. Is anybody still with me?

So, the highlight of the day was, naturally, Michael’s rather marvellous birthday party at the restaurant. We were serenaded with Land of Hope and Glory (sadly not the It Ain't Half Hot Mum version) on arrival and left to the strains of Mrs Miller singing Tiger In My Tank and Three Poofs & A Piano's rousing rendition of Look At My Enormous ***** which I mention merely to give a small but poignant indication of the direction in which the evening progressed. We dined on scallops, prawns, salmon and endives (accompanied by a lively and very classy Chablis), chicken roasted with garlic, and a delicious chocolate birthday cake and endless bottles of red wine and champagne (or whisky and coke in Michael’s case). All told, it was a very fine evening, and I amassed enough material for a whole chapter in my book. Hopefully that means at least eight people will want to get their hands on a copy?

Don't the Beverley Sisters look good for their age?

Lawrence of Arabia stopped by for a chat, which was nice

Tossed salad and scrambled eggs

It was a bit of late night, or early morning depending on your viewpoint, and I woke up with the unavoidable knowledge that I had been well and truly whacked by the Kwak. That's the last time I'm talking to French people - it gives me a sore brain and shaky hands the next day. I have to say at this point that John makes the most delicious scrambled eggs I have ever tasted. Despite a strange aroma of burning hair coming from the kitchen, and my spectacular attempt to jettison the whole plateful into my lap, I felt better for it. With a sudden rush of energy and armed with a vacuum cleaner and a bottle of Harpic I cleaned the house in preparation for Hugo's arrival. John went out to discover how the mystery of the CD in the bakery ended. Tomorrow's headlines today. It was a woman what done it! You read it here first!

We took a walk around town in order to blow away the cobwebs - that's our cobwebs, just in case you had a mental image of us walking around town blowing cobwebs off old buildings and bushes. It wasn't like that at all. John took a selection of comedy photographs which will no doubt appear on his blogsite very soon - but don't switch over just yet - stick with this one for a bit. This is the blogsite of record. We ended up leaning over the side of the Dordogne watching fish being caught and placed into a plastic bag. If fishing is a dull pastime, I think watching fishing adds a new dimension to the term dull.

It was time for John to pack up his troubles in an old kit bag and for me to take the steering wheel of the Smart back to Bergerac International Air Shed. John followed in the car shouting 'Come back here with that steering wheel you steering wheel stealer you!'. After a beer and goodbyes John disappeared through security to take the Daily Mail special flight home to Epsomnia - lucky fella. I waited for Hugo to arrive and drove him back to Bergerac just in time for Christmas. Most enjoyable aperitifs at L'Enfance de Lard followed by a penne bolognaise all of my own making and a few episodes of Frasier before bedtime. Wot a day!

And all because the lady loves...

"French People Are Friendly" Shocker!

After all the excitement of last night's dominos I was in dire need of a lie in. John went off to find out what happened next in the extraordinary case of the lost CD at the bakery, and to buy some bread, then we formulated a watertight plan for the day which involved a trip to the launderette (gasp) followed by Christmas shopping in town, during which time nothing was purchased.

Back indoors I spent a little time writing (every sentence is one step closer to 'The End' as far as I'm concerned) and then off to L'Enfance de Lard for a couple of your finest followed by a wet pizza from the wet pizza shop (mine came with extra damp and a fair old sprinkling of moist). We decided to return to the scene of Saturday's crime - oh yes - The Sherwood Pub! After locating the door, which seemed to have moved, we settled down to an evening of serious beer tasting (Kwak was on the menu so you can guess what happened) while French people entertained us by throwing darts at each other's temples and kicking their dogs until they yelped. Michael popped in for a quick beverage, but it was John and I who stayed the distance, eventually entering into discourse with two fine young Frenchmen called Adrian and Alex. John spoke French, they both spoke English, I spoke rubbish while looking confused and staring into the middle distance. Oh to be cunnilingual. A very fine evening indeed. Well done to everybody involved.

Domino dancing

Amongst today’s highlights was a very cold walk to the largest local supermarket we could find. My hands turned blue. How did it get so cold all of a sudden? I had the french windows open yesterday for gawd's sake – hang on – are french windows still french when they’re in France? Or are they just windows?

After lunch, a blue skies project meeting and pound signs spinning in eyeballs lasted for the best part of three hours (dedication, dedication, dedication, that’s what you need) followed by a comfort break and a delicious supper cooked by chef John in the style of Jamie Oliver with a touch of Fanny Craddock. I for one enjoyed a lovely bit of gnocchi with a fat tart.

