Mooonshader.

Eight in the morning and all the windows in the rickety old farmhouse are wide open and the village green is resounding to the sound of Cat Stevens 'Eym bin follod byer mooonshader, mooonshader, mooonshader'. Yes, the saintly Madame Bay is back. From the paso doble dance routine being enacted with the hoover in the upstairs hallway its clear that she is entirely reinvigorated after her trip to Croatia and the joys of the village kiln opening. Wilf and I found the two wings and the fly half sitting at the breakfast table looking sleep deprived. The combined sounds of hoover, uninhibited cleaning lady and slaughtered 60's classic proved impossible to slumber through.

Madame Bay gets on well with the gannets - they are in that elect band of sophisticates who have actually eaten one of her culinary marvels and asked for more. Ergo, they can do no wrong. While other people have stomachs they seem to have been born with galvanised steel receptacles. Gastric onslaughts such as Madame Bay's garlic, ground beef and anchovy pizza are not only taken in their stride but relished. Another sign of middle age. All I have to do is think of one of those cholesterol filled tortures and I get indigestion.

Aude the five foot nothing, chain smoking decaratrice with the bib-overalls and the bi-polar conversational disorder was not going to take any nonsense.'You're making quite a mess there' said Madame Bay. " What's it to you ?" came the prompt reply. Time I think for a trip in the car with Wilf.