Admonitory glances.

At breakfast time,after checking the house from top to bottom,Wilf finally noticed that 'the font' wasn't anywhere to be found. He then spent the rest of the day giving me his most severe admonitory look . From the intensity of the glare I could gather that it was clearly my job to go out and find the lost member of the pack. What's more,as far as he was concerned, I was failing miserably in my family shepherding duty - the ultimate canine crime. The howls of delight when the lost sheep returned from Paris later that evening could have been heard twenty miles away.

The rodent man came yesterday. The good news is that the kitchen, morning room and guest bedrooms are free of the little critters. The bad news is that the wine cellar and the attic are not. He has relaid liberal amounts of whatever noxious chemical he uses and will return in the New Year. I gave 'the font' the good news part of the message but omitted the latter.

Discovered that the term 'scapegoat' has an interesting religious connotation. In ancient Israel circa 500 BC , the high priest used to put both hands on a goat's head, confess the sins of Israel over it, and then send the animal off into the heart of the desert, never to return. The physical sin would be carted away into the wilderness to disappear forever. Interesting how 2500 year old Judean farming imagery still peppers our language.

Sun gives way to drizzle.

We sat outside on the terrace yesterday having lunch in the late November sunshine. This morning we've woken to find that the blissful, cloudless, warm weather has changed to grey drizzle. Wilf and Digby, who have now become used to warm, dry weather, went to the kitchen door, undertook a peremptory saunter into the garden, and were back inside again and snuggled down on their blankets - all within two minutes. Now that they are getting older their behaviour is changing. They were once super charged bundles of energy 24/7. But these days they are more gentile - before eight in the morning and after eight at night comfort takes precedence over excitement.' The font' rather unhelpfully has just leant over my shoulder to point out that they are taking after me in this regard. Hmmmph!

Once again our Gallican critters have outsmarted and outwitted the cunning, and expensive, contraptions set up so carefully to catch them. Faced with fresh evidence of their nocturnal partying, it has been decided (by 'the font') that a telephone call to a professional will be the first order of priority tomorrow morning. By the way, thanks for the comments and e-mails about how to bait the traps. Nothing works - not even peanut butter. These are clearly gourmand mice.

Yesterday lunchtime saw the Toulouse - Montauban rugby match take place - a major event in the life of Tarn-et-Garonne. By eleven the streets were deserted and the shops were empty of baguettes, croissants, beer and cheese as the entire male population of the departement migrated en masse for picnics outside the stadium. The French certainly know how to enjoy themselves and do so without any signs of public drunkeness or aggression - a clear sign that we are not in an Anglo-Saxon society. In this part of the world rugby rather than soccer dominates the headlines. With the obvious exception of the US, I wonder if there is anywhere else where soccer doesn't overshadow everything else? Perhaps some of those American dependencies where they play baseball or Greenland where it's presumably too cold?

The boyz were groomed within an inch of their lives yesterday in order to make them look less like waifs. Digby loves the attention and is soon asleep as the brush runs over him. Wilf in contrast squirms and squeals and utters loud yelps that make it sound as if he's being tortured with electric cattle prods. This morning both of them look as though they've never been near a brush or a comb in their lives.

Finally, thanks to our friends at Rocky Creek Scottie Adventures for awarding the boyz the prize in a wildly technical and complex quiz.

What do you think happened?

Returned from the hardware store with an array of devices to deal with the mouse infestation. My suggestion that we learn to live with the harmless wee critters was met by a tart rejection from 'the font'. Madame Bay helpfully pointed out that she didn't have mice as her dogs chased them away. At this point she looked disdainfully at Wilf and Digby who are self evidently not the sort of dogs who would act as successful mouse catchers.

Yesterday afternoon was spent setting up an ultrasound mouse scarer in the kitchen that was 'guaranteed' to keep an 80 square metre room free from mice and other rodents. The boyz joined me in the kitchen but soon retreated to a quiet spot on their favouritte carpet when it became apparent that food was not on offer. As back up I also planted standard mouse traps, 'super-luxury' mouse traps made of a rather attractive hard grey plastic , and a number of rather gruesome tubes with bait inside. My total investment in keeping the kitchen and family room free from our little furry friends came to a grand total of €78 - half of it being for the 100% guaranteed state of the art electronic system.

Imagine my surprise, and delight, this morning when I found all the traps empty and all the bait in place. Imagine 'the font's' surprise this morning when coming face to face with a mouse sitting on a shelf by the can of Illy coffee. It didn't even run away but sat there polishing its whiskers. Why is it some people have such an illogical dislike of mice?

After our return from the hardware store Digby spent much of yesterday morning making a nest out of a pile of cushions Madame Bay had absent mindedly piled on the floor in the hallway. She won't make that mistake again. Chased from that spot he then spent the next twenty minutes stalking her bright orange chiffon scarf , one end of which had somehow come unravelled and was trailing, enticingly, along the floor behind her. He was put out in the garden before he got into any more trouble.

Monsieur Ongoose and the mice.

The church

The Town Hall

Today is Madame Bay's day to come to clean the house. Madame Bay, for those of you who haven't been introduced, is a lady of a 'certain age' with a penchant for primary colours and somewhat earthy language who has been 'looking after' the house for many years. She arrived, mid-breakfast this morning, in what appeared to be a bright lilac smock surmounted by yards of orange chiffon, tightly and lavishly wrapped around and about her neck. I had barely struggled to my feet ,coffee in hand,before I was wrapped in her customary embrace. Not for Madame Bay a curt 'good morning' or a quick handshake but an arms wide greeting coupled to a emotional 'Oh! Monsieur Ongoose' (Angus rhyming with mongoose) as though I am a long lost son returned from four years at the front. All a bit much at seven thirty in the morning and a source of much amusement to 'the font'.

Madame Bay repeats her sentences to me - possibly for effect or possibly because she assumes I'm either deaf or slow witted. " It rains,monsieur, it rains" or " the poor children,monsieur,the poor children". The effect is rather akin to living in a radio adaptation of a classic French novel. I for my part am happy to go along with it responding with a jolly " Yes,madame, it rains" . This morning our conversation took a different and darker turn . " There are mice,monsieur, there are mice". 'Yes,madame, there are mice'. "Yes,monsieur there are mice". Eventually after a few more repetitions of this formulaic conversation and a shriek from 'the font' the message got through. Yes, there are mice, and in abundance.Spurred on by an agitated 'font', the boyz and I shall shortly be enroute to the local market town to see what humane but effective ways of dealing with our uninvited visitors are to be found. Oh and by the way, a Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.