'Is there anybody there?' said the traveller

Mmm…still not good in the health department. I decided that if I was at home, I would stay in bed, so I should do the same here. As a result, I got well into the tome I have undertaken to read – Iris Murdoch’s The Sea The Sea which is stupendously good thus far. I think I’m going to become a bit of a Murdoch fan – does that make me a radical feminist or something? I do hope so. Note to self: buy some dungarees.

At lunch time I made a lunge for my zimmer frame and took a walk out around town thinking I would feel better if I got some fresh air inside me. It didn’t work, and I felt worse, so I made a pot of tea and got settled down in the company of Ms Murdoch.

Later on, the L’Enfance de Lard Magical Meals-On-Wheels Taste Experience™ came a-knocking at my moonlit door, and we dined on soup, fine cuts of beef and lamb, cauliflower gratin and apple tart, while Moiselle explored the fireplace and nearly disappeared up the chimney in a puff of smoke. The purely medicinal wine perked me up a tad, but not for long.

No idea why I took this photo as I wandered the backstreets of Bergerac's suburbia numbed with pastis, wine, champagne and eau de vie

Narcisstic and so shallow

Eughhhh…terrible night. I’m as sick as a dog/a parrot/a Rodney Marsh joke (delete as appropriate). Still, no time to feel sorry for myself as I had a lunch invitation to André’s mum’s, which is something you can’t put a price on. A handful of paracetamol and couple of Lemsips and I was ready for action.

Whilst Moiselle cavorted in the garden, we feasted on homemade saucisson and fishy canapés, onion soup, pork in lentils (damn, forgotten the traditional French name for it but it was delicious), cheese and salad, gorgeous chocolate gateaux and something which looked like a dish full of fried eggs, but wasn’t. Oh, and of course the prunes in eau de vie. It was a marathon meal which ended about five-thirty, giving me time for a quick march around the block (I began to think DVT had set in) before aperitifs were served and we resumed out positions at the table for dinner! Ooh la la, I’m a foie gras goose.

André’s nephew introduced me to the joys of Marilyn Manson, which was an experience, and has lent me the CD with the promise of more to come. We’re all stars now in the dope show, allegedly.

Reserve the right to defend peaches

You can walk around in New York while you sleep in Penge

I awoke from the most extraordinary dream which does not need repeating, to realise that I was running late for my rendez-vous with Andre and the market. Phew, I arrived just on time (lateness is not tolerated) and off we went with a holler and a shout to buy:

Prune juice - later smashed on the kitchen floor resulting in one hour spent cleaning up sticky goo and a million shards of glass - bother I said in several different ways
Leeks - for soup and cottage pie
Cheese - the most incredible hard cheese which tastes so good you just can't let it lie
Brussel sprouts - how I have missed them

We paused for coffee between the second and third circuits. Back home I transformed myself into a kitchen godess and made a truly remarkable leek, turnip, carrot, potato and duck soup (it is incroiable) and a cottage pie which looks good enough to eat. Then I took myself off for a walk with my book, but the sun went down on me (yes, it can happen to the best of us) so I hurried home and got on with some editing nonsense.

Aperitifs at L'Enfance de Lard (Moiselle curled up asleep in her basket) then home to pie, Desperate Dan style. Wot a day! You can't top it.

Snow white turtle doves

There's no business like snow business

What’s this? Has my Head & Shoulders failed me? Have I entered the hall of the dandruff king? No, zut alors! I have inadvertently left my rather large window ajar and snow has drifted into my bedroom. Heavens to Betsy (whoever she may be) I have to shuffle up to buffalo in my own boudoir. I retire to my ice maiden bed with a cup of tea and a jolly good book.

It’s like the nightmare before Christmas, except it’s after Christmas and I’m very much awake. I creep up onto the balcony to survey the snowy rooftops, as if in a Narnia-land trance. I am in a trance and what’s more, I have no trousers on. I hurry downstairs for a boiled egg and some sensible marmalade, and read in the papers of Michael Howard’s "real immigration debate" stirring up the Tory heartlands with words which "...echoed the concern of millions of Sun readers" [Sun editorial]. What with all these bogus asylum seekers and layabouts who are just "over here to milk the welfare system", isn't it funny that while for the last eight years immigration has been rising, unemployment has been falling? And I wonder if Monsieur Howard is worried about Australian, American and French 'immigrants', or is it more to do with skin colour? Sorry - bit of Guardian reader rant again.

So, brrrrrr, I was going to go out cycling but the snow scared me off so I settled down at my laptop to editing and reducing my 437 pages down to 389…need to shave off another 89 pages then. After lunch I took a walk along the river and watched cormorants skimming the river’s surface. I walked along in the slushy ice puddles behind two rather fat-bottomed lady joggers, and eventually overtook them. They weren’t jogging – they were just wobbling from one fatty-lycra-clad leg to the other. What good is that going to do?

At the witching hour I joined MM&A (see how that’s changed to include Moiselle?) for a cocktail or three and then returned for my pork chop supper, and a smidge of red wine for purely medicinal porpoises. Lou Reed on the stereo (hey Lou, get off the stereo and use a chair), glass of local red, what could be better?

How about we buy some drugs and watch a band then jump in the river holding hands? Just an idea.

The darkness

Having the shutters closed did a funny thing. It was total blackout in the bedroom and as a result I slept solidly for ten hours. Blimey, that’s unheard of in my six hours a night world.

Freezing cold it maybe, but the sun still shines all day which means if you can find somewhere out of the wind you can go sunbathing. Well, not quite but you get the idea. I took a stroll down to the weir which was bubbling and boiling like a mini-Niagara on Viagra. I picked up a copy of The Guardian in town (aw c’mon, it’s been a week since my last fix – give me a break) and sat in the sun reading it. Well done to Ash Atalla for a very entertaining column.

I don’t what happened to provoke it, but the words rattling around inside my skull today formed into these lyrics, as I struck out along the riverside…

To change the mood a little I've been posing down the pub
On seeing my reflection - I'm looking slightly rough
I fancy this, I fancy that, I wanna be so flash
I give a little muscle and I spend a little cash
But all I get is bitter and a nasty little rash
And by the time I'm sober I've forgotten what I've had

Anybody want a stab at it? Well done to flu-ey John by the way who correctly spotted the marvellous Toyah’s magnificent 80’s monster hit, Thunder In The Mountains from last week, and wins a virtual box of Nightnurse Cold & Flu remedy for his trouble. Get well soon.

I’ve just realised there’s only a month left before this blogsite officially gets killed off? How shall I do it? Road accident (Tiffany style), overdose (Angie style), poisoning (Timmy style), lightning bolt (not sure if that’s been done, maybe a first), taxi to the airport and a new life in Australia/India/America/Spain/Portugal (everybody else who ever left Eastenders except Ethel style)? Does anybody give a hot tootin' damn? I thought not.

