Porridge.

Wilf and Digby adore porridge. In these arctic conditions we boil up enough oatmeal at breakfast for ourselves and for them .They wait patiently side by side in the kitchen like two canine gourmands, relishing the smell of the porridge while it cools. When its ready they hunker down over their bowls where amid much lip smacking and delighted snorting it's quickly demolished . We find that Wilf gets indigestion and allergies if we give him wheat based food ( an after effect of the pancreatitis) but porridge he can eat to his hearts content. Not surprisingly the boyz muzzles require a thorough cleaning post breakfast to remove the last of their breakfast from the long fur around their mouths.

We are anxiously waiting for new beds to be delivered from London. When we first moved in, seven weeks ago, I ordered replacement beds for the ones we had left behind in Italy. It is only now, with the imminent arrival of family,that the manufacturers dilatory approach and frequent last minute delays in getting them to us is becoming irritating. Having been told they would be here on Friday ( at the latest) they are now promised (firmly and finally) for Monday - snow willing.

Thick snow, Digby gets groomed thoroughly.

We woke this morning to find a raging blizzard swirling round the house and the poor palm trees in the garden covered in thick snow - somehow the dappling of snow makes them look strangely exotic - it must be the juxtaposition of the tropical and the arctic. The morning croissant run with the boyz was cancelled, not that I doubted the Land Rovers ability to deal with the conditions, but because Wilf and Digby steadfastly refused to venture beyond the porch. Wilf just gave me one of his 'you must be joking ' looks and turned tail back into the house closely followed by his little brother.

Yesterday was a major grooming day for the boyz. A week of running around in the garden has transformed their coats from their natural, soft, fluffy white condition into a grey and brown matted morass. Thankfully, Digby simply adores being groomed. He spreads himself out on the table, basks in the sun, and exudes happiness. After forty five minutes of careful brushing the waif like dog had been transformed into something looking vaguely like a cross between a Polish Lowland Sheepdog and a Dandy Dinmont. Wilf by contrast views grooming as something that should only happen to girl dogs. He squirms, whines, wimpers, holds out his paw, circles round, lies on his back, scratches his ear and utilises every trick in the book to avoid being put on the grooming table. Once he's there it's no better. Of course all the investment in grooming time and attention has been rendered completely valueless by the arrival of heavy snow. When the two of them do deign to venture outside the snow will cling to their coats in great lumps like iron to a magnet. Blankets and towels have been laid in the hall to soak up the melting lumps of snow.

France Telecom came to repair the supposed broadband access yesterday. The engineer took Gallic taciturnity to the extreme but the intermittent fault that has plagued us since we moved in seems to have been resolved. I've discovered that 'the font' is much better at dealing with the difficult representatives of the French state in its many guises - I simply get exasperated whereas 'the font' employs charm and succeeds.

I caught a sobering glimpse of Madame Bay in the kitchen, completely lost in the reverie of her thoughts, dancing to one of those French ballads with a heavy beat and annoying lyrics. One would have to say Madame Bay dances with an unexpected delicacy for a lady of such statuesque proportions although the occasional rapid up and down movements with the right arm were perhaps a little too 'Saturday Night Fever' in style to be termed truly delicate. I tiptoed gently away before being asked to join her on the impropmtu dance floor. The happy dancing routine is a sign that the Bay family is getting into the party mood and will shortly be en route to Manhattan for Christmas - if any of you are booked on the Air France A-380 from Charles de Gaulle to Kennedy on the 22nd and are seated next to a group of lively seventy somethings - you, and Manhattan, have been warned.

C'est froid.

Heavy frost this morning and the sky that strange crystal blue colour that always accompanies extreme cold. We've both taken to wearing ski hats indoors in an attempt to cope with the arctic draughts that sweep through the windows in our large old rambling house. Despite having the boiler turned up as far as it will go the rate of heat loss always seems to exceed the rate of heat generation - at night it gets decidedly chilly although ice hasn't formed on the inside of the windows yet. From time to time we both look at each other and say that this is the sort of experience that makes buying a large unrestored house worthwhile and that we are storing up a treasure trove of knowledge. If we were American we'd write a book about it - " for the price of a secondhand Buick and with the loving help and support of a few dear neighbours and friends we turned a ruined barn in Arangoset into a stunning example of contemporary architecture". Baloney ! Anyone who moves into a house , in the middle of winter,that hasn't had any TLC in twenty years deserves to suffer. I'll tell the family at Christmas that it's character forming as we huddle around the open oven.

In search of wood fired stoves we drove into the local town of Auch yesterday afternoon. A beautiful cathedral and a quite unspoilt market square. It seems that the days when you bought a stove, lined the chimney, and then connected the two together to generate a functioning heating system have long gone. Our respective hearts sank as the salesman informed us that there were new regulations. In France there are regulations for everything - most of them being 'new' and therefore subject to interpretation.It seems that in order to reduce the risk of fire no chimney lining can be installed within 16 centimetres of a wooden beam - with our attic a veritable forest of wooden beams that is a tough stipulation to follow. When asked if they could come out to look at the house and instal a stove they said 'but of course' and gave us a date in February. Perhaps I'll book everyone into a hotel for the duration.

Madame Bay arrived this morning with a cheery 'It's cold ,m'Ongoose, it's cold'. Madame Bay is largely in green today, the chiffon replaced by a large multi coloured woolen creation that swaddles her neck and the lower half or her face - in fact this mornings greeting was muffled by the acres of woolen scarf and came out as ' mmmwah, mwongoose, mmmwah'. I note that Madame Bay is wearing trousers under todays ensemble - a sop to the elements - giving her something of the look of a Tajikistan mountain tribeswoman - tres chic.Wilf has ignored her, while Digby is keeping a wary eye on her in case she makes a sudden dash for the hoover

A parcel from America arrived in the noon time post - the prize in a competition mounted by Rocky Creek Scotties and Java. Wilf and Digby knew immediately it was for them. Despite every best effort to get the two little angels to strike an appreciative pose for the camera the photos above are the best you're going to get. Also a picture of the Christmas tree in its forlorn, pre-trussed up with wire state.