Now, if you want highlights, then this has to be it. Dominos. Oh yes – with proper scoring and everything. We level-pegged around the scoreboard twice, right up to the very last point. Michael appeared for a livener, and stared in boggle-eyed disbelief that in the space of 24 hours we had morphed into octogenarians. When the tension became unbearable, John finally pipped me to the post and I threw my toys out of the pram. We then discovered the joys of building domino runs…I think it’s probably best if I stop here before the tiny bit of questionable credibility I once possessed is snuffed out forever.

Everybody please say 'Ahhhhh'

Rough around the edges

It was my turn to sit on the sofa and go ‘Erghhh’ today, and it wasn’t pleasant. But I did have a Christmas tree to trim, which I achieved to the soundtrack to David Essex’s ‘Winter Tale’. It was a scene of almost perfect domesticity if ever there was. All I need now is a bit of snow (preferably outside), a log fire, and few chestnuts to roast.

So, tree up, homemade star and all, Finding Nemo on the telly (well, laptop), snacks aplenty and a project to make a fortune and never work again discussed and agreed. It had all turned out very well indeed.

I was glad of my new red coat and hat

A right kerfuffle

The day began well with various characters sitting around on the sofas going, ‘Urghhhh’ mainly, with the occasional ‘Erghhhhh.’ I dashed off to the market and found myself a smashing little Christmas tree. Well I say little, it’s about 7’ high and as it still has its root ball, it weighs approximately a tonne. The woman on the market stall where I bought it could not believe I was serious when I said I didn’t have a car and would carry it home. I fixed her in the eye, and with bulging biceps raised the tree off the ground, by approximately half an inch, then collapsed in a heap. ‘See, easy!’ I said. Twenty minutes later I had successfully managed to shift the tree approximately ten feet from the stall, and a small crowd had gathered to watch my pathetic struggle. With steely determination I embarked on my epic journey back to the house, which generally involved stopping to catch my breath every ten feet. Because I was standing around holding a 7’ Christmas tree in a market, I’m sure people thought it was for sale, and kept sizing it up or down for suitability. Eventually I made it home, returning to the market again later for another whiz around.

Lunch was a slightly less crowded affair than had been discussed the previous evening (on account of the people on the sofas going ‘Urghhh’) but it was organic and vegetarian and so was the wine which was delicious. Afterwards M&A and I wandered off to the Christmas market to get in the spirit, then back to the house for a few liveners.

Later, J & I went out for a beer. The small pub on the corner which I have passed many times, and always looks a bit ‘old man’ from the outside, turned out to be the most happening place in town, where they even give you free beer. We stayed until closing, which was some time around 1.30am I think, but I don't think I can be entirely certain of anything anymore.

Out for a duck

Duck dressing, but not a single slopped dripper

I want to begin by saying that while walking on Red Rooster’s lawn, a char-faced man I'd spy. He blew into his handkerchief and stuttered as he sighed. I wish I'd play the doodah horn, the doodah horn is fine. I'd sell my house and ferny coach to make this daydream mine. I thank you, I feel better now.

So, yeah, Friday. I had my work cut out. First off to the launderette to see my newest French friend, then into town in the pissing rain for a spot of shopping. Back home in time to make a vat of soup before back to the launderette for hilarious bed linen folding capers. It was all go. A spot of housework, three hours writing, then guests K&I for champagne, a trip to Bergerac station to track down J and off to L’Enfance de Lard for a slap up.

A splendid day all told, and the finale of dancing along to the Ching-A-Long Song in the style of Lindsay Kemp was surely evidence of that. Thankfully, no photos exist.

Blob!

All it needs is a Sandy Claws

Damp squib

First of all, thank you to Karen who solved the crossword clue which had been bugging me all day: a lobster pot is also known as a 'creel' (as in Kid Creel and the Coconuts no doubt) so there we are, I've learnt something new. And there I was struggling with cockney rhyming slang! Now I just have to think of ways of slipping it into everyday conversation, like 'Excuse me, I just have to pop out and check my creels' or 'Yesterday I was disappointed to find my creels were smothered in crabs.' Might try that later in French. The prize, by the way is a large glass of champagne.

I guess it serves me right for waxing lyrical about the fabulous weather. Today was just wet and horrible, so no sunbathing by the Dordogne for me. Instead, I settled down at my laptop with a jug of coffee and the inspiration of three and half month’s sabbatical behind me. At this rate, I’ll be publishing in separate volumes, like Tony Benn.

