Cats!

I love my cats but this morning my affections are wearing a bit thin.

Now that it’s light so much earlier one or two of them wake me up to open the door before six o’clock but this morning Willow was jumping on my head before daylight.

“No, it’s not light yet,” I mumbled and turned over,  but minutes later there was an awful smell and rustling sound because she had pooed on the floor and then emptied the wastepaper basket in an attempt to cover it up.

OK, I gave up, opened the door ( a bit too late) and then cleaned up the mess.

It was after eight when I woke up the next time to the sound of the nurse’s voice (she has a key to get in). There was much “Oooh la la-ing” and shrill complaining mixed with the deeper tones of Whale.

I got up and went through to his bedroom, still in my nightie.

“There’s ‘caca’ everywhere” complained Vero but I’ve dealt with the worst of it.

“B****y cats,” explained Whale. “It was all over the bed and the floor”.

Looking at the remaining evidence I could see that it was sick not poo and, anyway, there certainly wasn’t the same smell I’d had in the bedroom earlier. However, Vero insisted that it was ‘caca’ and she’s always right.

So much for a relaxing Sunday morning. I hastily showered and dressed and then set to to change the bed and get the washing machine going.

Fortunately it looks as though it’s a good day for drying.

Tea Party at the Library

The end of the ’school year’ came a week early for our English class as next Tuesday CC will be in England for a friend’s wedding and I’ll be at the Club des Anciens lunch.

We asked Isabelle, the librarian, if we could finish with a tea-party for both classes together and she readily agreed. (Can you see that happening in an English Library?).

CC and I made scones (cheese and fruit), flapjacks, chocolate cake, iced buns and cornflakes in chocolate. Jay made a music compilation and we wrapped two ‘Pass the Parcels’ as the French didn’t seem familiar with this game.

As it was warm and only slightly breezy the ladies put up a table outside, at the back of the library, and we brought out the CD player with an extension lead. Most people opted for herbal teas even though I had taken ‘proper’ English tea but as we didn’t have a teapot everyone was free to choose their favourite  flavour. Inevitably, no-one had milk or sugar.

After everyone had tasted a bit of everything we played Pass the Parcel. The children were excited and the  grown-ups were highly amused.

“This would be good to do at a wedding” one lady remarked. The forfeits were in English, of course, so they had to do a bit of work, but  they all enjoyed having a ‘piece of paper’  instead of a sweet.

Isabelle had time to join in some of the games and she daintily tasted each kind of cake. However, I can now see how she stays so incredibly slim as she cut small pieces to eat and saved the rest to take home for later.

We went on half an hour after ‘closing ‘  but she didn’t mind and then eveyone mucked in to clear up and it was all done and dusted in no time.

Classses are due to begin again on the last Tuesday in September so  we have a long break during which they can forget most of what they’ve learned and we can go over it all once more.

Should be easier second time round.

Hello again

Well, hello. I’ve ‘come out of the cupboard’ to try my hand at posting again.

One of the main things that emerged from my sister’s visit is that it’s not me being paranoid when I feel uneasy about Bear’s driving. Both my sister and her husband were pretty stressed out when Bear drove us to Maredsous one day. Wendy said she was NEVER going in a car with him again and Roger said ‘You can’t let him drive. He’s going to kill you one of these days.”

So it was left to me to find the right time, place and words to break it to him as tactfully as I could. He has always prided himself on being a good driver – and indeed he was – but a combination of poor eyesight and lack of concentration have resulted in a noticeable deterioration during the past year.

I picked a time when we were out having lunch at the local restaurant in the hopes that he wouldn’t throw a wobbly in public and i tried to put it to him as gently as possible that I was very worried about his eyesight and his driving.

He took it surprisingly well at the time. Too well.

Last night we went to our favourite restaurant half an hour away for his birthday meal. It’s the furthest I’ve driven for a very long time and it was raining virtually non-stop on the way back with oncoming headlights dazzling me from time to time. I felt quite relieved but pleased with myself when we arrived home.

“You made me feel really nervous with your driving.” was his verdict.

Another bone of contention between us is the question of a holiday. The last time we went away was a disaster and I’m most reluctant to go through that again.

During the birthday meal he was all sweet and pleasant one minute and growling (not always) under his breath at me the next.

“You know you can have anything you want.” he proclaimed,”Just tell me where you’d like to go on holiday and I’ll take you.”

Oh dear, my heart sank as I relived the last tme.