Help, the river's bursting its banks

Whose tongue is now tasting last week's flavour

Another head-hurting day to report, as a result of which not a lot happened except coffee consumption and noisemaking of the eurgggghhhh variety. I wrote a fair bit, and I suppose that’s good all things considered.

Outside the snowflakes floated in the breeze, and I decided to take an invigorating walk along the Dordogne. It was icy-cold, but it cleared my head. The water in the river is so high I had to do a bit of paddling to complete my traditional walk (which is straight out of the handbook issued by the Ministry for Silly Walks). Then the journey to the bottle banks followed, and there was a fair few bottles to bank I can tell you. That should get a bit of interest. It was quite therapeutic getting rid of the reminder of such overindulgence, like destroying the evidence which was reprimanding me like a wagging finger. From now on I will be as pure as the driven snow, or the snow that couldn’t get a lift and had to walk to school.

It was too cold to be outside any longer, so I knuckled down to word processing for the rest of the afternoon, before braving the sub-zero temperatures once more for aperitif hour.

It’s so cold I’ve even closed all my flaps which is something I rarely do. The neighbours will wonder what is going on. Oh, let them talk, let them talk, let them all talk.

Issigeac this morning, or Jane?

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day

It is absolutely freezing…but sunny, and Issigeac beckoned. We spent an hour wandering around the charming little streets looking for potential scenes for painting parents. On to Leclerc for a shop of spotting, petrol (for the car of course) then home for lunch.

Time for M&D to jet home, and so off we went to the airport. Michael met me there and we enjoyed a few beverages until I was convinced they had got on the plane. Home to sort my head out, then off to Moiselle’s ‘coming out’ party at the restaurant.

There must have been nearly thirty people and one very tiny little black dog scampering around amidst all the frivolity. M&A put on a marvellous spread, then the floor was cleared for dancing. How much detail do you want? For those of you reading this who have experienced it, you’ll know that there’s something about that place that makes people dance…and dance we did. We rocked right around the bloody clock. I remember that…then it all goes blank. Possibly just as well!

Queen of the Dessert

The queue for the toilet was ridiculous

Some French custom they have here

The game of twister was oversubscribed

Zadkine's 'The Pieta' in Les Arques

If I was a sculptor, but then again, no

Ooh ‘eck me ‘ead ‘urts. Nevermind that, there’s places to go and things to see. We set off in the car in the direction of The Lot. I was reading the map which is always a recipe for a Victoria sponge or a disaster. I was slightly thrown by a closed road, which meant we ended up in Villeneuve-sur-Lot which hadn’t been my original intention I must admit. Covering my embarrassment with a tea-cosy I navigated us toward Fumel on to repeat the tour undertaken some months ago with K&I(not the King & I). It was remarkably cold I remember remarking, but the brilliant sunshine was incredible, and the whole of the countryside was dramatically lit. We ate a picnic lunch in the snow watched by a black labrador and a beagle. Les Arques was like a building site – clearly a huge injection of capital there to do the place up for the tourist season. Fortunately all was not lost as the Zadkine Museum was open and extraordinarily good. Made a mental note to find out a bit more about this amazing sculptor.

From there we journeyed home through snow showers and breathtaking scenery, with the most spectacular, dramatic skies I can ever remember seeing.

Moiselle has arrived! We called in at L’Enfance de Lard primarily to pay our respects to the new lady of the house (Moiselle is a three month old black Scotty) and secondly to slurp aperitifs. She is the cutest thing, as puppies tend to be.

We cooked the duck with all the fare from the market, and washed it down with wine from William Boyd's very own vineyard.

This made me laugh until chips came down my nose: M&D have this new mobile phone, and as I think I mentioned before, they keep getting mystery text messages. Here are the two which tickled me:

Don’t panic but I’m in hospital, think I’ve poisoned myself. Used a daffodil bulb in a cheese sandwich instead of an onion. Don’t worry, I’ll be out in the spring.

Hey bud it’s Ash – r u coming out 2nite? I’m gonna get off me nut. Txt bk lv Ash.

This left dad more than a little confused. Someone who’s related to me, lives in Winchester and has bright ideas for Christmas presents has a helluva lot to answer for. I’ll say no more on the subject. We played a game of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Dad fell asleep so we played for him, and he won. That can’t be right can it?

Mr Blue you did it right

Getting a bit too experimental for my own good I fear

It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage, but you'll look sweet on the seat of a bicycle built for two

I don't wanna be a candidate for Vietnam or Watergate cos all I want to do is...

Enough of this life of gluttony and sloth! I jumped out of bed like a jumpy jumper jumping, squeezed into my cycling gear (I’m sure it’s shrinking), hopped onto Mr Rusty and set off into the morning drizzle, shouting ‘Yabba-dabba-doo’ for some unknown reason. I headed off through the vineyards of Pecharmant and within half an hour I was thoroughly lost which is just the way I like it. I cycled up one hill that was so steep my front wheel lifted off the ground, resulting in a wheely-style performance spectacular enough to make any BMX trickster proud. Sadly there was nobody there to see it, except for a dead badger which lay on its back as if asleep, in the ditch at the side of the road. There but for the grace of God go I, I thought. I hope it wasn’t one of Harry Hill’s. Then it started to rain, first gnats and frogs, then rats and hogs, and finally cats and dogs. It was a menagerie of rain. Indeed, I saw green aligators and long-necked geese, some humpty backed camels and some chimpanzees, some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born, I never got to see no unicorns. You can't beat a bit of Rolf.

Two hours later, and considerably wetter and colder than when I had set out, I was back indoors, and just in time for aperitifs with M&A who were joining our merry family trio for lunch. We set off with umbrellas aloft and heavy footsteps in the attic (that’s Rentaghost), to the busy little restaurant and feasted on fish soup, oysters, duck, fantastically stinky cheese, fresh pineapple and fabulous local wines, rounded off with champagne. As if that wasn’t enough, we then went for coffee and splashed out on a crepe suzette with a glass of Monbazillac. Ou est ma crepe suzette? we sang, in the style of Kenneth Williams.

Back indoors, for a fun-packed evening of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire (but we don’t want to give you that, apparently) which was like having Chris Tarrant in the house – can you imagine anything worse? There was much hilarity and gamesmanship, and more red wine was consumed than is strictly sensible quite frankly. I will simply say I will need to make two trips to the bottle bank now, and leave it there.

All you seem to do is eat and drink...er, yeap

Well, they seem to be enjoying themselves

After lunch, one goes for coffee, crepe suzette and a glass of Monbazillac, naturally

Here we are again then...

Alors!

Those lyrics yesterday…Tunnel of Love by Fun Boy Three if anybody was wondering.