A late morning trip with Michael to the out-of-town cash and carry involved hauling legs of wild boar and cases of wine in and out of the Smart, before the slightly more domestically orientated shopping at Leclerc. After a few days of running down my larder, I had a fairly impressive shopping list, and we dashed around the aisles like contestants in Supermarket Sweep. I came second.

Back indoors I unpacked my goodies, including 100 white tree lights which I’ve strung around the fireplace until I get a tree to hang them on – or le sapin de Noël as it is more correct to say here.

So, a pleasant afternoon spent processing words into meaningful sentences. I popped around to L’Enfance de Lard to return a basket (why does everybody stop and stare slack-jawed at me whenever I walk through town with a basket?) but the ladies from the Inner Circle were already there, busily setting out crocheted names on place settings and putting together a stall of bits and pieces which looked to me like last year’s unwanted Christmas presents – little tin buckets and cans with floral stencils, painted bird boxes and wooden baskets – that sort of thing. I was half expecting to see a scuffed and battered presentation pack of Brut aftershave and talc appear. I gulped down a G&T as the tantalising smell of roast wild boar wafted from the kitchen. It was all a bit church bazaar for me, so I faded like a phantom into the night.

Even more writing – now I’m even beginning to impress myself – but enough was enough. Cassoulet au canard, then a few episodes of Frasier which had me doubled up on the sofa in mirthful delight. I finished reading Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland – I implore you to go out and buy a copy today, read it then give it to a friend for Christmas (that’s double value!). It’s the best recommendation I can give you this side of Christmas. Now I’m itching to read his other stuff.

I know it looks like a launderette, but it's a restaurant. Now, who wants to guess what happened next?

Don't mention the war!

After yesterday’s zip-a-dee-doo-dah start, today was a little slower to get off the tarmac. I blame Douglas Coupland for writing such an unputdownable book. Anyway, everything got underway by mid-morning, although I did find myself in the most peculiar position on trying to solve a Guardian crossword with my erstwhile colleagues through the medium of email. Now, I’ve done one by text messaging once, but this was a whole new ballgame altogether. (Go on, en masse say “A whole new ballgame.” Thanks.) Strangest thing of all, M&A smuggled a copy of today’s Guardian through customs, so there I was last thing before I went to bed struggling with the very same crossword some twelve hours later. It’s a small world, but I wouldn’t like to paint it. Anyway, Lobster pot, 5 letters – what was that? It’s been driving me nuts – or is that the steering wheel on the front of me trousers?

So, Christmas shopping in Bergerac – what’s that all about? Well, a sixty plus year old, fifteen stone transvestite wearing so much eye makeup she had to tip her head back to get her eyes open, dithering over the foundation and holding up the queue in Sephora for a start. Then trying to find a decent Christmas card was a challenge all of its own (they seem to go in more for New Year’s cards here). I had to come back to the house for a sit down and a cup of tea. Then, after wrapping a few presents I got all Christmassy and stuck a few golden cherubs in my niches. To call it camp would be like calling Julian Clary a tad fey. Well, whatever, needs must and these are difficult times. I’m going to get a tree in the market on Saturday, God willing. Judging by recent reports, if it’s 6ft tall it will be double the size of the one in Trafalgar Square, and last year’s one was puny enough. Has there been a mix up – or are the Norwegians just phasing out the gesture and hoping we won’t notice? At this rate, in ten year’s time they’ll just send over a little twig in a polystyrene cup, not big enough to support a bauble.

Where was I? Oh yes, more writing during the rest of the afternoon, then M&A appeared for aperitifs after their 5 day sojourn in St Evenage. It’s lovely to have them back. We were due at an Italian Restaurant along the river for 7.30pm to meet two friends of M&A’s, and we arrived a touch late. Now I won’t go into too much detail here (I never know who might be reading) but somewhere along the line it all went terribly wrong. The food was pretty poor, well I say pretty poor, it was pants. Actually, pants would have been nice in comparison. My dried ham was like old boot leather, and as for the cheesecake – we guessed garlic flavour. It was like nothing on earth. But the food aside, it still all went spectacularly wrong, and the moral is never to discuss politics with somebody who…if I just say Bush I think you'll get the idea.

Back to mine to calm down. By the way, if you want to read the unabridged version of what happened this evening, you will have to wait for the book (working title: ‘Bedbugs & Beaujolais’) to be published! It’ll be there, warts ‘n’ all. As the adverts for the Andy Warhol diaries put it: ‘If you’re in it…you’re in it!’

