Err..apples anyone?

It's been a good year for the roses

Oh dear, we were running late and kept Jacqui and Glynis waiting outside L’Enfance de Lard in the cold – not funny, not clever, and nobody was very impressed. We hurried up through the market to the coffee shop for stimulants (caffeine) and fuel (croissants and pastries), before taking one final spin around the market, then we said our goodbyes.

Back to the house for some final packing up before setting off for Bergerac International Airport, via André’s mum’s to say au revoir and merci for all the fish. We checked in, had a couple of beers and before I could say ‘I can’t believe I’ve just spent five months in Bergerac, can you?’ I was watching the little town shrinking into the distance. Then the plane rose into the cotton wool clouds and the snaking Dordogne which was glistening like gold in the evening sun slowly faded to just an imprint on my retinas. We drove home in blizzardy-sleet, and then we were back indoors and reunited with Sammie – and just in time to watch Coronation Street. Well, not really, because it was Saturday - but you get the idea.

So that was the six months that was. Thanks for sticking with this if you have, or if you’ve just joined me – then you’re too late. It's done. Go back to the beginning and start over!

I am in two minds whether to continue with Neppytune…or to start something completely new and infinitely more exciting. What do you think? Or shall I just go back from whence I came, and stop boring everybody rigid? Your comments will help me decide.

Oh, and if you would like to place an advance order for my book, then you’re in a minority and you really should get out more. Add your name here and I'll send you a signed copy...one day.

So long for now. It’s been fun, but now there’s nothing left to say so I’m going to shuffle off into the sunset (clutching my hurting ribs). As a special ‘end of the road’ treat, here are a few of my favorite pictures from the last six months.

Toodlepip then.

Geoff x

September...who's the dude in Central Park?

October...cheeky waiter

November...the royal visit

December...it's that bloke from Central Park again...and who can forget the performance of the Ching-a-ling Song later that same evening?

Cheers. Great, Thanks a lot.

January...the folks sup up

Here's a nice Hammer House of Horror-esque picture taken by the very talented Rich.

All polar bears are left handed - fact!

Here it is…my very last full day in France…for a while at least. As I found it physically impossible to even move the vacuum cleaner let alone use it, Hugo rushed about like Mrs Overall on acid, cleaning the house from top to bottom, while I wandered around in a daze, distractedly putting things into suitcases and frowning a lot.

André stopped by for a coffee and for official goodbyes in the afternoon, and then Hugo and I went for a final stroll along the Dordogne for old time’s sake. I called in at the Tobacco Museum to say goodbye to Didier, and to donate my collection of empty fag packets and dog ends. He did not appear to be particularly grateful.

In the evening we drove to D,K&N’s house in a wee hamlet called La Sauvetat, which is just beyond Eymet (for those with maps). We had a great evening reminiscing, and a fine dinner with great wines and a one or two chasers. Entertainment of the highest order was provided by a fine pair of shitzus, two Westies, a golden retriever called Josh and another little fella who growled in a basket – oh, and a cat.

No piece of paper can be folded in half more than 7 times

OK, I have to admit this gets a bit tricky, because I have forgotten what happened to most of Thursday. I will try and piece it together from a half a brainful of miniscule fragments of vague memories.

I know – I went to the launderette and had my very last dodgy French conversation with my friend there. I thought about telling her that I would soon be leaving, never to darken her door again, but then I didn’t want any tears in my pillowcases. I marched on (then slowed down, quickly remembering that marching hurts) to the local Champion supermarket to buy…well, stuff - how much detail do you need?

Hugo arrived. I cooked. We drank Pecharmant and mulled over the events of the last couple of weeks. Quite a lot of mulling. We were mulling for Britain. If there were awards for mulling, we would have had a shelf full. Infact, after all the mulling we decided to drown ourselves down at the Sherwood Pub, where the barman tried to rip me off. He should have known better, for now I am fluent in saying, ‘Oi, you! Are you trying to diddle me or wot?’ in French.

I was a little surprised to receive this get well message in the post today. Whatever next?

It’s physically impossible for you to lick your elbow*

Finally finished reading the epic The Sea The Sea in bed this morning, which put everything back by a couple of hours. What a great read…and it didn’t turn out like I had expected either...’with the seals and the stars, explanation, resignation, reconciliation, everything picked up into some radiant bland ambiguous higher significance.’

So, I decided to put on the Jonathan Ross show – but alas it was Mark Lamarr! Nevermind, Vicky Wood and Elvis Costello made up for that – I’m not entirely sure about Alvin Stardust though.

I took all the empties to the bottle bank and then had a walk around town, but it was perishing cold so I didn’t stay outside too long. I came back to fix Mr Rusty’s puncture, as I will shortly be bidding the old fellow au revoir, when he is returned to his rightful owners on Friday. That done, I began to sort out things in the house, clearing away in the rubbish some of the items I have collected up over the five months I have been here, and that made me feel a bit low. I spent the rest of the day writing and listening to Lou Reed, which is not a bad pastime. Tomorrow Hugo arrives to sedate me before shipping me to London, and back to…all that.

*Unless of course, you cut off your arm.

Whodat?

The restaurant where lunch was had

Ain't gonna need this house much longer

Jacqui collected me soon after ten o’clock, before calling for André and setting off for the two hour journey to Bordeaux. A heavy hoarfrost lay round about, deep and crisp and frozen, like a pizza, or something.

We went to a restaurant on a raised pier over the river and overlooking Bordeaux, for a fine lunch and then onwards to the hospital. Michael woke occasionally from his sleep and opened his eyes a little. The nurse said, ‘Shout at him! Wake him up! He is lazy!’ but we felt a little self-conscious shouting in a ward with three other intensive-care patients. Michael is looking better and I hope we will have some good news soon.