Today’s starter for ten:

Where the mountains meet the sea
And light spits stains on the scenery
And the air is heavy with the sticky unease
I wish for my world of make believe

As the bell on the church clock chimed out the hour of ten, we assembled in a straight line and stood to attention outside the blue front door of L’Enfance de Lard. Upon the tenth chime, the door creaked open and André appeared with his basket, ready for the market. Off we went with a far-la-la and a hey-nonny-no.

Market shopping: one duck stuffed with orange, one bunch of carrots, one weird thing that’s a cross between broccoli and cauliflower, one bunch of radishes, a generous handful of lambs lettuce (mache?), country paté, dandelion leaves, a selection of cheeses, grapes, three polyanthus plants, a fondue set and some wine goblets. Didn’t we do well?

A well earned coffee woke us up from our market dream, and we went home laden with purchases. I walked with the folks up to the weir and back, we had lunch and then set off to Monbazillac for a wine tasting - but what do you know? It was closed. After me leading the disappointed party through a particularly muddy car park, thereby gaining a few inches but losing a few hard-earned popularity points in the process, I redeemed myself by locating a Monbazillac wine warehouse nearby where we were provided with generous samples of the sweet sticky stuff. When the nice woman dishing out the samples first came over where we were waiting she said, ‘Alors,’ to which dad said, ‘Allo to you too!’ We returned to the house proudly clutching our booty and getting some funny looks from passers-by.

A few hours recuperation and a spot of word-crunching before dinner at L’Enfance de Lard. The things I put myself through so that other people have a nice holiday, I ask you. It’s not easy being me. We munched on dandelions with confit de canard and Tomme, duckhearts with pineapple and peppers and various tarts. Three veg were introduced to the menu to keep the Brits happy, and that seemed to do the trick. We zig-zagged home at some ungodly hour, happy as sandboys knee-deep in sand.

I don't know what it means but it's forcing me to believe it

Down these mean streets a man must go. Monflanquin. You can pronounce that mon-flan-can if you want to sound goofy.

Wherever I go so does me go

Dad tried to buy the bread and croissants with pound coins, but the baker’s wife (who has a musical written about her I believe) was having none of it. After breakfast we set off in the car to explore some of the bastide towns in the vicinity. It's a jolly holiday with Mary, I'm telling you.

First stop was Villeréal, closely followed by Monflanquin and Gavaudun (extraordinary ruined castle atop a giant rock in a frock) where, hey presto, I produced a picnic from my knapsack, which is a pretty neat trick if you can pull it off. We ate it in the rain until our crusts turned soggy. I spent the next half an hour trying to fit different sized pieces of Tupperware back into the boot of the car, like something out of the Krypton Factor (apologies to Vicky Wood - that line was stolen). On we went to Biron which has the most amazing chateau. Fascinating place. Unfortunately it was closed for January. Next stop, Monpazier. Look at all the photos wot I took, then yawn.

M&A joined us for aperitifs, and then what do you know? I made a tasty curry for our tea. It was a blast. Actually it was Uncle Ben’s, but he definitely said he didn’t want it, so don’t come the cowboy with me sonny jim.

These lyrics have been going round and round in my head like an angry wasp all day. Anybody remember where they're from? It’s competition time again! You need the song and artist to get a whole point.

Walk through the fields where the flowers are growing
Carve out your names on the first tree you see
There are 22 catches when you strike your matches
And get down on your knees

Answers in the comments box purlease!

Gavaudun, where there's this castle on a rock, just like I said there was.

The papparazzi are in town

The chateau at Biron, which was closed.

Mum and dad warm up for a game of leapfrog in Monpazier.

Unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed

Here’s the deal. I went to the laundrette. I made soup. I hoovered. I dusted. I mopped. I cleaned bathrooms. I listened to the Manic Street Preachers played very loud.

At the allotted hour I returned to the laundrette to collect all the bed linen. My friend the laundress was po-faced and sullen. I said, ‘Why are you so po-faced and sullen’ (in French), and she said, ‘Because of your washing!’ (in French). I said ‘What about my washing?’ (in French) and she pointed up to the top corner of the laundrette window and said ‘There! Look!’ (in French). I looked (in French).

‘Ooh la la!’ I said (in English). There was a man in overalls up a ladder fiddling around with a pair of pliers and the overhead power cables. ‘No power!’ she said shrugging (in English). ‘Ooh la la!’ I said (in German). ‘Are you soft in the head?’ she asked (in Mongolian).

Well the upshot was there had been a power cut and all the bed linen was sodden, and some of it was quite wet too. I took a few deep breaths and counted to ten (in French). It didn’t help, the washing was still wet. ‘I will return at seven,’ I suggested (in French) with a flourish (in Italian). ‘Do I look like I give a fiddler’s fart?’ she said (in sign language - quite effectively I thought). I left, whistling the theme tune to Rhubarb & Custard in a jaunty manner.

Michael most graciously drove me to Bergerac International Air Shed for the arrival of mum and dad. We met N,K&D in the bar and I numbed myself with alcohol. Guess who was last out of the arrivals hall? Mmmhmm. We got the car (always use Avis, never ever use Hertz – ever) and dad drove us back to town in reverse.

Champagne, roast dinner, Pecharmant, Monbazillac. It’s all a bit of a blur. I do remember Carmen on the stereo. She’s a great DJ, and available for weddings and barmitzvahs I’m told. Lovely hat. Fruity you could say.

Some tangerines today

Words are flowing out like endless rain into my paper cup

My quiet little street seems to have morphed into a bloody building site. There are now three buildings covered in scaffolding, with work beginning at 8am. How I long for the peace and quiet of the Isle of Dogs! Smashing tiles, clanking pieces of scaffolding, drills, hammers and chisels – it’s enough to make you get up early. Have the Time Team moved in for heavens sakes?

I walked around the market with a spring in my step and an autumn in my stair. More craggy faces. The ugly foie gras woman gave me an extra hard stare which would have turned a lesser man to stone (I only look at her reflection in my magic shield, a trick I picked up off Jason – no not Donovan, duh!) as I hurried on my way in search of the golden fleas.

Back indoors with coffee on a drip, I set about the task of editing my mantelpiece. I mean masterpiece. I mean Makepeace. Listened to Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue on the internet. Funniest line: How do you make your garden look bigger? Magnifying grass! Had me reaching for my inhaler, and I’m not asthmatic. I’m not even pragmatic, or automatic, or dogmatic. Just diplomatic, idiosyncratic and fairly erratic.

Off to Leclerc in the superclean Smart, to fill the larder with delightful goodies. For yes, tomorrow sees the much awaited arrival of my mum and dad, who will be staying with me until next week. What an honour. Also stocked up on alcohol (who stole all the stuff I bought in for Mister M?) as I think I may need it.