Can I go to bed now? I think I’ve got one of my heads coming on. By the way, if you've noticed that the length of these entries has been increasing, then blame John, who seems to be in the market to outblog me, and I'm having in none of it! Do you hear me, none of it! Oh, hello matron.

Some cherubs yesterday

Another day, another sunset

Rats!

Last night I watched Gus Van Sant’s film Elephant which I most strongly recommend to anybody who hasn’t seen it yet. In my humble opinion, it’s an extraordinary piece of filmmaking and kind of inscrutable, in a good way. I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day.

It’s amazing what a bit of clean living does for one. I was up at six-thirty this morning and full of the joys of…well, spring I suppose. The weather is so fantastic it actually does feel like spring here, without all the darling buds of May. I was ‘at work’ by eight-thirty and continued through the morning churning out more prose per hour than a battery of Mills & Boon writers. Feeling pleased with my achievement I grabbed a tin of sardines off the shelf to celebrate, then sauntered down to the riverbank with a spring in my step (that’s three repetitions of spring, sorry – Paul Merton please takeover on the subject of Geoff’s blog).

It was so warm I stripped down to my t-shirt and made myself comfortable at the foot of some creaky wooden steps at the water’s edge. I wrote for a while, then did a touch of bird spotting, but my kingfisher chum was on his day off. I lay back against the grassy bank and continued reading the rather fantastic ‘Eleanor Rigby’ by Douglas Coupland which was lent to me by somebody with very good taste in literature, and everything else for that matter. I was getting stuck in, the ducks were quacking and I was lost in the story when I became aware of something nestling against my shoulder. I turned my head, and there was my big fat rat friend come to say hello. He did make me jump, and that startled him so he scurried off, looking over his shoulder at me accusingly. It wasn’t until later on, as the sun was going down I tore my eyes away from the book to see three more big rats scrabbling about very close to me. Quite possibly I was sitting very close to a lair, and I started getting James Herbert-stylee visions of being carried off by hundreds of rats and dragged into a tunnel deep in the banks of the Dordogne. I took another one of the special little green pills the doctor gave me and felt much better. Actually, I quite like rats, with their little twitchy noses, whiskers and twinkly eyes, even if they do carry bubonic plague and the black death – I’m sure they would quite happily pass up on that responsibility given half the chance.

Well, it seems to happen everyday, but yes, the sun went down and I watched the whole performance. The sun was as big as ever I have seen it, and sent Munch-like upside-down exclamation mark reflections across the still waters. I took so many photos, if you put them altogether and flicked through quickly it would be like watching a very dull film by Andy Warhol, but without Candy Darling. The photo above is possibly the best one, because of the ducks who were very happy to be directed and a joy to work with.

Back indoors, more writing, then tea with Cinema Paradiso – which I thought I knew but I must have been asleep or pissed last time because I didn’t remember any of it. I didn’t cry at the end – does that make me a bad person?

When the sun goes down, it's time for me to shuffle off home

Tales from the riverbank

I have had a truly marvellous day. Not that I’ve done very much, but when I consider everything I would be doing if I was back in London - all that Christmas rushing around, tinsel and tat nonsense, work lunches and do’s, last tubes home and packed pubs - and here I am sitting in the sunshine on a deserted riverbank writing and reading without a care in the world, I kind of feel like I made a good decision somewhere along the line. Maybe that’s just me. Well, welcome to my world!

So yeah, great weather again today – in fact even better than yesterday. Slept really well, healthy breakfast, writing…even taking my coffee out onto the terrace at elevenses it was that warm - the weather I mean, not the coffee which was hot, obviously. I put a leftover croissant on top of the toaster to freshen it up a bit and ended up incinerating it, sending smoke signals across Bergerac. When the sun disappeared over the rooftops I chased it down to the riverbank. I found a warm spot on the steps of the rowing club (it was closed before anybody even thinks about posting a smart-aleck comment) and sat and wrote for a couple of hours.

I decided to change position after a woman turned up with a push chair and decided the ideal spot to feed her screaming brat was slap-bang next to me – I mean really, I was the only person around and she must have passed several dozen benches, but no, she has to sit there. I found another good spot right down on the grassy bank next to a half sunk boat. I sat and read until the sun went down. It’s amazing what you see if you sit still for long enough. A beautiful kingfisher kept swooping down right in front of me, hooking small fish out of the river, the intense colours of its wings and breast feathers flashing in the sunlight. Then some enormous fish started leaping for flies. I kept hearing these loud plops, so finally I had the patience to watch the water surface until I saw three leapers one after another. Big buggers – looked a bit like salmon. I was watching fish when I became aware of something snuffling around my shoes. I glanced down and there was a beautiful fat water rat wandering along, happy as you like. He stretched and yawned and his little jet black eyes twinkled merrily as he went about his business, utterly oblivious to me. He eventually disappeared behind a tree root, probably to go for tea with Mole and Badger to discuss how to help Toad escape from prison.

