Zurich for the night. Snow !

Off to Zurich to do some Christmas shopping. Back tomorrow - will post pictures of snow when I can .

Pizza, Digby's joints, courage.

'The font' is in London today having set off for the airport at the unearthly hour of four thirty. Wilf and Digby who were snuggled down in their baskets decided to ignore the intrusive early morning activity and get on with their beauty sleep. Belatedly recognizing 'the fonts' absence the two of them have been positioned by the front door since seven o'clock. Half of their sheepdog DNA is set to guarding the house while the other half is on alert for signs of 'the fonts' homecoming. Getting Wilf out for a walk while Digby stayed inside to rest his joints proved impossible. In the end I took them both out on their harnesses, doubled back to the house after five minutes, opened the front door to let Digby in, and then callously closed it so that Wilf could have twenty minutes of exercise. Digby was so shocked by the rudeness of being left alone that he didn't bark once.

To finish off yesterdays post. The pizzas we chose at the village Christmas fair were the blandest I could find - cheese and ham. Madame Bay was very keen for us to try a 'Tex Mex' ( chicken, 'hot'red peppers, tabisco,sausage, pineapple) and seemed rather disappointed at the mundanity of our choice - I fear that we gained a negative score on the village sophistication rating. The unspoken hint was that we clearly need to get out more. I'd hoped that the pizzas might have been served by the slice but the suggestion only elicited a blank response from Madame Bay. When they arrived , served by Monsieur Bay in his role as maitre d' , they were dinner plate in size, surrounded by a large quiche like crust, and so hot that the surface of the cheese was gurgling away with myriad mini-volcanoes.It quickly became apparent that somewhere along the line the recipe for pizza and quiche had become confused- the wonders set before us had a thick shortcrust pastry base,the creamy ham and cheese topping from a quiche,but the whole enlivened by copious quantities of extra lard and butter. I suggested to 'the font' that we had discovered a new delicacy - Quizza but after three mouthfuls 'the font' felt that Bloat might be a better word to describe this culinary marvel. By the time it had been washed down with a heart little Gaillac,recommended by the maitre d', we were both feeeling rather the worse for wear - our digestive systems assailed by this wall of piping hot cholesterol.Saturday night was not restful for either of us.

Sometimes through the anonymity of the blog some peoples strength of purpose and courage come shining through. So for the author of http://www.romp-roll-rockies.blogspot.com/ just a heads up that we're thinking of you today.

Words fail me.

So, yesterday was the day of the village Christmas fair. Wilf and Digby were left at the front door to sit in the sun and guard the house while we walked the twenty or so yards across the lane and through the churchyard to the village hall or 'salle polyvalent'. The posters clearly stated the affair was due to start at two but experience of living in southern Europe has taught us to take notional start times with a very large pinch of salt. After allowing for what we thought was a suitable two hour delay we arrived at four to find a scene of unbridled chaos. There were six or seven ladies dressed in skimpy red Santa outfits running aimlessly around, the stalls were still in the process of being set up, the mayor had hurt his hand putting up the creche and was having it bandaged by a red cross lady, a mother with a young baby was slumped in a plastic chair by the entrance door breast feeding ,and loud metallic crashes were emanating from the kitchen. Pure,unadulterated bedlam.

We executed a rapid exit from the unfolding maelstrom and returned home to allow another three hours for the fair to get into the swing of things,returning after a glass or two of wine at seven. I should state for the record that 'the font' promised that we wouldn't have to stay more than ten minutes and that all I had to do was buy three things from the stalls and be polite - not charming just polite. How the best laid plans....

What a difference the three hours made. There were crowds swarming around the churchyard when we came back and the square had developed a parking problem. No sooner had we walked through the door than Madame Bay emerged from the throng to greet us. She approached arms spread wide, like a brightly coloured Spanish galleon in full sail, imperiously pushing visitors,Santa's little helpers, stall holders and small children aside. Immediately everyone in the village knew from the greeting that we were the new residents and that Madame Bay was our chatelaine. 'Ah! M'ongoose,Bonsoir,M'ongoose' was the last I heard before being enveloped in yards of velvet and chiffon and smothered in Lily of the Valley. Madame Bay as you may remember was in charge of what we thought was the bakery stall. As it transpired she had a much more vaunted task and was in charge of the restaurant, or 'restaur' as the sign above the door said, Monsieur Bay having managed to lose the last three letters en route from home. 'Have you eaten Monsieur Ongoose, have you eaten ?'. Before I could answer , we were swept through the hall, arm in arm with Madame Bay to the restaur ,seated at a rather precariously put together trestle table and handed a sheet of paper grandly headed 'menu'.

Madame Bay and her village helpers have discovered pizza. However, nothing, but nothing in life could prepare you for one of Madame Bays Christmas interpretations. As I scanned the list of toppings my eye first came to rest on a creation called Sea Medley which consisted of 'prawns,prunes,chopped beef'. In a state of mounting shock and horror I read on - The Gascon : 'fried egg,pork sausage,4 local cheeses,anchovies,chicken'.

Tomorrow, I shall attempt to describe what we ate,post a copy of the menu for an unbelieving world, reveal what we bought ,and relive, as far as I can, the 'entertainment' . More than that I shall try to understood how the French have managed to convince us all that they are somehow more sophisticated.

The village Christmas fair.