More editing. Editing is ace. It’s so much better than writing. I feel like a teacher with a red biro crossing things out. Except I’m not using a red biro, as that would cause havoc with my laptop screen. Mmmm...better not cross (sounds like butternut squash) too much out.

A swift G&T round at L’Enfance then back home to smoke my opium pipe. Oh no – I’ve given up! Hot darn! Sucked on a cheese straw instead, but it made me cough.

What? This little green pill here doctor?

What does this say to you?

It's in the can Pete! It's in the can!

After a bit of a bad night, I was a late riser as I believe they say. Onwards, ever onwards with the writing, and I finally completed the last chapter of my epic novel! Hur-bloody-rah. Sat back and wondered what to do now. Then started on a new story I shelved a while ago, and planned another project I've been toying with. So, there's no end in sight. This could run and run, like diarrhea.

Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I strolled purposefully along the riverside in the wind for an hour, before performing a pirouette and strolling even more purposefully back. A pair of pied-wagtails followed me all the way, sharing in my reflected smugness at having actually done what I set out to do. Yeah, cheers, great, thanksalot.

Back indoors I began the editing process (at the moment it's looking like a largeprint version of War And Peace) and realised that was going to be a job in itself. Ah, something to do tomorrow. Time for a celebratory beer - or even a celebrity beer. I watched Monster on DVD, which was disturbing, provoking and brilliant in equal measures. But then, anything with Christina Ricci in it gets my vote.

Don't play with your whip here mate, you'll be struck down by God in D minor and then you'll be up to your knees in doohdah and make no mistake! At least I think that's what it means.

Er...that wouldn't happen to be the Dordogne by any chance? Could be...

It's a slippery slope! I love this sign. It's so...literal.

Every day I write the book

Don't tell me you don't know the difference
Between a lover and a fighter
With my pen and my electric typewriter
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal
I'd still own the film rights and be working on the sequel

And nobody writes them quite like Monsieur Costello in my book.

OK, we have a winner: Glenn Gould, Gary Cooper and Fatty Arbuckle. So, Candlemaker – it's time to reveal your true identity to claim your prize! Will the real Candlemaker please stand up.

I wrote all day, well until about 3.30pm anyway when I began to climb the walls. That turned out to be an unsatisfactory pastime as the paint got under my nails, so I went for a long walk instead, across fields and byways, footpaths and hills. Then I came home and had a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. Whey-hey! It were grand ladee.

One of the Ovaltinees arrived with Dr Zhivago in tow for aperitifs (M&A had been shopping in the Bordeaux sales). By the time M had undone all his coat buttons, toggles, zips and Velcro fastenings and got his coat off, it was time for him to put it back on again. It was enough to have given Houdini a serious panic attack. Matching collar and cuffs though, which is always a boon. We walked up to the Chinese restaurant near the train station and enjoyed a delicious of meal. Crab and asparagus soup followed by prawns and straw mushrooms for me – and plenty of rosé naturellement.

The wind got under my flaps in the night, and they banged together like nobody’s business. There I was in my jimjams at 5am, risking life and limb hanging out of the second floor window in the rain trying to get the shutters closed. Oh it all happens, I’m tellin’ ya! Never a dull moment.

Two reflections on the sparkling water

Last night's dinner. Le cordon bleu or road accident? You decide!

I watch the ripples change their size but never leave the stream of warm impermanence

I blame Douglas Coupland for my immobilisation in bed this morning. I just can’t stop reading Shampoo Planet. Eventually I forced myself to put it down and get on with some fabulous writing of my own – ha ha ha, hee hee hee.

Whatever happens, I find that if I haven’t been outside the house by about three in the afternoon I start going a bit stir-crazy, so I slung on my coat and marched off along the banks for the Dordogne for a couple of hours. The sun was just breaking through the heavy clouds, dappling the water with morphing golden shapes of gold. I stopped in town for a baguette, then carried on ‘working’ until six.

I’ve just seen a robin sitting in the Christmas tree outside! How cool. Does he know it’s not Christmas?

H was on the phone telling me that Sammie’s having problems with her legs again which is a bit of a worry. I thought we’d got over that one for the time being. Back to the dreaded vet’s then for more mega-expensive pills no doubt.

I settled down to watch Shrek 2 on DVD, which was a bit of light relief. Who knew Jenny Saunders could sing? And both Dave and Eels on the soundtrack - impressive.

'Will he ever stop taking photos of that bloody river?' I hear you cry. Answer: Nope.

This is the view from my head this afternoon. Yeah - innit nice? If anybody is interested in either t-shirts or framed prints then keep checking back.

Wild leeks

Yeah so last night, I popped across to L’Enfance de Lard for a small large one or two, and met the lovely crowd who were dining there. I felt quite deflated walking away from what certainly promised to be a lively night. Mister M, you have absolutely no idea what you missed out on! Not that I’m bitter and twisted.

I came home and opened a bottle of Pecharmant wine to console myself, and did a little more writing until my vision became impaired. I cooked myself a canard au cassoulet with a teetering pile of buttered carrots and peas and settled down to watch the film Iris. Utterly brilliant and tremendously moving – but, I know it’s a cliché but I have to say it, not a patch on the book. And there were some real deviations going on which were clearly only added to tug even harder at your heartstrings than was strictly necessary. If you haven’t already, then do read the book (Iris by John Bayley), it is stunningly beautiful.

I am now reading Shampoo Planet by Douglas Coupland. After reading Eleanor Rigby (another recommendation from John, my culture secretary) I want to read all of Doug’s books. I’ll let you know how I get on in due course.

Back to today which was what? Saturday. I took myself off to the market just for the sheer experience of it all. I didn’t actually need anything and so I didn’t buy anything, but I enjoyed looking over all the stalls piled high with fresh fruits and vegetables, meats, eggs and cheeses, honey and preserves, truffles and suspect looking bottles with homemade labels. The heady scent of apples wafted through the air, and it reminded me of my grandparents garage which was always piled high with windfalls through the winter, guarded with snapping mousetraps. The faces on some of the stallholders tell a thousand stories. They are some of the craggiest features I have ever seen. Calloused hands, women with huge hairy warts and headscarves; clearly people of the land. If you were a photographer and had the nerve to ask these people if you could take their picture, there is an exhibition for you right there in Bergerac market – I am not joking! I would go and see it. Come on Sam Taylor Wood – it’s a challenge!

Back indoors I dined on a scrambly egg brunch with a two day old copy of The Guardian and read all about Ken Livingstone’s involvement with Capita and Associated Newspapers. Oh it all happens dunnit! Anything to challenge the appalling Metro and the abysmal Evening Standard (both full of right wing tosh aimed at soft-brained commuters who inhabit the suburbs and home counties who neither live in nor go out in London and like nothing more than to tut over the depravity of it all) is a step in the right direction in my book. For far too long have they reigned unchallenged by an intelligent publication. Ooh, a little bit of politics! Somebody stop me! Look, it's my blogsite. I can say what I like.