I got a bit snap happy today as you can see, but it was all so picturesque.

Are you ready for Christmas yet? Pah!

The smoke from my burnt croissant could be seen for miles

That'll be me then

This is where I sat next to Ratty

Winter in Bergerac

Detox for my rent

The sky was blue and the sun was shining once again, which made a pleasant change to the last few days of grey skies, mist and general chilliness. I popped out to buy a baguette, some croissants and pain au chocolat and then got on with writing in the sunny dining room.

Soon after midday, I took a stroll along the Dordogne, and settled onto my favourite bench overlooking the vast river. It was like a spring day, and I sat in the sun writing for a couple of hours. You can set your watch by the routine of life here. When I set off I did not see one single person out, it being lunchtime. For the first hour, nobody passed except for a geriatric jogger and small boy on a BMX (separately that is). At 1.30pm it was like Piccadilly Circus, and the world and his wife (and all their dogs) were out for a post-luncheon constitutional.

I returned to the house to say goodbye to C&G who were reluctantly setting off to Bergerac International Air Shed to begin their homeward bound journey, and then I returned to the riverbank, anxious not to miss out on the last of the day’s warm sunshine. It started to get chilly again after the sunset and I scuttled back to cook a penne bolognaise and watch The Laramie Project on DVD which was most provocative and moving.

The Dordogne this afternoon

The oysters are the ones in the middle of the table

Oysters and prunes

The three of us set of for the market at a relatively early hour, but C&G were waylaid by a man from Belgium who wanted to have a discussion on the topic of white ants. These things happen here.

The market was as vibrant and fascinating as ever. My favourite stand today was a huge covered table supporting a single saucer upon which sat a black truffle which was smaller than a golf ball. I don’t know how much that particular specimen would have sold for, but the price of truffle in the market today was €650 a kilo. Makes you want to rush out into the woods with a pig and then retire. When the stallholder sold his single truffle he packed up and left to spend the rest of life on a private yacht in the Caribbean no doubt. We went for coffee and were offered scones which sounded nice. We got a bit of coconut cake and some freshly baked biscuit type affairs. I wonder what they would make of a scone if they ever saw one. Maybe there’s a business opportunity there.

I walked back to the house and had just enough time to gulp down a mug of coffee before André appeared like a vision and we walked to his mum’s house for lunch, preceded by the customary aperitif.

Lunch was truly fantastic and is completely deserving of a full description here. The soup starter was made from the stock which is a by-product of boiling black pudding, bulked up with carrots and cabbage. It tasted of peppery black pudding and was delicious. Next up, a huge pile of oysters and prawns served with hunks of lemons, shallot vinaigrette and crusty bread. You can see that in the picture above if you think I’m making this up as I go along. An excellent French chardonnay accompanied. We were then served the most tasty fish and potato bake I have ever tried. The fish tasted like haddock, but it wasn’t apparently, but it went very well with both the rosé and the local red wine on the table. Salad and cheese followed, and then a delicious chocolate gateau from the chateau served with coupes of Champagne. Finally, coffee and whole prunes pickled in eau de vie which disappeared from a large jar at an alarming rate. You can see that for yourself in the picture below. Whoever says these entries aren’t planned meticulously should eat their beret.

I found my way back on foot by following a trail of rice I had cunningly dropped earlier, while M&A set off for the airport in completely the wrong direction. If they make it to St Evenage after all those oysters and prunes it will be a flapping miracle. It's the other passengers on board the Ryanair flight I feel for.

The rest of the day was spent being very sensible and mainly writing whilst listening to Nitin Sawhney’s Fabriclive.15 album and a truly wonderful Tindersticks compilation which is my absolute current favourite and goes round on the CD player over and over again. All this despite the very generous invitation to a party this evening which I struggled with my conscience to turn down, big time. Now, if that’s not dedication to my art what is?

The prunes are the ones in the big jar

Miss T Cloud

Fog on the Dordogne is all mine

Shockingly, I found it trés difficile to get out of my pit this morning – absolutely no idea why. But I was soon up and about and once my goodtime landlords had shuffled off for lunch I was able to settle down for a few hours of concentrated writing and orange juice, only interrupted by lunch (I think that paté may have been past its sell-by date judging by the noises coming from my stomach). Achieved more today than I have done in the last week. And I blame you! Yes, you may well hang your head, but it’s true as you well know. Yes, you see, you know who you are! So don’t do it again. Now, get out!