The return journey went by very quickly, but I was ready for some fresh air when I got back. I took a walk along the Dordogne, in order to furnish this site with more stunning photos no less. The sky was very dramatic, and a bit theatrical too.

I have just been advised that the reason I have this horrible pain in my chest, is because my ribs may have been sprung from my sternum during the accident – something called costochondral separation! Apparently they go back into place in time, but it is common for this to result in an infection which causes the pain. I feel a trip to the doc’s coming on.

Well, I’m alone once again. My landlords have flown (I know because I saw the plane while I was out walking) and now I have just four more nights left in this ol’house, What can you do?

Doing the hokey cokey along the Dordogne

If that's not a threatening sky then my name's Lesley Judd

Maybe I seem a bit confused, well maybe, but I got you pegged

Last night’s dinner was a complete success. Homemade leek and potato soup, pork chops in a prune and white wine sauce, and an apple tart. One thing led to another, and another thing led to dominoes (at which I was a total failure) and dominoes led to Dunfermline whist for goodness sakes. I’m clueless when it comes to card games, but C&G were very patient with me and taught me the rules, and so I went on to win the game. Beginner’s luck no doubt.

I thought by now my aches and pains would be subsiding, but they seem to be getting worse. At this rate I’ll be in a wheelchair by the end of the week. It certainly doesn’t make for a comfortable night’s sleep. In the meantime, I’ll just whinge, moan, whine, grumble, complain, bleat, whimper, bellyache, gripe and generally feel sorry for myself if that’s OK with you.

We spent the morning anticipating the arrival of the previous owner of the house (Madam Fafafafafa) who was going to demonstrate how to switch off the immersion heater in French, but she’s got a dodgy elbow and has pulled out at the last minute. Jean-Claude is in the lounge removing the mirrored doors from the built-in cupboard. It’s all happening here.

I spent much of the afternoon between the editors desk, and Iris Murdoch, venturing out for a stroll only to be chased back indoors again by the icy wind and snowflakes. C&G were out for the evening, so I settled down with last night’s leftovers, the second half of The Talented Mr Ripley – and my very last episode of Frasier, so he has definitely left the building.

You see, I said there'd be more pics of the Dordogne - and here with the added bonus of C!

Is it nice in your snowstorm?

G & I set off to the local Champion supermarket to stock up on victuals for brunch and supper. C cooked up bacon and eggs – ah the smell of bacon wafting through the house! Fantashtique. I ploughed on with The Sea The Sea, which is getting a bit exciting, while G caught up with The Archers omnibus on the internet. Outside the snow fell in lumpy white flakes.

An afternoon constitutional along to the weir and back was most invigorating, and this evening I am preparing dinner - so, in theory anything could happen.

If you’re reading this with the hope of an update on Michael’s recovery, then you may be wondering why I have made no mention of it in recent posts. It is not because I have forgotten – far from it – I am thinking about little else. The reason for the lack of information is that there is no new news at the moment, as Michael’s condition remains the same, which generally involves healing sleep currently controlled by the doctors. I will include any updates here, so do keep checking back. In the meantime, carry on sending positive vibes in the direction of Bordeaux hospital.

A bit of a pile-up in the market this morning...who is that man in the hat?

You shall own a cambric shirt

Despite aches and pains, C&G and I set off for the market braving the bitingly cold wind and an ominously dark grey sky. Just the one lap of the course today, and absolutely no basket swinging. I bought an armful of leeks, and had a brief encounter of the scary kind with the ugly foie gras lady. It was not a day to be hanging around on street corners, so I kept to the main thoroughfare, stopping only to grab a French stick.

Back indoors we munched on baguettes and generally took it easy. I cooked up a vat of vichyssoise, finally surrendering to the siren call of the pastis bottle later in the afternoon. C&G were out for the night, and I settled down with The Talented Mr Ripley and a glass of two of vino collapso which hit the spot.

My old showbiz friend Judith popped by with some flowers to wish me well, which was a nice gesture given her hectic holiday schedule.

Please remember to mention me, in tapes you leave behind

Well, to make up for the lack of pictures over the last few days (as a result of my poor old Olympus camera getting squidged in the car crash) here’s are loads, heaps, oodles, stacks…infact more photos than you could shake a reasonably sized stick at. Most of them are courtesy of Rich & Andi, but you’ll be overjoyed to learn that J&B have loaned me a camera for my last few days here – so more pictures of the Dordogne will be coming this way soon - just when you thought it was safe!

First of all though, I am astonished at how many anoraks came over all unnecessary over my passing reference to the architectural term: mansard. You know who you are! It is of course a roof with two slopes, the lower almost vertical to allow extra roof space for the attic rooms. Indeed, the lower roof can have a straight, convex or concave shape. There can’t be many people who don’t know that the style is named after François Mansart (1598-1666) and any schoolboy could have told you that it is to be found in many French styles, including Second Empire, Beaux Arts Classical, Richardsonian Romanesque. Very basic general knowledge stuff I’d have thought.

Second of all, yeap – Eton Rifles by The Jam. Thank you Meester Matthews. It must be too easy. And well done to my bruv in Oslo for spotting the ELO lyric a few days back. Ow’s about this then all you cleverclogs:

The turbine cracked up.
The buildings froze up.
The system choked up.
What can we do?

Anyway, back to the story. I struggled around trying to do a bit of housework, which isn’t that easy in my condition. I took a trip on a Gemini spacecraft to the launderette and undertook quite a successful conversation with the laundry lady who wanted to know all about the accident. She told me my French was improving – well it’s a bit late now. I was doing my ironing when C&G (the landlords) arrived half an hour earlier than I had expected them, so I didn’t have time to arrange any flowers.