“Come on.” he urged – getting a bit nasty now, “Make up your mind – I’d like a really good holiday before I die.”  This last remark was intended to be overheard by Leotine as she brought our main course. She and her husband own the restaurant and, being Dutch, they speak excellent English.

When she was out of earshot I had my revenge.

“Well, if you remembr, you promised we’d have the holiday of a lifetime when I retired but we couldn’t agree where to go so it all fell through. I think it’s a bit too late now bearing in mind your state of health.”

OK -I’m still here

Yes, I know – it’s been ages since I’ve posted – sorry.

The fact is, I’ve kind of lost the impetus. I think that happens to many bloggers from time to time.

I could make the excuse that since my daughter has had a two month teaching contract she has been hogging my computer to prepare her lessons etc. but that wouldn’t be fair even if partly true.

In truth, I haven’t really felt like ‘coming here’.

The good news is that Bear is going to England for a week on Friday.

Maybe that will help me unwind and get back to my ‘normal’ cheerful(??!!) self again.

Many thanks to the few who have missed me.

Be back soon -ish . . . . . . . . .

Herbs and Splash

You Are Basil

You are a mild mannered person. People feel naturally calm around you.You are warm hearted and loving. You have a close knit circle of friends and family.You have the courage to be who you are in life, even if others disagree. You’re proud of your uniqueness. You are good at caring for and healing others. You are naturally soothing.

What Herb Are You?

This is from Little Old Me’s blog. She often posts little snippets like this which I think are fun to do.

And this leads me to the Splash Award for alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive, and inspiring blogs, which Guyana Gyal has kindly offered:

 because I’d like to award it first  to Little Old Me for her blog which contains all of the above.

Next to Susie Vereker whose blog reflects her wide interests and a passion for reading and writing. Her next novel is due out in June. I can’t wait!

Then there’s Z from Norfolk who manages to write about her hectic life in a most compelling style.

Canisfamiliaris contains interesting and amusing anecdotes about life with a lively Bedlington terrier.

And last but by no means least comes Keith whose blog  often makes a point about what’s wrong with the world but also has more homely moments such as his latest post with a recipe for Turkey and Lovage pie.

When you receive this award, you get to:
1. Put the logo on your blog/post. (If I’ve done it wrongly you could get from Guyana Gyal.)
2. Nominate up to 9 blogs which allure, amuse, bewitch, impress or inspire you.
3. Be sure to link to your nominees within your post.
4. Let them know that they have been splashed by commenting on their blog.
5. Remember to link to the person from whom you received your Splash award.

Left with a bitter taste

Last Wednesday we celebrated CC’s birthday and Jay did the cooking with just a bit of help from me.

The menu included a Jamie Oliver recipe for tuna balls in tomato sauce. Jay bought a lovely piece of fresh tuna  which was cooked with cinnamon, parsley, lemon  and pine nuts before being mixed with breadcrumbs and shaped into balls.

We all enjoyed this tasty treat and had the left overs the next day.

On Thursday evenng Bear opened a packet of biscuits while we were watching TV and I thought they tasted very bitter. He thought they were fine.

By Friday the bitter taste was noticeable all the time and made worse by eating or drinking anything. Adding honey or anything sweet made it even worse. I began to worry.

So I looked up ‘bitter taste in the mouth’ on the internet and to my surprise up popped a Sainsbury’s forum where lots of other people were suffering exactly the same symptoms after eating pinenuts – especially pinenuts from China.

I looked at the remaining packet in the cupboard and, sure enough, they did come from China.

The bitter taste is diminishing but hasn’t disappeared completely yet.

Fortunately, the rest of the family weren’t affected but I think we’ll all be a bit suspicious of ‘pignons’ in future.

Have any of you experienced this problem?

Bear again!!

It’s a long time since I’ve posted a moan about Bear.

In fact, apart from the occasional tantrum and tirade about living with the family, he hasn’t been too bad.

Until Thursday evening.

It was only a small thing that set him off. Our youngest cat, Willow was due for her operation (sterilisation) on Friday and food and drink were forbidden from 6 o’clock.

I made a point of telling everyone that I was feeding the cats early and then shutting Willow out of the conservatory at six to keep her away from the feeding bowls. I also put away the biscuits we keep in the bedroom (Holly’s diet – but they all like it).

During the evening I heard the rattle of biscuits coming from the bedroom and went in to find Bear putting out a bowl under Willow’s nose.

Of course, I called out to stop him and he went mad!