I found myself getting a bit chilly around the nether regions, so I went out for a brisk walk along the Dordogne and then a circuit around the town to get the old blood circulating. It was absolutely freezing out (so I put it away) and a heavy fog hung over the whole of Bergerac – a real pea-souper as I believe they used to say back in the days when you couldn't see your face infront of your hand when you were submerged in soup of the pea variety. You can see that from the terribly illustrative photograph can’t you? Do you appreciate how well this is all thought out? I don’t just fling it together you know – hours of careful consideration and planning go into this just for your entertainment. And what thanks do I get? Nothing! I might as well sit here and talk to myself – and I do enough of that – it’s the only way to get through the long dark evenings. Somebody must want to leave a comment or send me an email or something – come on! Over 1100 hepcats have hit this sight and I might as well be whistling in the dark. Hello! Is there anybody out there?

Ahem, where was I? Oh yes, had a stroll and met a troll. After a few aperitifs we crossed the bridge and went for a splendid dinner at the Chinese restaurant. We ordered three number twelves, a sixty-two, fifty-four and a thirty-eight with two portions of sixty-five and a bottle of twenty-five. It all added up to…well, you do the math. Back home for a nightcap and a bedtime story.

On the way home from the Chinese I had a vision

Hey ho, here we are again...

Duvet day

So, today I had to return to my beautiful launderette to launder some laundry. Feeling quite confident after my recent successes in the real world of commerce and industry, I threw my laundry into a machine and asked for sixty degrees and a jolly good dry. But the laundress (is that a word I made up?) was having none of it. She brazenly waved a pair of socks and a flannel at me and spoke very quickly. I panicked, and ran from the laundrette into the Dordogne and swam to Bordeaux where I hid in a cupboard until everything had calmed down. No, I didn’t. After a long and convoluted conversation, much pointing, gesticulating and general vague limb waving, we established that the socks and flannel did not belong to me, not even in a former life as Napoleon. The laundress was most upset, and thrust the socks at me in one final desperate gesture, but I was adamant and flounced from the scene. It was only when I was walking home, turning things over in my mind, that it dawned on me that they were Michael’s socks, and she wanted me to give them back to him. Oh dear. I went and bought some bread and croissants and managed to count to ninety cents in French without harming any animals.

Housework involved impossible things with mops, brooms and a hoover. Later, J and I went to the Post Office – oh yes! Not once, but twice! The first time J forgot to bring the items he wanted to post. That’s what France does to your head. The second time was far more successful. All the supermarkets were closed, and I don’t know why, so I couldn’t buy milk which was one of my major challenges of the day. J bought a Brel DVD and felt a lot better about life in general.

More housework in a Mrs Overall stylee, then I went to see J off at the train station. We were most impressed with SNCF who successfully sold J a ticket for a train from Bergerac to Bordeaux which didn’t actually exist. Even better, was the woman at the counter who sold it to him, forgot to mention that the train didn’t exist - well, it's an easy mistake to make n'est pas. We managed to finally find out that the only way to get to Bordeaux in time for the train to Toulon was to take a bus from Bergerac to Libourne and then there was a possibility of getting a train which would arrive in time. We needed beer, and interrupted a woman who was doing her ironing who sold us some. A drunk got a bit threatening, asking J if he knew life and death. He said no, but if you hum it I might pick it up. He got out an accordion and we all danced a merry jig.

J successfully installed on a bus to Bavaria (bursting with pessimism for the journey ahead) I rushed back to the house – damn forgot the milk. Went back for that. Landlords were already settled in (C&G) and more guests arrived for aperitives. It was most peculiar to be offered a drink in what I have been treating as my own home. Birthday party at L’Enfance de Lard was inevitably great and unsurprisingly late. I now look like I’m pregnant with twins. Must buy a girdle.

A special birthday tart, and a headless waiter

Some of the fashions here have not yet caught on in the UK

Bright light

Due to the previous evening’s activities, I was need of a little rest this morning. But, things to do so off to Leclerc early afternoon to stock up the fridge. I took a walk around town to clear my head, but it was incredibly cold out.