A little later on, J&B and JC&D arrived for cocktails and then we trooped off to La Treille for a fine dinner to celebrate C’s birthday. We met B in the restaurant (nearly a whole alphabet there) and later on, we returned to the house for nightcaps. Comet the collie arrived and behaved like a complete tart. I must get a photo of Comet, or I may dognap her and take her back to London. Anyway, much token broken French was spoken, and we picked out colours for curtains.

Did I mention exactly how excited Andi got over her beans? On an excitement scale of 1 to 10, she scored 11.

I spotted this strange character in Rue L'Ancien Pont and felt duty bound to make a citizen's arrest.

Dinner chez moi - and they left without paying the bill.

Coffee and cakes...cakes...I love a bit of cake

Rich said: "This has to be on your blogger: the end of a long journey back to Zürich. taking a breather having lugged the wine a 1000km from Bergerac to Zürich. I went straight to Red Zone at the customs and we waved our boxes of wine at the chaps. "Nous avons neuf Bouteille du Vin" I exclaimed. They looked us up and down. Looked at each other and then waved us towards the green channel! It does pay to be upfront sometimes."

Sup up your beer and collect your fags

I decided to go ‘painkiller free’ last night as I’ve always hated popping pills (oi, stop tittering at the back!) and as a result had the most uncomfortable night yet. Getting out of bed was a nightmare – I must have resembled a beetle on its back trying to turn itself over.

It’s freezing here, I just can’t get warm. After a late breakfast I began to return to the job I should have been doing all week – editing my great work! It’s reassuring to see all the words I’ve written are still there after all that’s happened, and some of it is quite good even if I say so myself. Two packages arrived in the post for me so it felt like Christmas. Hugo sent me the new Marc Almond DVD of his gig at the Almeida last year which I can’t wait to put on. Di sent me the book Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie which I will read as soon as I get to the end of The Sea The Sea.

I went to see Bev and Comet – Comet (the most beautiful collie) was covered in mud after an adventure earlier today, and proceeded to rub some off on me. I posted off my E111 to the hospital as requested (phew – what a good job I sorted that out in November or there’d be a right kafuffle) and did some other odds and ends. My usual supermarket chauffeur was otherwise detained, so I trudged off to the nearest Champion on foot to stock up. My back was killing me by the time I got back, but I resisted the painkillers. Maybe later.

So there we are. Up to date once more, but without pictures for now. Just page after page of boring old me me me. And so it goes.

OK, let’s do some lyrics. What’s this from?

We came out of it naturally the worst,
Beaten and bloody and I was sick down my shirt

Welcome to reality

We all met up for petite dejeuner in the dining room, and after far too many croissants and pain au chocolat we checked out of the hotel. G&T had to set off home, and André and I agreed to meet J&B (why does everybody sound like a drink?) for lunch at midday. We tried our luck with the Musée de Beaux Arts again and this time we were rewarded for our determination.

We spent an hour inspecting the collection, and I loved it. Highlights for me were Rubens, Van Dyke, Reynolds, Brueghel, Delacroix, Corot, Millet, Renoir, Marquet, Valtat, Kokoschka and Lhote. Yeah, I’m showing off, but then I did spend three years studying the history of art so I wanna. I was also very taken by a sculpture which turned out to be by Zadkine – the same sculptor whose museum I visited in Les Arques – funny how things turn out. Nowhere to buy any postcards though, and I love a postcard me.

We had a mighty fine lunch – a pickled herring and potato entrée, breast of duckling main and absolutely stuffed thank you so no dessert. I love the Entre-deux-mers white wine you get in Bordeaux – must look out for it. After lunch we set off for the hospital. Frustratingly we got caught up in heavy traffic, but we made it in time for André and Jacqui to visit Michael, but visiting time ran out before I could go in. Michael was asleep, and André said he was looking better.

Bob drove us all home to Bergerac – a good two hour journey at this time of day. I read the Guardian in the back and Bob helped me with the crossword – turns out he’s a bit of a crossword buff. Oh, and I learnt something new today – an architectural term: mansard. Anybody know what it means? Fascinating stuff. I was also told that the wooden barns you see everywhere around here are designed for tobacco drying – well I had noticed them before but I didn’t know what the purpose of them was. Well, you live and learn.

Back indoors I began the slow process of updating this very blogsite – which I had let lapse due to what has happened. At first I thought I would not bother with it. It seemed almost callous to be putting stuff up here while Michael is so unwell. But then I thought about it some more, and I thought how much Michael enjoys reading of our fantastical debauched exploits here (at least he told me he did!) and I decided that I should keep it ticking over for a bit longer.

So, with David Bowie’s ‘Reality Tour’ DVD blasting out of my laptop speakers, a glass of something red and wet in front of me and my notebooks spread hither and thither, I retraced the events of the last ten days, and that’s what you’ve just read. Dull huh?

Waldorf & Stadler

I needn’t have bothered setting my alarm – I was awake with pains from 4.30am. I got myself ready, and Jacqui and Bob picked me up late morning. We drove to St Emilion where we met Trevor and Glynis for lunch. André directed us to a very pleasant little restaurant where we had a three course meal of pumpkin soup, steak and onions and orange flavoured rice pudding. It was bitingly cold outside, and we were glad to be back in the car and headed for Bordeaux.

We arrived in the centre of Bordeaux, and checked into the little hotel near the opera house. We then trooped off en masse to a ‘café brun’ where Trevor and I got stuck into pints (yes I know – pints!) of Guinness. How I have missed it. The others wanted to go shopping (at least Jacqui and Gynis did) so André and I trooped off to the Musée de Beaux Arts, which unfortunately was closed. It was too cold to hang around outside, so we went to the Maison de Thé for…yeap, tea and cakes. It was very ritzy. It was then time to grab a taxi (André’s bandaged finger is ideal for hailing cabs) to the hospital.