I spent the early afternoon at my laptop, but outside it was sunny and warmish, so I took my notebooks with me and strolled along the banks of the Dordogne until I found a seat in the sun and there I sat and scribbled for three solid hours whilst the world and his husband walked past with their camp little dogs in tow. The sun started to set and I started to shiver, so I walked back along the river past the rowing clubhouse where they were hauling their boats out of the water. It was my intention to say something amusing about the cox, who was challenged in the vertical department, but I can’t think of anything.

A long soak in the tub then drinks in the kitchen of L’Enfance de Lard and home for a dinner of pan-fried scallops on a bed of beetroot purée with wild leeks. Well, it will make a change from beans on toast. By the way, thanks for visiting. Catch you tomorrow? If you want to talk back to me just click that little comments things below - I love hearing from you. Did that sound a bit desperate? Yesterday I caught myself singing a Boomtown Rats song in the bathroom mirror (there's someone lookin' at you ah oh ah oh), and last night I dreamt I couldn't stand upright on a London Underground escalator. They must have taken my marbles away!

Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, wear your hair long babe you can't go wrong

Blown out

I have never made cauliflower soup before, and I was most pleasantly surprised with the fruits of my labour. A delicious potage, especially with a little Roquefort cheese crumbled in just before serving – an excellent tip from Bergerac’s finest chef. If there was a competition for superb soups I believe this would be well received by the judges.

Well, what can I say? I was about to start cleaning the house and making up the guest bedroom, when I decided to check my emails first. What do you know? A cancellation! My weekend guest was not coming! I was shocked. I reluctantly accepted the truth of the matter given the mitigating circumstances of general family unwellness. One consolation was I didn’t have to do any cleaning, but what I’m going to do with all this champagne, wine, beer and food I’ve got in I really do not know. Suggestions on a postcard please!

You’ll be relieved to know I really did appreciate my new found leisure time (that’s a Sparks lyric by the way) and spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon catching up on the writing I didn’t do during my time in London. I popped out for a baguette and a Guardian – well, I figured that I wouldn’t be getting the one my visitor had promised to bring me so I it was acceptable to treat myself.

It’s incredibly cold here, although the on-line weather forecast would have you believing otherwise. How can they get it so wrong so often? I got incredibly shivery sitting still writing, so I decided to take myself off for a brisk walk along the river. I walked for three quarters of an hour and then turned round and headed back which certainly got the blood pumping. As I walked back to the house I saw the Ryan Air flight come in – one passenger short! I can hear the plane fly off again on its return trip to Stanstead as I write this.

So, I kind of had the next 71 hours with my guest planned out – but now I’ve screwed that up and dropped it into the recycling bag. Dinner tonight at L’Enfance de Lard has been cancelled, and I find myself at a loose end. No excuse not to buckle down and write then. OK. I will. I’ll show you. Every cloud has a silver lining. Every dog will have his day. Many a muckle makes a muckle.

Now, where’s that bottle of champagne?

The moody blues

I went straight in and asked for a pair of sotcks

Jimmy Mac, when are you coming back?

I apologise for what has been the longest break in transmission of this blog since records began.

I know the two of you who read this rubbish religiously are wondering what had become of me. I am alive and well, but I fell behind with my blog entries. Please forgive me, for I have strayed like a lost sheep. I have followed the devices and desires of my own heart, and there is no health in me.

Normal services have now been resumed! If you scroll down you'll find a blow by blow account of all the events since last Friday. That should use up a bit of your time at least.

Anyway, today I got up at 6am - yes I know - 6am! I had forgotten there were two six o'clocks in a day. I wrote all morning, then met M&A for a spot of lunch at the fine restaurnant near the station. Five course - celeriac soup, nicoise salad, fresh fish (papillotte?), cheeseboard and apple tart. I waddled home, only to be whisked off to Leclerc for some food shopping.

More wordsmithery until aperitif time, and an evening on the couch with Frasier.

This doesn’t need a Tiger Team

My few days in London are over and I must return to serve the rest of my sentence in Bergerac. Ha! I was standing at Crossharbour station waiting for a Docklands train as if it was the most mundane thing in the world for me to be travelling back to my place in France, and it suddenly occurred to me as I tutted over how long I had to wait for the train and how little time I have left of my sabbatical, that plenty of people would give their eye teeth to have the opportunity of spending six weeks in France without any responsibility. I quickly bucked up my ideas and came up with a more positive plan of action.

So, the journey was as easy as abc. Tube to Liverpool Street, Stanstead Express, no queue at check-in, no queue at security, bit of shopping in WHSmiths, Boots and Books Etc, leisurely stroll to the departure gate, board on time, take off on time, touch down in Bergerac fifteen minutes early and before my feet have touched the ground I’m sitting in the airport bar pouring a pint-sized glass of ice cold lager down my gullet. And to top it all, an invitation to dine at L’Enfance de Lard? Can my life get any better than this?

I quickly unpacked then dashed across to the restaurant in time for aperitifs, then tucked into Michael’s most delicious onion soup which is topped with toasty bread and lashings of tasty melted emmenthal cheese, then chicken roasted over the fire with the most delicious lemony sauce. There was a tart (but it would be rude to say who it was) and scrumptious Bergerac red wine. I returned home happy and full and fell into bed – remembering to move the hot water bottle out of the way first.

OK. Now I’ve got the updates out the way, there is the small matter of the competition I set last week. The idea was that after reading about somebody who had contacted Queen Victoria, Stan Laurel and Pat Phoenix through electronic voice phenomenon (EVP) you came up with three equally oddly matched dead people. To say I have been overwhelmed with suggestions would be like saying I can speak fluent French. That is to say it would be an utter lie. Do you want to know how many people actually bothered? Do you? A grand total of two. I go to all this trouble and that’s the best you can do. The suggestions so far are:

Entry One:
Minnie Cauldwell
Ena Sharples
and what's her name?

Entry Two:
Ghengis Khan
Mother Teresa
Lord Lucan

The first one is amusing, but may have to be disqualified for not embracing the spirit of the competition which was based upon the disparate nature of the characters. At the moment, entry number two from somebody called H is in the lead. I’m going to keep this going until Sunday so, go on, have a go. What have you got to lose, apart from your dignity?

I also wanted to share the following which made me laugh so hard that the seat on the plane reclined without warning and the person sitting behind me spilt their coffee. This is an abridged version lifted straight from The Guardian, so you may have already seen it:

Testicle torn off by ex-lover

A jilted woman admitted ripping off her ex-lover’s testicle with her hands after he refused to have sex with her.

Amanda Monti, 24, flew into a rage after her former boyfriend, Geoffrey Jones, 37, rejected her advances at the end of a drunken house party. She yanked off his left testicle, which was later handed to him by a friend with the words: “That’s yours.”