I borrowed M&A’s Smart car to collect my overnight visitor from the airport. The flight was a bit late so I stood around shivering in the freezing cold. When we set off from the airport, I was troubled by everybody flashing me. J tactfully suggested I switch the full beam off to avoid leaving a trail of ‘Day of the Triffids’-style chaos in my wake. Anyway, back to the house for a tour, a nice cup of tea.

Aperitifs were provided courtesy of L’Enfance de Lard, and dinner was provided courtesy of me.

Meet Moiselle

Moiselle!

I was just sitting down with a nice cup of tea when the doorbell went and I was whisked off once more. It was a frosty morning, and in the bright sunshine the countryside looked as though it had been dusted with icing sugar. We arrived in Périgueux soon after eleven and partook of a little window shopping, not that we needed any little windows. It was freezing cold on the streets, so at the first opportunity we snuck into a café (Café La Place) for a coffee. The clock behind the bar chimed twelve and the coffee miraculously transformed into a pastis. Lunch followed, as is traditional, and I tucked into herrings, lamb and profiteroles. Most enjoyable.

Lunch out the way (always such a grind), we returned to the car and dropped in at a large cash-and-carry store for Christmas provisions. Afterwards we drove out into the countryside – I’m afraid I’m not quite sure where – to visit the dog kennels where M&A have chosen their wee Scotty puppy: Moiselle. That’s her in the picture - the one without the scarf on. Still a few weeks to go before they can take her home, but they have visiting rights. Wherever you looked there were pens full of adorable puppies…if I was staying here full time I would have been very tempted. The owners invited us in for a beer, and then we set off to Vergt.

We were a little premature to arrive at the party we had been invited to, so we found a bar in town. It was like going back in time. The air was heavy with thick cigar and pipe smoke, and a group of craggy old men sat around playing cards. You could also buy bullets, which is always a boon when you pop out for a beer I think. More bars selling bullets I say. We had a drink, but in the absence of any breathing equipment, our stay was not a long one.

The party…was great. I met lots of very interesting people (all English) and the house was beautiful. Outside, without any light pollution, the night sky was absolutely stunning. Inside, with Abba on the stereo the dancing climaxed with André taking centre stage. I arrived home sometime around…well, nearer getting up time than going to bed time.

First to arrive, last to leave

La Roque

The Ceynac route

After a fine breakfast of poached eggs, we set off for a tour of The Lot and Dordogne, taking in the sights of Cazals, Salviac, Domme, La Roque-Gageac and Beynac-et-Cazeriac. I was in charge of map reading and brought all my Duke of Edinburgh Award skills to the fore with aplomb and a pear.

BD was returned to the airport, and after stalling us for a while with a tale of charging elephants, chameleons and strolling leopards he disappeared through security with his foie gras contraband undetected in his size elevens.

I popped into L’Enfance to tell them the tales of the weekend, and oiled with a couple of your finest, returned to the house for a plate of baked beans.

The only photo that made it past the censors

What goes on tour stays on tour

BD was up at the crack and had even set out breakfast and emptied the dishwasher by the time I surfaced. He had been out to buy a baguette and two croissants and returned with an ironing board and some heated rollers. We scoffed down a bit of breakfast and then dashed out to the flea market to pick over potential bargains. The best value item seemed to be a Tesco’s Finest Christmas Pudding. I know, don’t ask. We did a quick circuit of the town and returned home just in time to receive Michael & André together with André’s mum for aperitifs. It was all go! When we left for our lunchtime reservation at Le Poivre et Sel up the road (30 metres - ahem), André’s mum put in a bid for the title of most spectacular method of exiting the house by performing a triple somersault followed by a half-twist and flying through the front door onto André’s back. We were quite impressed, but agreed that André’s previous effort had the slight edge.

Lunch was a jolly affair, and involved food and wine in most spectacular quantities. K&I appeared later, and we all listened enraptured to the tale of Rindercella and the Sugly Isters (slopped drippers, bancy falls et al). I guess you had to be there. We were then whisked away to Lot-et-Garonnne where a most entertaining evening proceeded to unfold, the precise detail of which I will leave unsullied in the memories of those who were present. Unless of course demand dictates otherwise...

Cyrano has competition

Laughing Gravy

Well I have to say I was surprised not to be the first person up for once. I nipped out for a baguette and a couple of pain aux raisins and we tucked into breakfast which represented everything except healthy eating. Market day seems to come round very quickly, and picking up André en route we skipped around the stalls which encircle the cathedral. BD bought up half a stall selling preserved foie gras, which he intended to smuggle home in his shoes (which is apparently the tried and tested method).