Michael was awake, and we spent nearly an hour talking to him. The nurse seemed satisfied with the way things are going.

We took a cab back to the hotel and got ready for the opera, meeting the others in a nearby bar, before taking our seats. We sat in a little box at the side of the stalls and I had a clear view of the stage. Tosca was tremendous, and although naturally we were preoccupied with other things, it was great to have seen the performance. The good thing about Tosca is you know when it’s going to end, because everybody is dead so there’s nobody left to sing. Afterwards we caught cabs to a jazz bar in the equivalent of the ‘red light district’ and had a great meal. Fresh oysters seemed to be the speciality, and I was fascinated to watch the guy opening up dozens of oysters at the bar as if it was the easiest thing in the world. The jazz bar was still in full flow when we left in the early hours.

As I wander around this wreck of a town where people never speak aloud, with its ivory towers and its plastic flowers I wish I was back in 1981.

André had decided that we would go to Bordeaux tomorrow, so we could visit Michael on two consecutive days, and still use our tickets for the opera.

I spent the day pottering about, doing this and that and talking to people on the phone. I walked around town for a while, and kept thinking about Michael. I found it hard to keep myself motivated, so I wrote out a list of ‘things to do’ and kept myself busy by working through it. Stupid stuff like ‘take empty bottles to bottle bank’, ‘post card’, ‘pack for Bordeaux’. It helped keep me focussed.

Later this evening I was so pleased to hear, via Chicago (!), that Michael had briefly woken up, and the signs for recovery are good. I had an early night, setting my alarm to be up early in the morning.

Non-headless chicken

Rich and Andi had to set off for Bordeaux airport for their flight back to Geneva at ten. Just before midday André’s mum collected me in her car to have lunch at her house with André. It was the first time I have seen a chicken placed on the table with the head intact – call me old fashioned but I found this a little off-putting, especially when André’s mum started picking out the brains with a fork. This came a close second to the bone-marrow blowing incident. André’s brother, Didier, dropped me home and I spent a contemplative afternoon and evening sorting myself out. This was the first time I had been alone since the accident, and I seemed to be OK.

A damp squib at Chateau de Monbazillac - thanks for the use of the pic Rich!

Swiss miss

We agreed to set off to the market about ten, but by the time my Swiss guests had got themselves organised it was eleven-thirty – Rich hasn’t changed! We caught the tail-end of the market and Andi got very excited over some green beans. We went for coffee and a late breakfast, before setting off to Chateau de Monbazillac. It was wet and windy, but we took a look at the chateau, and then drove to the cave so Rich & Andi could sample the wines, which turned out to be popular.

We visited Eymet and Issigeac, but the weather was not on our side. We returned to the house via Leclerc, and later feasted on foie gras, magret de canard and fantastic cheeses, with complementary wines from Monbazillac. It was a shame they had missed out on the L’Enfance de Lard experience, as well as other activities I had planned, but under the circumstances we made the best of it.

Cockahoop

Another painful night, but I think I slept a little more. I spent some time banging off a few emails, and Jacqui surprised me by making a coq au vin casserole for me to take home for dinner this evening.

Jacqui drove me back to the house in Bergerac via a supermarket where I stocked up on some essential items. Rich and Andi were due to arrive from Zurich this afternoon, and I gingerly walked down to the quay to meet them. It was so good to see them both and they cheered me up no end – it was so good to be able to talk about things other than the accident. We dined on cêpes soup, Jacqui’s fantastic coq au vin (I was tempted to lie and say I had made it – but I’m too honest) and an almond and pear tart.

Tony & Judy...?

Rotten pains all over kept me awake after just a few hours’ kip. I was counting the minutes until I could take some more painkillers. Jacqui (who could give Flo Nightingale a run for her money) appeared like a vision with a cup of tea, and later I staggered into the shower. I have some spectacular bruises – if only I had my camera. The way I look I could enter for the Turner Prize. The golden yellow diagonal seatbelt impression is particularly impressive.

I took up residence on the sofa. Moiselle was also there, in a similar condition to me, so we were vying for the most attention. I was pleased because Laurel & Hardy were on the telly – the only trouble was I laughed so much I was in agony and Jacqui thought I was having a seizure. Later on, to add insult to injury and in true Oliver Hardy style, I banged my head on the low doorframe and saw stars. Another bump won’t make much difference.

It was weird to be watching telly after so many months without it. I couldn’t believe my eyes when Tony Blair turned up on Richard & Judy – what the hell has been going on while I’ve been away? After another delicious dinner (no wine for me for fear of dulling the effects of the painkillers!) I lazed on the sofa until bedtime. I’ve left out all the bits about getting all emotional and dealing with the shock for fear of tarnishing my macho-man image. I spoke with André who told me he should be out of hospital the next day. We were all desperately worried about Michael and waited anxiously for any snippets of news of his condition.

Those kilometers and the red lights

For once, I do not want to go into too much detail here about the actual accident. It just doesn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances. I think all I need to say is that for some unknown reason, the car left the road and the next thing I was aware of, apart from some very loud noises and thinking this was the end of the line, I was at the bottom of the car which appeared to be lying on its side. It was dark, and I was disorientated. Again, sparing the detail which I do remember vividly, I managed to climb to the top of the car, which was the driver’s side, and push open the back door and clamber out. I stumbled down to the main road, falling over several times, with the intention of stopping a car for help, but there were none. That’s when I saw the shooting star.

I returned to the car to reassure Andre what I was doing, then went back to the road on hearing a car, which thankfully stopped despite my frightening appearance! The driver was very calm, and came with me with his torch to inspect the car in the ditch. He then called the emergency services, and I waited on top of the car, talking to Andre for what seemed like forever. Three ambulances arrived, and the next thing I know is I’m in the back of one, unable to move. We waited until MM&A had been extracted from the car, then the three ambulances set off for Perigueux hospital.