Monti, of Birkenhead, Merseyside, pleaded guilty to wounding at Liverpool crown court yesterday. Monti told Mr Jones she wanted to discuss their relationship and offered him sex. When he refused, she grabbed his face and a struggle ensued.

Mr Jones threw Monti out of the house. She then smashed a window. Another struggle took place and Monti was knocked to the floor, from where she pulled down Mr Jones’s shorts.

Monti initially tried to hide the testicle by putting it in her mouth, but released it. Doctors were unable to reattach the organ.

Now if that doesn't bring a tear to your eye, then nothing will!

Hey Jesse, it's lonely, come home

Sammie decided that this morning she wanted to visit the pigs, but they weren’t at home to visitors. I peered into their little house and I have to report it’s like a pigsty in there.

H went off to do the shopping and I knuckled down to a list of chores. This included such giddy delights as paperwork, making vast quantities of soup to keep H going (parsnip and apple, leek and potato no less), drycleaning, post office, library…all that kind of carry on. It took up the best part of the day, until it was time to take Sammie out again – the weight’s falling off me already.

We met John and Jesse in a bar at West India Quay. Now, I haven’t seen Jesse for thirteen years when we were chums living in Earls Court (me) and Kensington (her). It was like stepping back in time. So many memories. How we laughed. How we cried. How four hours passed in a shake of a lamb’s tale I’ll never know. Draughty station. Home. Bed. Sleep.

I'm the happiest dog in the world!

I'll win a fortune in a game my life will never be the same

More dog walking at the crack of dawn, then it was time for me to go through my stacks of mail and bank statements and guess what? I am officially poor! Yeap, I no longer have to worry about money for the simple reason that I don’t have any! I now pass all responsibility to the bank who will have to take over from here. All the things I could do…it's a rich man's world!

I straightened my oilskins and slipped into my wellies and set off in the wind and rain to London Bridge station, making my way through the wet streets to the Bridge House where I was due to meet my erstwhile colleagues. I’ll be careful what I say because they may well get round to reading this, even though they're all desperately busy. It was absolutely lovely to see them all. Does it make me a bad person that I don’t seem to be as excited about returning to work as they think I ought to be? Well done everybody for managing not to talk shop - well not too much anyway, and for not bringing the contents of my in-tray with you.

Back to Docklands in plenty of time for H’s arrival home from the land of the Hol. I walked Sammie to Island Gardens and back, made a cottage pie and slung it in the oven and opened a bottle of French red. Couldn’t be nicer.

Another Mensa meeting to attend

Be sure that your umbrella is upside down

Off we go again to the farm, me and Sammie. I want you to try and form a mental image of me and Sammie the Wonderdog jumping over fences, chasing across fields of cows and sheep (and the occasional grumpy-faced llama) and skipping through grassy meadows. With a copy of The Observer tucked under my arm (hurray for great British newspapers readily available on the day of publication for a reasonable price) I returned home to a hearty breakfast.

At the appointed hour, Wino Jo arrived in her blue sports car like a cross between Penelope Pitstop and Isadora Duncan. We gossiped over coffee before sallying forth to Bow, and a fine pub called the Morgan’s Arms where we met a myriad of dear old friends for a superb Sunday roast and pints and pints of the landlord’s finest lagers. There was much discussion of Desperate Housewiveswhich is now being broadcast on C4 I learned. Having not seen it, I stared into the middle distance sucking thoughtfully on a pipe.

Having a dog is an excellent way of curbing one’s excesses, as I had to be home by six to walk her. Had this not been the case, I think lunch would have morphed into evening, and that phrase which you've dreaded hearing since the nagging voice in your head started telling you to go home: ‘Last orders at the bar pulleaase!’ Dog walked, it was an evening for flicking over to BBC4 (I didn’t know we had it) where I found a Dennis Potter special – with a showing of Pennies From Heaven and a selection of interviews with the great man (a bit of a hero of mine) so it all turned out well in the end.

Is that a glass of wine in your hand perchance?

Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians

Ahh, Saturday morning at home! No longer do I have to wake up to the shrieking squawk of my French alarm clock. Instead, I get a rough paw thrust in my eye socket repeatedly until I crawl out from under the duvet, mumbling and grumbling and peer through the curtains at the wind tearing through the trees and the rain lashing down the window. Oh to be in England again, and how I’ve missed this weather. Sammie and I bound around the fields down on the farm. At one point the wind whips under my puffa and I whirl up into the sky like Flat Stanley. Anybody remember Flat Stanley or is it just me? You know, the book about the little boy who got squashed as flat as a sheet of paper when a wardrobe fell over on top of him, and went on to find that far from being a disability it was actually quite liberating to be able to slide under doors and be flown in the sky like a kite? But I digress. I returned home clutching a copy the Saturday Guardian – possibly the best thing about Saturdays, except Jonathan Ross on the radio. Imagine my disappointment when at the end of Brian Matthews’ Sounds Of the Sixties show (Radio 2, 8-10am) it wasn’t Jonathan’s lovely wolling r’s I heard, but some stand in bloke. It wasn’t even Mark Lamarr for goodness sakes. What had gone wrong? My day was all but ruined.

But I couldn’t sit around feeling sorry for myself. I thought of what this nation stands for: books from Boots and country lanes; free speech, free passes, class distinction, democracy and proper drains. Then I made a dash for Asda and bought some bags of salad which no doubt are washed in bleach and insecticide and cacogenic chemicals by underpaid illegal immigrants under terrible conditions working for unscrupulous gangmasters in the guise of employment agents. I did think about that, but I really needed salad. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Mum and dad arrived soon afterwards and we knocked back a few calming glasses of Madeira before I threw together a Spanish omelette which went well with the Rioja I had picked out.

Over the last few days I have been receiving a lot of text messages from a mystery number. I think I have received about twenty of them in total now. They are all blank, except for one which mysteriously said simply, ‘Got’. I wondered if this was some kind of code and began trying to crack it in an Enigma-stylee. I even started to feel vaguely concerned. At one point I replied to the number saying ‘Who is this? You keep sending me blank messages. Please check your phone!’ But to no avail. Still the messages continued to arrive. I was beginning to get a bit freaked out by it to be frank. Could it be that somebody was stalking me by mobile? The last time I thought I had a stalker, it turned out to be the cut of my trousers, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, to cut a long story short I lost my mind. True. Gold. Through the barricades. After dinner mum and dad proudly produced their new mobile phone which my brother (whose name rhymes with clever but this time had been far from it in my opinion) had given them for Christmas. The creaky cogs in my brain began to turn, and yeap, you got there before me, the mystery messages I had been receiving had all come from this phone. It turned out that random button pressing in a chimpanzee style by mum had led to me receiving all these blank texts – although they were completely oblivious to sending them. They were also oblivious to the fact that they had been corresponding with somebody in Afghanistan who had sent them the following two messages.