A beautiful clear blue sky greeted me when I flung open the curtains this morning - a wonderful start to the day and quite a change from yesterdays drizzle. Over breakfast I suggested to 'the font' that we make the most of the fine weather and go into the centre of Toulouse for some sightseeing and a spot of lunch. Simply impossible. I was reminded that today is the day of the village Christmas fair and that Madame Bay is organizing the bakery stall. Gentle readers you may well wonder , as I do, how a village that boasts eight houses, a speed bump, a war memorial, two cows, a church, and ten street lamps can hold a Christmas fair. You might be even more puzzled to learn that it starts at at lunchtime and is planned to finish at ten this evening. Just how long can it take Madame Bay to unload her heavily armagnac laced tarte tatins and apple clafoutis? Apart from Madame Bay with her bakery stall what else could be competing for our attention between lunch and the evening hours? A full update will be provided tomorrow together with pictures. I somehow have the feeling that alcohol is going to be involved although sadly not the bottle of St.Estephe I had planned to savour over lunch in the Cafe de l'Opera in Toulouse.

Digby's joints are still giving him grief . 'The font' managed to entice him into the kitchen with the promise of a piece of croissant while Wilf was quickly harnessed up and taken out of the front door by me for a long walk. Oh the duplicity one learns as dog owners ! It didn't take Digby long to discover that his brother had absconded with me and the yaps of frustration could be heard following us down the road. He is now sulking on his bed in the kitchen, back turned as a sign of his extreme displeasure. Wilf is just happy.

London was wet, Toulouse is damp.

London was miserable. Grey, chilly and very,very wet. Despite the elements (or perhaps because of them) the shops were crammed to bursting point with European visitors benefitting from the strong Euro. After half an hour waiting in line I finally got to a check out and arranged with Fortnum's for the cake and christmas pudding to be delivered to France . They won't ship that other staple of the British Christmas, mince pies, because they are too fragile! Long term readers of the blog will remember that the hamper I ordered from Fortnum's in October last year didn't arrive at the house in Italy until six o'clock at night on Christmas Eve - talk about cutting it fine. Let's hope that things move more smoothly this time round.

The Rentokil mans visit to the house has done wonders. He fixed a brass rail to the bottom of the doors in from the garden ( so the little critters can't squeeze through the gap between the floor and the door) and then put down a dozen or so little cardboard boxes in the boiler room and kitchen. All this happened on Monday and since then nothing. 'The font' is delighted, so I am doubly delighted. Thankfully, only field mice and bats - no sign at all of bigger rodents.

Huge excitement at two this morning. A branch from an old pine tree was dislodged by a sudden gust of wind and fell with a huge crash onto the swimming pool cover. In France every house with a swimming pool has to have a safety alarm in case a toddler or drunken adult falls in and drowns. Of course the falling branch managed to trigger the alarm ( which until then we didn't know we had) and much fun was had by all wandering around the garden in the rain in the small hours with a torch trying to find out a) what had happened b) where the ear shattering klaxon was located and c) figuring out how to turn it off. Wilf and Digby thought it was great fun - 'the font' less so.

The damp weather has brought on Digby's rheumatics. He wants desperately to join Wilf on a long morning walk but after two or three hundred metres he starts to limp and then becomes tired and irritable with the pain.Hip dysplasia is a problem with the breed and the only remedy is to make sure he rests when it's really damp.

Off to the airport.

A quick post before rushing off to the airport. With Christmas almost upon us, and our preparations for the event being non-existent, a hurried trip back to Fortnum's is called for . In practice this means that I have to make sure that the Christmas pudding and Christmas cake are despatched to our little patch of paradise so as to arrive in plenty of time for the 25th. I shall be back from London tomorrow evening.

The Rentokil man arrived yesterday afternoon at the exact same moment as the telephone engineer ( four weeks late ), the joiner ( unexpected ), and the plumber ( on time and expected). After some initial confusion over their respective roles, ( the joiner took being asked to mend the leaking shower with good humour), everyone settled down to work. It seems that we have field mice that have chosen to nest in the warmth of the boiler room. The more adventurous of them clamber up the pipes to visit the kitchen directly above. As for the expensive 'mouse scaring' electronic system ,that only works where there is absolute silence. We have a clock in the kitchen that renders it completely useless. One learns something new everyday.

Wilf and Digby are in fine form.

The Christmas market.

The Christmas market in the local town is now in full swing. Being a French Christmas market there is a preponderance of stalls selling foie gras, candied fruit, cheese, and oysters with the occassional purveyor of festive headscarves, hand carved childrens toys, 'novelty' woollen hats, and for some peculiarly French reason, hunting knives, thrown in for good measure. All in all a rather happy and cheerful event but completely impractical as a source of presents for the family.

As we wandered contentedly around, 'the font' and I were suddenly gripped with a sense of panic. The move has made us blissfully oblivious to the approach of the festive season which we realise is now just over three weeks away . Naturally, we have done nothing, and I mean nothing to prepare for it. It's not just that beds need to be made and the table set - we first need to find where the sheets have been stored and the glasses and cutlery put away.

Madame Bay is here to 'do the house' early this week. She arrived at seven thirty prompt in an eye catching multi-coloured number with the hallmark swag of chiffon wrapped luxuriantly around her shoulders. After the customary ' Oh Monsieur Ongoose' and the emotional embrace she sailed serenely off to find the vacuum cleaner followed by trailing strands of chiffon and a somewhat suspicious Digby.

It transpires that Madame Bay and her husband are going to New York for Christmas. Monsieur Bay is a retired Gendarme of gentle and retiring disposition (could he be otherwise married to Madame Bay?) and they are going as part of a tour organized by the Retired Gendarmes Association. This will be their first visit to America and their knowledge of New York, ( in common with the Gendarme septuagenarians travelling with them ), is largely derived from watching Jack McCoy in Law and Order. Regaled by a nighly feast of television mayhem their view of Manhattan is consequently somewhat imbalanced. This morning 'the font' has had to reassure Madame Bay that it is extremely unlikely that she will be caught in the cross fire of crack dealing mobsters on East 56th. I'm less convinced by 'the fonts' assertion that the water in NY is drinkable.