The ambulance men were great, and kept me awake asking questions about London and we talked in a mixture of pidgin French and English. While we were waiting to set off, I must have been interviewed by at least half a dozen people, various doctors and medics, police and Richard & Judy for all I know. At the hospital my limited French left me completely, and I stared blankly at various doctors and nurses who fired questions at me. I was undressed, poked and prodded, injected, pinched and interrogated. Then I was wheeled along a labyrinth of corridors. Staring at the ceiling as I was wheeled around on a trolley gave me the strange sensation of flying backwards across a Lynch-esque landscape of light fittings and ceiling tiles. I was put into a room where a man, who seemed very cross, rolled something around in jelly across my abdomen and tutted at a VDU. I was then wheeled somewhere else, in and out of lifts and along more corridors. At one point they pushed my trolley alongside André’s. I said, ‘Fancy seeing you here!’ André told me they had taken Michael to Bordeaux, before I was wheeled off again. ‘Shall we do coffee later?’ I called back to André. I was put in a kind holding room for ages, then a petite woman came in and smiled at me – the first person to do so since I arrived despite my attempts to win them over. She told me she was going to take me off to be x-rayed or whatever it is they do these days. The poor thing not only had to push me along all these corridors by herself, but then had to move me from the trolley onto the x-ray table and back without any help. She then proceeded to x-ray every single part of me from tip to toe. It took forever, and I was beginning to feel quite giddy from being posed in different positions. She took me back to the holding room again, I was connected up to a machine which constantly checked my pulse and blood pressure and then I was abandoned. I lay there for hours. Occasionally a nurse would bustle past, but nobody spoke to me, so I just lay there looking at the ceiling, wondering what was going to happen next.

That went on all night. About ten o’clock they wheeled André alongside me so we could speak. He was about to go and have his broken index finger operated on. I said I hadn’t got a clue what was going on, and then he was whisked off again. A nurse appeared, and explained to me in English that they were just checking my x-rays, and if everything was OK then I could go home. ‘Er, how do I get from Perigueux to Bergerac without any money?’ I enquired – I had no possessions with me except for my blood-soaked clothes. He disappeared, and came back to tell me that André’s mum and brother would come for me. I was told to get dressed, which was easier said then done as every single movement was agony. Looking like an extra from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I hobbled along the corridor to a waiting room, where people stared at me as if I was a zombie, which was exactly how I felt so I didn’t care.

I can’t remember ever being so pleased to see anybody when André’s mum and brother walked up through the car park. I scraped together all the French vocabulary I knew to explain what had happened. I staggered off to the waiting car, Mme Morant supporting me, and we were off back to Bergerac, passing the scene of the accident on the way. It was only eleven thirty in the morning, but the car had already been removed.

Back at the house, I mounted the stairs like Quasimodo with a crick in his neck, and painfully changed out of my gruesomely stained clothing, then returned to the car and back to André’s mum’s for something to eat. I called Hugo to tell him what had happened, and it then began to dawn on me that I was probably in shock. I was taken back home, and went straight for a packet of cigarettes – damn my weakness! I called Jacqui, who offered to visit later. I sat on the sofa going over and over in my head what had happened. I must have dozed off, as the next thing I knew was the doorbell ringing and there was Jacqui and Glynis. I was so pleased to see them, and when Jacqui suggested that I could stay at her house for a couple of days I jumped at the offer.

So, within I short period of time, there I am stretched out on the leather sofa in front of the fire at Bob & Jacqui’s, watching Sky TV, sitting down to a delicious steak dinner and staggering about going ‘Ooh owow ow!’ When I realised I had been up for forty hours, I took a handful of painkillers and cautiously lowered myself, groaning, into bed.

Wot a day! By the way, there will be an absence of photos on the site for a while. My camera was inside my coatpocket on the backseat of the car, and when I got it back the following Saturday, not surprisingly, it was smashed. So, if anybody has got any photos I could use in the meantime, please send them in! Go on - anything would be better than nothing - and I know, nothing is better than more bloody pictures of the Dordogne!

Mr Rusty goes off piste

Montaigu-de-Quercy - Rosa, where's your house?

Draw the blinds on yesterday, and it's all so much scarier

It seemed that once again I was first up. I appear to have 8am hardwired into my brain. After a mug of tea, I checked the weather – it wasn’t too windy, and quite bright - and I couldn’t think of a decent excuse not to go out on what would be my last cycle ride in The Lot this season. I quietly got ready and left the house, woke up Mr Rusty and set off across the gravel, the sound of which caused Moiselle to start yapping manically – oh dear, I thought, they’ll all be cursing me for that!

For once I had a destination in mind. I wanted to take a look at the town of Montaigu-de-Quercy as I know a lovely person who has a house there. It didn’t look very far on the map, but it was quite a journey for my trusty steed. I passed through some beautiful valleys, and seemed to have to do a good deal of uphill cycling before I finally descended towards the town. It began to drizzle a little, bit mostly it was fine – I just hoped that Mr Rusty’s bald old tyre would hold out.

Montaigu-de-Quercy did not look much as I approached, but once I climbed up through the steep narrow streets, the place had real charm and character. Just before I turned a corner I heard two English voices: 'Oi, will you get a move on?' 'Alright alright, keep yer hair on.' When I came around the corner we all politely said 'Bonjour' to each other with our bestist French accents. I sat for a while by the church admiring the view. As the clock in the bell tower struck eleven, an elderly priest in old-fashioned garb scuttled out of his house across to the church, bidding me good day as he went about his business. I studied my map and decided to make a circuit by continuing on to Tournon-d’Agenais before returning towards Masquières. I cycled uphill at a snail’s pace for what seemed like an eternity before whizzing downhill for about fifteen minutes to Tournon. Heading back along a tiny lane, I realised that I recognised where I was, as I was crossing the path of yesterday’s randonnée. Throwing caution to the wind I decided to do a bit of off-road cycling, and followed the rocky path through the woods. This turned out to be more difficult than I had anticipated, the bike wheels sliding between stones and tree roots and me panting like a bloodhound. After almost garrotting myself on a wire fence, I finally made it back to the reassuring tarmac and finally to the house for a well-earned coffee.