We are both feeling a bit unwell with coughs which might be bronchitis. Linda is hoping to get out on the horses tomorrow

Linda is going to take the horses out soon if you want to join us for a ride

Well, it was all rather odd. I asked mum and dad if they fancied going horse riding in Afghanistan, but they said that whilst it was a lovely idea and thank you for thinking of them, they would have to say no on this occasion.

The phone was retuned to it’s cardboard box mum and dad were returned to Stoneleigh. Sammie and I went for a long walk and then I settled down for a night in front of the telly. I haven’t watched any television for over three months so it felt like quite a novelty. It was disappointingly crap, and I consoled myself that I haven’t missed anything at all by not having a box. I found an old episode of Alan Partridge on a video and laughed loud and long. I also found the opening twenty minutes of the film Hotel Paradiso at the end of another tape. Why do I find the puerile humour of Adrian Edmonston and Rick Mayall so damn funny? Maybe it can be explained by my early diet of Laurel & Hardy and Harold Lloyde, and total love of slapstick (the sight of somebody slipping over on a banana skin is still the funniest thing in the world as far as I'm concerned), but when Ade and Rick start knocking each other around with frying pans and slamming each others heads in fridge doors, I almost lose control of my bladder. This film was panned (no pun intended) when it came out. It is a work of genius! I need to see the rest of it and quickly.

Ah – then I switched on Jerry Springer The Opera! I saw this at the National way back when, and loved it. It didn’t work so well on TV – stage productions rarely do – but it was still good stuff. I sent the BBC 50,000 emails of complaint (one for each swear word in the show – allegedly) and then went to bed, looking forward to church in the morning.

I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it

Nathan Jones you've been gone too long

I was up early working my way through a pile of ironing, and then spent a couple of hours writing. My lunch was interrupted by the Belgians who live round the corner. They wanted to have a discussion on the subject of 'white ants' (termites in the woodwork in your parlance) as, they tell me, this is a big problem in Bergerac. I sympathised with their plight (the Belgians, not the termites) and they inspected the walls gravely (again, the Belgians). I gave them a set of keys and they invited me in for a drink and I said as a joke, 'Ooh, haven't you got any nice chocolates?' They appeared not to be amused. Hey - new friends! Free drinks! To be honest, the smell of alcohol from their combined exhaled breath will have probably cleared up the termite problem without the need for chemicals (DDT or whatever it is they use these days).

I packed my bag, as I recall, and I walked slowly down the hall...and then Michael very kindly chauffeured me to Bergerac International Air Shed.

"The flight's full and will depart early so please go through security by 4pm" Miss Congeniality said, as they always do. The fact that check-in is open until 4.50pm, and the plane doesn't arrive until 5.15pm seems to be neither here nor there in their book of strange Ryan Air-esque logic. I ignored the advice and drank greedily from the cup of the place they call 'Bar' where lovely people willingly dish out drinks just because you ask them to.

Eventually I gave in to the increasingly urgent calls over the PA, and joined the Daily Mail hell that was the departure lounge. It was like being at a meeting of the Countryside Alliance and the UK Independence Party all rolled into one, with extra children for good measure. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Mesdames Messieurs, welcome to hell." I purposely sat at the back of the plane so I could make a nifty escape when we landed at Stanstead, but unfortunately it was so blinking windy they could not open the rear door. Consequently I was the very last passenger off the plane. Doh! The best laid plans of mice and men...and terrapins. The Stanstead Express clattered into Liverpool Street where I realised I had lost my automatic pilot instinct on the underground and had to consult a map. And all the prices have changed in an upward direction. Well done again! It already was the most expensive subway system in the world - now it's even dearer, and still almost undoubtedly the worst system in existence to boot.

How surprised was Sammie (the dog) when I walked in the door. Pretty darn surprised I can tell you. She didn't know what to do, and so more or less had an epileptic fit the effect of which lasted for half an hour. It felt odd to be home, but equally it was also very good to be there, even if I do have to sleep with a dog (yes, I mean Sammie thank you mister smart aleck) snoring in my ear. I thought I might cough up a furball before the night was through. In addition, outside it was blowing a gale and the wind was whistling around the eaves, up the adams and straight down my back passage. Exactly the right ingredients for a good night's sleep then. Not.

Plant a tree

Let's have a competition!

Time to take down the Christmas lights, dismantle the cherubs and deal with the tree. I took the tree out on the terrace and found it had quite a decent root ball on it, so I planted it to see if it will live a little longer.

And believe it or not, that was the highlight of my day! After that task was complete I set to work at the laptop, paused for lunch and continued to write through the afternoon and early evening. I took a stroll into town to buy a new pen, but apart from that I didn’t leave the house until it was time for an aperitif up the road…but alas, the first guests had already arrived so I didn’t hang about and headed home for omelette, beans and Tosca.

Did you know that if you record radio static, then play it back you can hear voices ‘from the other side’? Well, apparently you can. It’s called electronic voice phenomenon (EVP). It’s going to be the subject of a forthcoming film with Michael Keaton called White Noise. I read this in an amusing article, and this bit made me laugh into my beer:

Williamson [Linda] says the spirits find it difficult to contact us. Once she played a chat with her friend Avril backwards and heard Gordon, Avril’s dead father, singing: “Remember your dad.” But that was all. Linda has also contacted Queen Victoria, who said in a posh voice: “Linda, I’m here.” Stan Laurel said: “I’m here.” Pat Phoenix from Coronation Street said: “Aye, you do.”

Do not try this at home warns the article! But what you could try is to come up with a triumvirate of famous dead people to contact via EVP which is equally or more disparate than Queen Victoria, Stan Laurel and Pat Phoenix! Go on, please use the comment box below to put forward your efforts, and I shall publish a top ten of the best suggestions. There’s a drink in for the winner!

Dirty linen

Wednesday is wash day, and I struggled to the launderette bent under the burdensome weight of every stitch of clothing and bed linen in my possession. I took over half of the launderette with my piles of washing. The laundress wrote down my name in her book: Mr Snill. I don’t think I’ll ever remember how to say e’s or i’s in French so I am now officially a Snill. She asked me if it was an English name. Well I suppose it beats snail and smell, which are the usual hilarious witticisms I have become accustomed to.

To the supermarket to replenish the dwindling stocks, then home for lunch and an afternoon’s writing before collecting my laundry, all neatly folded away. In the process of putting the cover back on the giant duvet, I slipped on the wooden floor and fell inside it. It felt like I was trapped in there for hours.

A gin and tonic or two at a little place I know around the corner, then two hours of more writing before cassoulet au canard and Curb Your Enthusiasm (the last one on the DVD – what am I going to do now?) and Frasier.