The verbal abuse ended with him coming at me, face full of hatred and grabbing me by the shoulders to shake me.

“I’ll shake you till your teeth drop out”  he began but suddenly seemed to realise what he was doing and let me go.

He started on his usual list of complaints: I’m not a wife to him – I don’t look after him properly – all our friends wonder how he puts up with it – I’m a selfish cow, only doing what I want – and I don’t love him!

Well, of course I’m no longer in love with him:  not when I’ve had to put up with that sort of behaviour for years on end, but I do look after him and I’m much nicer to him than he is to me.

Not surprisingly, I decided to sleep in the spare room “until you apologise”.

But would you believe it, he claimed that he only came towards me to kiss me and I reacted badly.

There sinply isn’t an answer to that – except that either he’s mad or I am. . . . . . . . .

By the way, Willow is still a bit dopey but she enjoyed the fish I cooked specially for her and so it looks as though she’s on the mend.

Bad hair day!

We haven’t had much luck with finding a reliable hairdresser  ’a domicile’.

First there was young Marie who set up her own business in the village but she got fed up and found a job in a salon without bothering to tell her regular customers.

So we tried the yellow pages and met Virginie who was less expensive and did everyone’s hair to their liking but, unfortunately, last week when I tried to contact her she didn’t reply to any of the messages I left.

So it was back to the telephone directory and I made arrangements with a lady from Deville to come round this morning.

She arrived in a snazzy sports car – a slim, chic blonde wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky.

From the moment she stepped inside she didn’t stop talking until she left two and a half hours later.

Jay went first because he wanted to go out. As soon as she saw his bald patch she told him about a treatment to prevent further hair loss. Apparently a drug used to reduce high blood pressure had resulted in hair growth and so it was now marketed to rub on your head and massage in.

In between this we learned that she was ‘a professional’ and had been hairdressing for thirty years, owned several salons but preferred to paint whenever she had time.

She painted with a knife – mainly still life but also nudes and exhibited in her own atelier as well as in various places locally.

“You must come and see them” she said. “They start at 200 euros but most sell for around 700.”

“I’d like to see them, ” I replied, “but we couldn’t afford to buy one.”

When she got round to putting on my colour she explained again that she was a professional and most people expected home hairdressers to be cheaper but that wasn’t the case with her. She explained that my roots wouldn’t show up so much if I let her do ‘meches’ (two different colours).

I supposed that would be more expensive so I had better stick to just a normal colour while thinking to myself,

“Ooops – it’s a bit too late to send her packing now.”

She rattled on about her family, her job, her painting, sometimes asking questions but never letting me answer.

She admitted she lived life at a hundred miles an hour and had written off seven cars. She was only insured thanks to her husband’s insurance and he had threatened that if she had another accident there wouldn’t be a replacement vehicle.

She claimed she never asked a client what they wanted (I doubt she’d listen anyway) but they always ended up looking more beautiful than before.

CC begged to differ as, although she politely said she liked her new style when it was finished, she came to me in tears after and said it was the worst haircut she had ever had. The problem was that she refused to work in the bathroom in front of the mirror so we sat by the kitchen table unable to see what she was doing.

When it came to my cut and blo-dry I had the impression that she did not spend very long on the cutting part but she took quite a while to dry it – then put lacquer on before I could say I didn’t like the stuff. The finished result (above) makes me look as though I’m wearing a wig, according to my daughter – and I have to agree. However, the colour is OK  despite the fact that my forehead and ears are stained too.

She cut Bear’s hair and he, at least, was happy with the result.

I made her a coffee and got out my cheque book.

“As I have done the whole family I’ll give you a special price” she began, but when she started to reel off her normal pricelist it was much more expensive than the local salon, so even with her ‘discount’  we were landed with a bill for 120 euros – nearly twice as much as I’m used to paying.

Looks like it’s back to the yellow pages again next time with a reminder to self to check prices in advance.

French Funeral

My neighbour has had a really bad year so far.

In January her husband went to Reims for a bypass operation but was in Intensive Care until he died on Monday. He was pretty fragile before  he went in but they felt they had to go ahead. He had a second operation to clear his lungs last week but he still couldn’t breathe without the ventilator.

So, it wasn’t surprising when Claudine’s sister came and told me he had pased away early on Monday morning.

“Is it OK to come and see her?” I asked.

“Yes, she’d like to see you.” was the response.

I went next door and gave Claudine a hug.

“Do you want to see him? He’s here.” She said.