MM&A had already left. We had some lunch (tasty courgette soup) and soon afterwards, Mr Rusty and I were being transported back through the Dordogne countryside to Bergerac. I barely had time to turn around before M&A were at the door to take me to dinner at G&T’s (yes, really) which is about halfway between here and Perigueux.

It was a wonderful evening. We were entertained in great style, and had a fantastic dinner party with delicious food. As well providing us with some exquisite red wines from his vast cellar, T got out his vinyl record collection, and there was much dancing to Tom Jones et al. I secretly wanted Showaddywaddy, but joined in when Abba came on. It’s a good job my camera was in the car or there would be some breath-takingly embarrassing pictures right here.

We said our goodbyes about 2am and set off back to Bergerac. The sky was vividly studded with stars. A few minutes later, our worlds were quite literally turned upside-down.

I have just remembered something which until just now while writing this, I had completely forgotten. I saw the most amazingly clear shooting star, like a dazzlingly bright comet sail in a perfect arc across the sky to the horizon. But that was after the car crash, as I was desperately trying to get help. Funny how I have recalled that now after all that has happened since.

Go west young man!

I-an, I-an, Hutch-in-son!

I awoke to the sound of the wind whistling in the rafters. It’s a classic tune, but not what you want to hear at 8am. I got up, made myself a cup of tea and settled down with Iris for an hour or so. I had planned on taking Mr Rusty out for a spin, but with each new wail of the wind around the house, my enthusiasm dwindled until it was snuffed out completely. Another time maybe.

Ian was driving into Tournon d’Agenais for some provisions, so I went along for the ride. Tournon is an interesting bastide town set high atop a hill with the road winding around it like the spiral of a helter-skelter, affording spectacular views across Lot-et-Garonne. In the old town we stopped to buy some bread, but zut alors! - the boulangerie was fermé. I took a look around, while Ian studied a plan of a randonnée on a map on a notice board. Now I must admit I did not know what a randonnée was, so in case somebody else reading this doesn’t either, I will explain. A randonneé is a planned walk through the French countryside, marked out with symbols on trees, fences and gateposts which you follow. See, easy. Ian attempted to trace the walk onto a piece of paper, but that just looked like a map of Jersey, so James Bond style I took a digital photo of the map to transfer onto a real map back at home. Are you with me so far? Wake up at the back!

We drove down to a small corner shop-type place and bought some odds and ends before driving home. Oh no, forgot the wine. Bugger.

I got on with the job of transferring the randonnée route from the image now on my laptop screen onto a map. It all worked out remarkably well, and it transpired we could join the randonnée just ten minutes walk from the house. We agreed to set off after lunch. Then Michael and André arrived…for dinner, which took us all by surprise, but Karen whipped up a feast of delicious mushroom omelettes in no time at all, and M&A accepted the challenge of a three and a half hour afternoon walk with good grace, and off we went.

It was a spectacular walk, and apart from one dodgy bit where the arrows contradicted each other (one said go this way, but when you went that way there was another one which said don’t go this way) it was plain sailing. Having set off before three o’clock, we made it home just as is was getting dark, shortly after six-thirty. Quite an achievement when all was said and done.

K&I cooked the most wonderful dinner of roast lamb, roast potatoes, celeriac and baby leeks, and a historic apple crumble, and a seemingly endless supply of superb wines. Later on we tested out some ideas for our new board game, and decided it needed some fine-tuning.

Tournon-d'Agenais earlier today

The randonnee route, which will be completely meaningless to you, but it looks kinda impressive in a Duke-of-Edinburgh-awardish way

Will you get a bloody move on

This sky's the limit

I charged upon my trusty steed,
like a knight in shining armor.
Scooter wheels
rumbling thunderously-aground.

Mr Rusty met Ermintrude by the roundabout

So, with the sunshine streaming in through the gaps in the shutters I decided this was no time to be sitting indoors waiting for Godot, so I extracted Mr Rusty from the veal shed where he had spent a comfortable night, and off we went on a brand new adventure.

The Lot landscape is quite different to that of the Dordogne. Vast open vistas across valleys and gently undulating roads make for a wonderful cycle ride. I headed off in a southerly direction and performed my usual trick of taking random roads until I hit a town. Trouble was, there were no handy signs directing me back home (as has always been the case with Bergerac), and as I had neglected to note where the house was on the map, I soon realised I was thoroughly lost. Did I panic? Nah, I just kept on going, taking first this little lane and then that, at one point following signs to a tiny hamlet called Goth, which I excitedly thought would be full of people dressed in black listening to The Mission. It wasn’t.

Countryside report: Today, as I cycled along windy country lanes through stick-bare vineyards I glanced up at the trees and spotted a lesser-spotted woodpecker (they’re not spotted as often as the greater-spotted woodpeckers which are forever getting spotted), its bright red breast and little red skullcap vivid in the bright sunlight. Later, as I crossed a babbling brook which ran beneath the lane, I noticed two large creatures crouched at the water’s edge. I stopped to get a closer look, and was intrigued to see a pair of coypu, like a cross between a miniature beaver and a large water rat. Eventually they noticed me (not difficult in day-glo yellow coat and helmet) and scrabbled away, disappearing into the water with two loud plops and a drum roll. A little further on I was delighted when a red squirrel deigned to cross my path. Once again I stopped, watching the little rusty-coated animal with its long, pointed face and tufty ears looking back at me from the safety of a high branch. I also saw plenty of brightly plumed jays, and enormous buzzards scanning the fields for prey from the handily positioned telephone lines.