After all the market pettifogging (24 across last Monday, and a new favourite word for me – sounds like something you’re not allowed to do at a swimming bath) we went for a coffee at the chocolaterie, and then returned to the other market where we selected fine traditional duck paté and cheeses and loaf of the crustiest bread in town. Back indoors we settled down to a generous serving of pastis and fine lunch made up of our market booty.

The sky turned bluish, and the sun came out for a quick shine so we set off for a walk along the Dordogne, walking east and making a circuit using the church spire as our landmark. I picked up a tart for later on. We continued our riverside walk until the sun went down over Bergerac.

Aperitifs at L’Enfance de Lard were cut short slightly prematurely by the early arrival of customers. We returned to the house for a dinner of Toulouse sausages, mashed potatoes rustic style and green beans, with the most extraordinary gravy I have ever made or tasted (revolting), followed by the tart. René and Edith laid on some light entertainment to round off the evening. Bonsoir.

The photographer

Alright duck

No talking shop

It was a grey old start to the day, not much to write home about really. I had a bit of housework to finish off, and a writing target to meet. Both things were most exciting. After a nourishing lunch of warming soup I decided I needed to get out for a bit of a walk around town. Most of the shops are now in the process of putting up their Christmas decorations, and I rated them on a scale of one to ten for tastelessness and sheer tack. There were several quite high scores awarded.

Well, the day had finally arrived when I had to get into the driving seat of the Smart and embark on my maiden voyage. I came very close to squashing two Frenchmen on a roundabout, but as far as I was concerned they shouldn’t have been there. They didn’t know which way to run so I ran them over. No, I didn’t really, but they shouted a lot. I don’t think they were saying complimentary things. The sheer relief of arriving at Bergerac International Air Shed with car intact caused me to dash straight into the bar for a glass of beer.

My weekend guest, who I’ll refer to as BD, flopped onto the tarmac courtesy of Ryanair bang on time. I drove back into Bergerac successfully while BD gallantly disguised his terror with small talk. Beers were knocked back, followed by the traditional bottle of champers while BD recounted unbelievable tales of total absurdity from the jolly old place which I never mention here. Incroiable!

L’Enfance de Lard was on exceptional form, and we enjoyed a tremendous meal. BD went straight for the foie gras and duck, whilst I selected the prawns and beetroot (betterave) starter followed by bunny. A very fine evening as always. BD ended up knocking back eau de vie de pruneaux which seemed to make him happy. Teetotal? My elbow!

Teetotal? You decide.

A very moist Place Pelissiere

Wet Wet Wet

It rained all day today, which meant there was nothing for it but to stay indoors and get on with it. What do you mean get on with it? This is it! But first, there was soup to make - carrot, turnip, leek and celery flavoured with bay and thyme if you’re curious. Delicious with a French stick, even if I say so myself.

After lunch I went out onto the rainy streets and woke up the neighbours by disposing of my impressive collection of empty wine and champagne bottles. I wandered round town which was mainly deserted and admired the soggy Christmas decorations, such as they were. I treated myself to a very inexpensive Lou Reed album (The Blue Mask – remastered!) and stocked up on cigarettes. Back indoors I put in a very productive four hours on my laptop egged on by new Lou, and have completely reformatted my works so far. If feels like I’ve taken one step forward and two steps back though, as I got stuck into some severe editing. Oh well.

This evening I called into L’Enfance de Lard for a couple of your finest, and then returned home to cook a Spanish omelette (when in Rome) and watched ‘Igby Goes Down’ on DVD, accompanied by a cheeky little white wine.

I won't let the sun go down on me

Maureen

Oh my God it’s December already. I woke up to blue skies and sunshine, but it was still pretty damned cold, and I tried to put all the horrible thoughts that I was halfway through my sabbatical to the back of my mind. I spent the morning going about my authorship project, but with less than satisfactory results.

Today’s challenge was to drive to Leclerc and back in Michael’s Smart car. I need to get the hang of it you see, for I will soon be in the responsible position of having to pick people up from the airport, poor things. Well I am pleased to report that all went well, Michael’s knuckles did not turn white and I really enjoyed driving again.

Safely back home I grabbed some lunch and then walked down to the river where I sat in the warm afternoon sun writing. As the sun went down I watched huge flocks of hundreds of starlings whirling around in the sky above the river, like swarms of insects turning this way and that. It was a beautiful sight.

After ironing to Muse’s album ‘Absolution (c’est fantastique) I settled in for an evening at my laptop, frantically trying to increase my word count. I am going to have to go at this hammer and tong if I am going to be anywhere near halfway through by the New Year. It’s quite a challenge.