Of course, it’s a French custom (though not so frequent nowadays) for the deceased to ‘lie in state’ at home so that family and friends can pay their respects.

Hervé was in the living room (furniture moved aside) looking very peaceful and surrounded by candles and flowers. I didn’t know what to say and just stood in silence with Claudine.

Finally I touched his hand and said “Now he is at peace.”

Funerals take place quickly in France and “les obseques” were arranged for 9 o’clock on Thursday.

Following British tradition Bear and I walked down to the church at ten to nine. One or two people were waiting outside but we went in and sat near the back, surprised that there were only four other mourners in place.

When the coffin came in, we realised that we should have waited outside and followed the long procession. The church was now fairly full.

The service was taken by a layman – at least he wasn’t wearing a dog collar – and, although I couldn’t understand all of it, consisted of a simple resumé of Hervé’s life, some readings, prayers and chants from the choir. He also said something about “four o’clock”  and “you are all invited”.

At the end we were  directed to line up for the ‘asperges’ – blessing the coffin with holy water.

This was a most harrowing time for Claudine as she had to stand there and watch everyone, sobbing her heart out.

Outside, little groups of people huddled together against the cold wind, talking quietly. Claudine’s sister appoached me.

“Did you understand about the cremation?” she said. “He’s going to the crematorium now and then they’ll bring back the ashes at about half past three and Claudine would like you to walk down to the cemetary with us and then come back for a coffee.”

Goodness – that was quick! They certainly don’t hang about do they?

So at three thirty we went out and walked behind the family following the hearse to the cemetary. Other neighbours joined the procession and we arrived at the Columbarium – a pyramid especially built to hold ashes. There was a hole near the top where one of the plaques had been removed.

The undertaker placed the urn on a table and we all gathered round.

He invited us to spend a minute in silence, thinking about Hervé then said a prayer and the family started another ‘asperges’ . Everyone took their turn and even waited for two latecomers to rush forward and do their bit.

Then came the worst part. They put the urn into the hole.

Claudine sobbed.

Then, rather cruelly, we thought, they sealed the (already engraved) plaque into place and the workman proudly polished his handiwork, took up his toolbox and departed.

We stood there in contemplation until Claudine felt able to move, and then walked back down the hill to her house.

She and the family had huge flasks of coffee  and sugar cake ready and waiting and she did seem more composed as she made sure everyone was served.

Bear didn’t want to come in for coffee but I was made to sit down at the table “because of your leg” and everyone chatted about this and that, carefully avoiding anything that might upset Claudine.

I don’t know what her plans are, or whether she has actually decided what she wants to do. Her elder son lives near Toulon and her daughter lives near Belgium. Her younger son is a boarder at a special school so she will be alone most of the time.

She doesn’t drive so, although we will willingly take her shopping and offer lifts as necessary, she may feel rather isolated.

Fortunately her son and sister-in-law are staying on for a week or so and then her sister is coming back to be with her again.

Our thoughts are with her at this sad time.

Too much communication

Bear has always complained about my telephone conversations – to the point where (when I was still working) I had my own phone line put in and paid my own bill  to shut him up. But, would you believe it, he still had the cheek to moan!

Things haven’t changed much, even though we now have an inclusive subscription covering unlimited calls to France, England and America for a fixed sum.

Today I called Yvette as she wasn’t too well when I saw her on Friday. She was pleased to talk and we chatted happily about this and that.

When I put the phone down Bear scowled at me.

“Do you know you were on the phone for 37 minutes?”

I looked him in the eye hoping to convey a mixture of disdain, annoyance and humour.

“So. . . . . . .”

“So you won’t need to see each other again this week. You’ve said it all -  probably kept her from doing what she was doing, poor woman. You could have said all that in less than two minutes. There’s too much communication!”

MEN!!!!!

It wasn’t worth talking to him to tell him that Yvette had mentioned the Old Folks’ Easter get together. I hadn’t read the circular properly and had filed it away where I couldn’t find it.

It seems that owing to economic constraints, this year’s meal will be a Tea-Dance instead of the usual 5 course lunch. Actually, I think that’s a good idea. It means people will mix better and probably suffer less from indigestion as getting up to jig about between courses is something my stomach doesn’t take to readily.

It also means that Yvette will be able to come – and bring Jean-Claude in his wheelchair. They can arrive when they like and go home when he’s tired.

It will do her the world of good to come out and socialise.

And we can both have a long session of communication.

Bear can mope by himself or make himself sick on cake if he doesn’t want to talk to people.