That’s enough of that. Makes me feel like Chris Packham, but then I always did.

Eventually I found my way back, and after a hot bath and a delicious lunch we set off to explore some more of The Lot by car. We journeyed to Sals, Catis and then Douelle. At Catis, we went to look inside the church which was incredibly cold, slightly sinisterly so. Outside the temperature was fairly mild, but on entering the church you felt a deep chill – and you could see your breath. Really weird. At Douelle there was a giant mural on the harbour wall, which to be honest looked a bit like graffiti. We tried to get down to it for a closer look, but the ledge in front of it was so narrow, we chickened out.

With my navigation skills, and a few hooks and crooks we journeyed back to the house for another fine evening of delicious food and great wine. K and I worked on developing our idea for a new boardgame which we believe will make our fortunes, so I am unable to reveal the details here, for fear of great-new-boardgame-idea-thieves. It’s a corker.

I cycled confidently along this road for quarter of an hour, before it came to a house and stopped!

Well we know where we’re goin’
But we don’t know where we’ve been
And we know what we’re knowin’
But we can’t say what we’ve seen

If you think the horses are big, you should have seen the size of the villagers

Good morning Michael and Moiselle (she's back in black)

Lot on the landscape

We met André for three laps of the market. The first lap was a general browse. The second lap involved a bit of decision making and a few purchases. On the third lap, it was now or never. We passed under the steely stare of the ugly foie gras lady three times, and we all lived to tell the tale.

Michael and Moiselle were already at the coffee shop when we arrived. She was sitting on the floor yapping at another dog, and Moiselle was sitting at the table waiting patiently. We tucked into scones (more of a cross between a scone and a rock cake I’d say) and strong black coffee, before returning to the house via the covered market.

Later in the afternoon, I was whisked off to The Lot for a three day holiday (how I have yearned for a holiday!). If you were wondering why Mr Rusty was got a good old scrub yesterday, it was because he was coming along too. Slight problem – when I washed all the mud off I discovered that the back tyre was getting a little on the bald side of a full tread of rubber. On the doctor’s advice, I switched the front tyre with the back tyre (not a straightforward operation) and we were back on the road.

K cooked a marvellous supper, washed down with a few of your finest and a game of Scrabble. It was a close match…but the best man won and it wasn’t me. I didn’t need any rocking, so I didn’t ask for any.

Mr Rusty meets SpongeBob

Number two all over heaven

Over the last few days I have come to the conclusion that the powers that be in Bergerac have been out to the shops and bought a brand new toy for the street cleaners. I don’t know how they go about their procurement processes, but I would like to ask if anybody ever considered the noisiness of the machine, which I would have thought is fairly important given that it drives slowly through the narrow streets at about 5am each morning. Clearly it wasn’t amongst the selection criteria, for I am now woken with a start in the early hours of each morning with what sounds like a jet-propelled rocket thundering along the Rue L’Ancien Pont. After this rude awakening, and just as I begin to drift back to sleep, it comes around for a second bash, leaving me cussing into my pillow.

So, up early? Yeah, right. Then there’s another gripping chapter of The Sea The Sea to absorb. I wandered around to the launderette with my bags full of washing, and I had a little chat with the laundress. Well, she had a little chat, and I said ‘Ah, oui!’ and ‘Ooh la la!’ at what I thought were the appropriate moments. When she finally stopped talking, I bid her good day and took my leave. I walked into town in the sunshine to post a couple of letters – and was pleasantly surprised to find that you can in fact post things at the post office. It’s amazing, they’ve come on in leaps and bounds since yesterday’s stamp shortage.

Back indoors, I took Mr Rusty up to the terrace with a fireman’s lift, and gave him a blinking good soaping down. I did a spot of weeding, then armed with the vacuum cleaner I sucked up a bit of dust, before settling down with Iris in my hands.

Today I was entertaining, as opposed to yesterday when I was just mildly amusing. MM&A arrived for aperitifs, and Moiselle dropped a guided missile behind the sofa, filling the lounge with a vomit-inducing stench, just before K&I arrived. As they say, timing is everything, especially where number twos are concerned.

On the menu tonight we had, soup (leek, turnip, carrot, potato and duck), pork chops with prunes, and crème brulée tarts washed down with some cheeky Bergerac reds. Not bad, all things considered.

Meet my two friends Pidge and Pie
They often visit me
One day I think I'll warm a pot
And have them in for tea

Welcome back

I am totally engrossed in Murdoch-world – it’s terrific. Trouble is though, that kind of carry-on slows down my mornings a tad, as a two hour readathon in bed would. Yes I know, I might just as well enjoy it while I still can, as I am so constantly being reminded. I thank you.

So, where are we today – and who the Pickwick Papers are you? Ah Wednesday – yes, let’s see. Right, I’ve got it – went to Leclerc with Michael, for like Old Mother Hubbard, I had no bones in my cupboard (just a couple of skeletons in my closet). Nearly had a seizure at the checkout. Who the flapping-heck is drinking all this bloody booze sweetie? Just a weekly shop for me – working mum.

Back indoors I stashed my loot, then set off into town for some odds and sods. I queued up in the post office for half an hour like a good citizen, and do you know what? When I asked for four stamps for Angleterre the woman in the purple lipstick said ‘Non!’ I looked at her, astonished – purple really wasn’t her colour. She looked back at me as if to say ‘What do you think this is, a bloody buggery post office?’ I showed her my teeth, and she showed me her conkers. It was game, set and match, and I left empty-hearted.