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.

A special thanks and rug surfing dogs.

A special thanks this morning to the wonderful cabin staff at British Airways who have announced a twelve day strike starting on December 22nd. Their kind actions will barely have any impact on those of us bringing together family and friends from around the globe for the holidays. 'The font' was particularly happy to discover that the carefully booked pre-Christmas flights to pick up and return to Toulouse with the ninety year old 'granny font' will not now be going. However, we take comfort in the fact that it is easy to rebook flights on rival airlines at this time of the year. To draw dire parallels with other carriers who treated their passengers in this way - PanAm,TWA, Eastern,Allegheny and Alitalia spring to mind - would be churlish. Come on guys get real! By chosing to strike when it inconveniences the travelling public most is simply to destroy the brand and ensure that job loses are even greater. Once you lose passengers to the competition it's difficult to woo them back. Ryanair and Easyjet must be chuckling - Christmas has come early for them.

It was bitterly cold last night (minus 7 with the wind streaming down from the mountains) and our rambling old farmhouse with its poorly fitting windows and antiquated heating systsem felt decidedly chilly. I must try to find, and have installed, a couple of wood fired stoves in the next week if we are to avoid hypothermia. In the absence of 'the font', who is still shopping in Paris, the two boyz joined me in a protracted late night bout of 'fetch' in the upper hallway to keep our circulation moving. Despite the cold the Christmas tree at one end and the creche at the other made it all look quite festive. I dressed up like the Michelin man with sweaters and a scarve and happily threw a soft toy up and down the hallway for the boyz. Wilf and Digby discovered early on that by leaping at full speed onto the rugs they could get them to slide for twenty or thirty feet over the old smooth floor tiles. Backwards and forwards went two two rug surfing sheepdogs enjoying a very happy forty five minutes. I shall feign ignorance when the font asks me where they learnt this latest trick.

Education completed.

A bitterly cold start to the day but the snow that was supposed to fall overnight has somehow missed us. The two boyz stuck their noses out of the door at first light but faced with frost on the grass and a wall of glacial air they turned on their heals and retreated to their respective beds for some additional beauty sleep . I went off to the bakers in town for the croissants alone - so much for mans best friend. Let's hope their lack of energy is a seasonal thing and that they'll revert to being more active come the spring and the brighter,warmer weather. Wilf is having less exercise but consuming as much food as before - a check on his waistline will be in order later today.

Lunch yesterday with the nuclear physicists was a convivial if intense affair. My knowledge of lithium and deuterium and the benefits of fusion over fission is now as complete as it is ever likely to be. As compensation the wine list was wonderful and a peaceful 20 minutes was spent studying it while 'the font' engaged in meaningful conversation. Everyone chose fish so the bottle of Chateau Figeac was replaced by a Grand Cru Chablis. Strange,when I was a child cod was the most of mundane of foods but overfishing has elevated it to luxury status alongside turbot and halibut.

' The font ' is off to Paris for the night , ie shopping. A beef stew has been cooked for me and left in the oven. All I have to do is remember to heat it up and of course take it out again at roughly the right time.

All went well until......

The joiner knew where we could find a real Christmas tree. Armed with this news the boyz joined me in the 4x4 and off we went carefully following his directions. After twenty minutes driving ever deeper into La France Profonde we arrived at an old farmhouse with a small plantation of trees to one side. After a brief conversation with the beret wearing owner (to ensure that we weren't Parisiens) a nine foot tree was cut down, attached to a wooden base, lashed to the top of the car and €20 handed over. While all this was going on Wilf and Digby enthusiastically explored the farmyard maintaining a watchful distance from the glowering geese. A triumphant return home.

After lunch, the boxes containing the ornaments were hauled up from storage and the process of decorating began. We soon found that many of them had been broken either in the move or in the robbery. Nonetheless, what was left sufficed to cover a fair portion of the tree - or more particularly the front half - the back half was left decidedly bare . We'll get in the car next fall and drive up to Poland to load up on new glass baubles so that the 2010 tree can be suitably dressed all round .

Somewhere between being cut down and arriving home the top third of the tree had developed a somewhat alarming 30 degree tilt. This tilt meant that the fairy on the top slumped at rather an alarming angle. 'The font' felt that far from looking angelic the little winged figure looked as though she'd been on the gin all day . The drunken fairy has been taken down while a suitable replacement is sought.

This morning we awoke to find a scene of devastation. Overnight the tree had fallen over knocking pictures off the wall, and ornaments from tables . For once Wilf and Digby weren't responsible - they had snored away contentedly all through the night outside the bedroom. I suspect that despite the best efforts of Rentokil our little furry friends may not have entirely disappeared.

'The font' has arranged for us to go out to lunch today with two retired French nuclear physicists who have left the bright lights of Paris to retire to the village. The thought of chatting with two nuclear physicists, in French, over lunch fills me with dread. Let's hope that we don't have to talk about physics - a conversation about trends in fusion research would be brief enough in English let alone a foreign language. When I commented that I'd rather have my teeth pulled rather than go out I was reminded that we must make every opportunity to settle into the community. As always there is a silver lining, 'the font' has booked us into a restaurant that has a rather interesting wine list so I've volunteered to drive us there if 'the font' drives us back. A good bottle of Chateau Figeac may work wonders for my scientific conversational skills.