A very fine lunch

Ma Baker is the FBI's most wanted woman

My word of the day is ‘Ébourgeonnage’ – no, you look it up

I was up with the alarm clock so I got a couple of hours writing in before being whisked off to Périgueux for lunch. A crystal white hoarfrost and bright blue skies coupled with the morning sunshine intensified the beauty of the unfolding landscape.

Before we did anything else, we stopped at the cash’n’carry for essential restaurant shopping. Once in Périgueux we walked all of 100m from the car park to the Café de Paris for a café noir and to meet Manu, our lunch date. She led us to a fine restaurant where the friendly staff served delicious food. I sampled a mussel risotto (excellent) and magret de canard (only second to that served at L’Enfance de Lard) and a delicious chocolate dessert, rosé and fantastic Bergerac red wine accompanied. Trés trés bien.

Afterwards we did further restaurant shopping at a shop specialising in porcelain de Limoges, before a tour of a beautiful town called Brantôme. I nodded off on the drive home, which was due entirely to the relaxing classical music and nothing to do with the two bottles of red wine at lunchtime.

A Chinese meal this evening, followed by champagne, Puccini and Mahler. God I hate France.

This place looked interesting...

Brantome this afternoon

Mist again (Oh no I...)

Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise

The new L’Enfance de Lard delivery service came up trumps again last night. A wicker basket arrived beautifully packed with foie gras and crusty bread, lamb chops, a rich chocolate tart, chilled champagne, bottles of fine Pecharmant wine and a bottle of Beaumes-de-Venise, A tasty snack then. ‘Oh my oh my oh my oh my!’ said Mole.

Is it any wonder I needed a lie-in this morning? Plans of a cycle ride and a visit to the launderette fluttered gently out of the window, and I resigned myself to a day tapping out words on my laptop. Outside it’s grey and misty anyway, and the cycling and washing can wait until tomorrow.

I took two large bagfuls of empties down to the bottle banks by the river, but the recycling bins were already overflowing, so I had to line all these bottles up on the ground, along with dozens already there. A ghostly mist hung heavily over the Dordogne, and reflected in the water giving it the appearance of milk. I took a walk along the banks and nearly slipped in when I slid spectacularly on some mud in an Oliver Hardy stylee.

Funny old day all told. I overdosed on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Anybody seen the Beloved Aunt episode? Absolutely hysterical!

Another extended lunch. Thank the lord for elasticated waistbands.

Hushaway Mountain

I woke up with a start and ended up with a finish. Where is your head Kathryn? Oh, there it is, right on the end of your neck where you left it last night.

Am I the last person in the world to read the book Iris by John Bayley? What a tremendous novel! I am totally in awe of how somebody can have written something so utterly beautiful and moving while his extraordinary wife slipped into the grim grip of Alzheimer’s. I saw the film with the lovely Kate Winslet and Dame Judy playing the part of Iris Murdoch ages ago - and loved it, but it isn’t a patch on the experience of reading this incredible book.

So yeah, Sunday. I missed the flea market! Just as well I didn’t need any fleas. I wrote for an hour and a half and then skipped across the way to L’Enfance de Lard (have you noticed how I have discovered italics?)for a party with a difference. The difference was the place was crawling with more children than can be found at one of Michael Jackson’s sleepovers. The champagne helped me cope with the difficult early stages, and before long we were sitting around a gorgeously decorated table like some huge extended family feasting on victuals beyond description. My pidgin French got me nowhere, but I was never wanting for a glass of the stuff that makes you go ‘Oooh!’ Yes, we’re talking champagne sweetie, and it was arriving by the bucketload.

I finally got back to the house that I call home at seven in the evening, and I am about to embark on chapter five of my masterwork…but I have an unnatural and uncanny feeling deep in my waters that the doorbell may ring at any moment. I’ll let you know what happened next tomorrow. And so it goes…

But I'm a lady!

That'll be Bergerac from the other side of the river...nice bit of reflection innit?

Hear Neppy Way! (anag.)

Anybody for the above anagram? I spent minutes on that.

I have to tell you about this fantastic French radio station I’ve come across called Radio Nostalgie. It’s FM 102.6 if you are able to tune into French radio via the internet or something. The great thing about it is that practically every fourth record they play is Jacques Brel! Oh it’s marvellous. Each time Jacques comes on I have to stand up and wave my arms around in true Brel fashion. I need Brel CDs urgently. Thanks John, you started this and I blame you entirely!

I went to bed with good intentions of rising at 7am, but the combination of gin & tonics, madeira and red wine did strange things to my head. At ten I set off into the drizzle once again to give Mr Rusty a run for his money. This time I cycled along the other side of the Dordogne, along a little lane, past the weir and on past fields and isolated houses. I did happen to notice at one point there were a lot of cars parked up, and coincidentally there was a man sitting alone in each car. I counted fourteen of them. What’s that all about? Had I stumbled across Bergerac’s equivalent of Clapham Common? It was too wet for me to be able to describe my cycle ride as especially enjoyable, but it was good to be out getting a bit of exercise and fresh air. I returned home wet and splattered from head to toe in mud. At least I hope it was mud.

Well, there’s not that much else to report as I spent the rest of the day writing solidly. Well not just solidly, it would be daft to spend the best part of a day writing the word ‘solidly’. I wrote some other words as well, but it would be a waste of all out time to list them out here, although some of them are most excellent words of which I am very proud. I just hope they’re in the right order. There's over 59,674 of them now, all lined up like little soldiers. I know, I counted them.

So, six o’clock and I’ve got a headache from sitting in front of this laptop typing drivel for six hours without a break. That’s not clever is it?

Meals on Wheels arrived with a fantastic dinner courtesy of L’Enfance de Lard. I think it’s exciting now that the business has gone through this phase of horizontal diversification into the realms of outside catering. We dined on a fantastic soup (I’m afraid I’ve forgotten its official name) but it’s made with langoustines and carrots and when piping hot it’s poured over fresh oysters and prawns and it’s delicious. OK, I must admit that from the look of the soup you wonder if the chef had a heavy cold, but the taste is all that matters. Michael had some cremated lamb chops while André and I feasted on pan-fried scallops. Aunt Bessie came up trumps with her roast potatoes and green beans, and a sprinkling of peas added a little colour to the plate. The most fantastic lemon tart finished us off – and I’ve still got three-quarters of it sitting in the kitchen if anybody fancies popping in for a coffee. Anybody? Cake?

We rounded off a fine evening by putting the world to rights over a constant stream of red wine and whisky cokes. We solved the following of the world's problems:

Homelessness
Fox hunting
Intensive sea fishing
Jennifer Saunders

We agreed to disagree on most of them.

This is the weir through a vale of trees...somebody please say something nice about my photos!