I needed a new notebook, as mine is full of notes (mainly D flat) so, after trawling around three bookshop/stationer type places I found something vaguely suitable, although not quite up to my usual exquisite taste. Now picture this: a little bookshop, mid-afternoon in a sleepy back street in Bergerac. How long do I have to wait to handover my three euros? About twenty-five blinking minutes while Madame de la Fafafafacelift-central has a pile of about thirty kiddie books individually gift wrapped and labelled. I marched back home with a bee in my bonnet, a flea in my ear and a fly in the ointment. Have I had enough of Bergerac? Well, the last series was a little lazily directed I felt.

A cup of tea and the second act of Tosca. Blimey – there’s old Scarpia trying to get it on with Tosca while they torture poor old Cavaradossi who you can hear a-groaning and a-wailing like a stuck pig in the background. Then they discover Angelotti (who was hiding in the well – keep up at the back) has only been and gone and poisoned himself, so he’s out of the game, the daft blighter. Scarpia, gagging for a shag makes a deal with Tosca (something distinctly dodgy like blank bullets at Cavaradossi’s execution) but Tosca’s got hold of a knife and…oh my God, what an ooogi mess! There’s blood and entrails up the wall, across the ceiling and down the back of the sofa. Those cushion covers will need a boilwash, or my name isn’t Trudy Scrumptious. I don’t know if I can bear to listen to Act 3 now. It’s enough to make one tut.

A swift G&T round at MM&A’s (it’s all in code!) then home to cassoulet and cocoa, and a spot more Murdoch-magic. Gotta getta bit ov cullcha aincha?

My reaction to the woman in the post office who refused to sell me stamps

Some cassoulet, earlier today

Moiselle...it's MOISELLE!

It's easier to get your knee through the eye of a camel...or something

Hey, I’m on the mend. Yes siree, felt a helluva lot better this morning and bounded around like a demented yet energised slinky in reverse mode. Jonathan Ross spoke to me through the medium that is the internet and I chuckled into my All Bran pétales (flakes in your parlance). The sun beamed down, the sky was blue and a robin pecked busily on my creeper.

When things could hardly get any better, I discovered to my delight and joy, lying in the hallway, a package from Sunset Avenue, Aurora, IL! What could it be? I ripped open the padded-envelope (100% recycled material, I thank you) with thinly disguised glee and excitement. Yes, it had arrived. At last! My Tosca CD – a 1953 recording with Maria Callas and Giuseppe di Stefano no less. I was in seventh heaven (one to six were busy and suggested I call back later for a cancellation) that my package had braved the cruel Illinois weather and travelled all the way to me in old Bergerac town through snow drifts and raging seas on the back of a blind, one-legged camel with crippling arthritis, severe learning difficulties and a dodgy compass. Well, there had to be some reason why it had taken just under a month first class airmail for goodness sakes. Nevermind that. It’s here. Now I have just under two weeks to learn all the words so I can sing-along-a-Puccini at the Bordeaux Opera House.

But first, that pile of ironing. Then, Act 1. Oh the drama of it all. There’s Tosca, already with her nose out of joint at the mere mention of the Marchesa Attavanti, now here comes the doomed Angelotti and Cavaradossi, caught in the crossfire, and the dastardly Scarpia – boo, hiss, get off! I was quite caught up in the action, before breaking off for a bowl of soup.

I took a walk. Can you guess where? That’s right. Through the round window. I crossed the old bridge for an alternative view of Bergerac, and for my trouble I got a heady blast of raw sewage odour which had me gagging into my scarf. I saw a man empty the contents of his Citroen van into the shallows at the edge of the Dordogne. What on earth was he up to? It all looked a bit suspicious. I pushed through the undergrowth, like a furtive Bill Oddie, for a closer look. He was washing his leeks of course. Nothing like a bit of river water to get the caked-on mud out of your crevices, I'll say.

Back indoors I wrote like a banshee, but that gave me backache, so I reverted to my normal position. In the background Robert Smith belted out a few raucous tunes, but I grew weary of his whining so I chucked him a few euros and suggested he try next door. The Moiselle photoshoot beckoned, the results of which are published here finally, for all those who whinged about my endless dull, boring and uninspired pictures of the Dordogne. Are you happy now? Well, I thought the river shots were quite good, but there’s no accounting for taste these days...mumble mumble mumble [to fadeout].

Er, I'll take the foie gras followed by the magret de canard...oh, and a Mars Bar.

Basket case

Sky all hung with jewels...s'bit dramatic innit?

African nightmare one-time Mormon

Definitely not firing on all cylinders once again. Another day, another lunch date, this time at a charming little tea shop called The Victoria in Bergerac. Gorgeous slabs of quiche-style tarts and salad, and a fine apple crumble was most welcome.

The weather is cold and damp, and I am gearing myself up for a walk along the Dordogne to blow away the cobwebs. Anything is worth a try – my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool and alien-gunk, and I’m generally at a bit of a low ebb for the first time in recent memory. I’ve just been drawing up my plans for February and I find that I am practically fully-booked. No time for getting maudlin.

My CD tip of the week: Misery Is A Butterfly by Blonde Redhead – I’ve had it in my pile of albums for ages but it hasn’t made an impact until today. Now I’m addicted.

By the way, congratulations to K&I who were very quick to recognise Squeeze’s Cool For Cats lyrics posted a few days ago. A bottle of Pecharmant will be winging its way to The Lot before very long! How about this then, which amongst other things (like trying to name all the countries in Africa on a blank map in a O'level geography exam I had forgotten to revise for) kept me awake by going around and around in my brain in a dreadful feverish and restless parade of absurdity last night (nearly got stuck in that sentence):

His hand dives in his pocket
For his handkerchief
Pearls of sweat on his collar
His pulse-beat seems so brief

Yeah - easy. Well, as Chris says, it's only easy if you know the answer, or if you have access to Google.