Village dog + village cat = disturbance

Off to the village market with Wilf for a baguette and some croissants. On the way we came across Amilee the village cat. We know the cats name is Amilee because all the village children and their parents say ' bonjour Amilee ' to it when they're on their way to the bus stop. Naturally, they also say ' bonjour Vilfee ' as Wilf trots along unconcernedly beside me on his morning constitutional. Such is the innocent, unselfconscious nature of life in our little community of 67 souls.

Wilf usually ignores Amilee and vice versa. However this morning Amilee decided that Wilf had crossed some invisible line in the sand. There was an arching of the back, a hiss, and the next thing Wilf and I knew was that an aroused Amilee was bearing down on us. When faced with a fiery French feline female Wilf did the only thing any sensible male can do - howl and retreat. Back safely at home Wilf gave me his 'Blimey ! That was a turn up for the books' look.

The bee man cometh.

Two months ago 'the font' noticed that a large swarm of bees were nesting in the rickety old farmhouses guttering - right outside the bedroom window. Bees are good for the environment so we didn't want to harm them in any way. Over the last eight weeks a stream of specialists have been clambering up ladders scratching their heads and reporting that 'the only way to get rid of them is to gas them' . Finally, after umpteen environmentally unfriendly false starts the mayor introduced us to a gentleman who was willing to climb onto the roof and remove the Queen Bee and her apiarian host to pastures new.

At eight thirty on Sunday morning he arrived ; unannounced. He handed over two cards . One said ' Bees a speciality ' the other ' Odd jobs done - nothing too small '. He proudly informed us that he was 74, had been a parachutist and that his hip replacement didn't hinder his work in any way . " Parachutists don't have a fear of heights" he said while donning a large white protective outfit that covered him from head to toe . After that communication became rather difficult but a combination of roof to ground sign language and a creative interpretation of the grunts that emerged from the white spacesuit soon told us that the offending bees had been located. Twenty minutes later it was all done. The Queen, her royal jelly, and her slavish minions had been smoked out and safely stowed in a cardboard box . They would soon be embarking on a carefree new life in a hive twenty kilometres away.

It was then that events took an interesting turn. As he was putting back the roof tiles, three of them slid out of his hands and tumbled to the ground with a loud crash. In turning round to see what had happened he stepped backwards and put a white boot through the bedroom ceiling, simultaneously snagging his other leg on the guttering. 'The font' who was still bustling around repairing the damage caused by the pigeon in the guest bedroom helpfully rushed downstairs to tell me that the bed was covered in plaster and that there was a leg sticking through the roof.

Going to sleep last night I could see the stars through the void in the ceiling created by the boot shaped hole and the missing roof tiles. Wilf thought it was all great fun. 'The font' less so. The bee mans odd job skills won't be called upon. If ever we move again it's going to be to a low maintenance new build.

Busy doing nothing.

A grey , overcast, humid start to the day. A quick sprint down to the cows field to say hello to two new calves and then a gentle saunter back along the lane. While we were out a pigeon got into the guest bedroom . Not a pleasant sight. Bedspread, sheets, pillow cases and cushion covers are all hastily being rewashed before the first of our American friends arrive.

Despite, or perhaps because of, all this human activity Wilf has settled on his back on the cool of the terrace to watch the world go past - upside down. Time enough for him to ponder on the meaning of life and air those parts that need airing. Later this morning , before it gets too hot,he will be off with me to the local market for his bowl of water, a hair tousling from the early morning absinthe folk, and a baguette. Then he'll try to squeeze in a quick three hour nap before lunch. The hectic life of a PON in France Profonde.

The anarchist PON's three categories of walk.

Morning walks with Wilf fall into three categories depending on the quality of the smells :

1) RORH - Rush out, rush home

2) ROSH - Rush out, saunter home

3) SOSH - Saunter out, saunter home

This morning was a SOSH. The smells were excellent and got Wilfs good housekeeping seal of approval. We almost matched our hour and a half sauntering and sniffing record.

Off early to get the annual check up on the trusty old Volkswagen. While the car was being serviced went with Wilf to look at a more fuel efficient replacement model. This one gets 85 miles to the gallon. We could drive from Toulouse to London on one tank and still have gas left over. Most importantly it's highly compact, easy to park in those tiny French streets and the back seats fold flat to make a large sleeping area for a certain senior dog. Thought of getting one until the young salesman told me the price - €19,200 and that's for a basic model in black. Add on luxuries like metallic paint and a radio and you're in Cadillac territory. Told Wilf we'd wait to do our bit for the planet until the electric cars go on sale next year. On our way out he carefully christened each of the tyres on a huge new gas guzzling SUV. Wilf the environmentalist, anarchist PON.

Derogatory snippets.

To the local planning department to get the new rules and regulations regarding septic tanks. The rickety old farmhouse has at least five septic tanks, and we're still discovering new ones. A prim young lady at the reception desk proved to be the living personification of the charmless , Anglo-Saxon loathing, French bureaucrat . Without looking up from her paperwork, she fired off responses to my questions at a rate of two hundred words a minute. I managed to catch the occasional derogatory snippet regarding the diameter of my pipes and the positioning of my robinet d'arret. Ah, the joy of dealing with technical specifications in a foreign language. To make matters worse the local dialect has a certain impenetrability . Here in deepest Occitane , the letter 'g' pops up at random - vin becomes vang and pain becomes pang. Armed with a sheaf of ordinances I beat a hasty retreat to the cafe for a glass of restorative champagne.

Wilf is enjoying life. Today the joiners are supposed to come to fit the glass to the new doors and the builder and his team have promised to start work on the crumbling concrete on the terrace. On past form illicit treats can be expected from at least one of them. The plane trees are shedding their bark and Wilf has discovered that if he rolls on it a satisfying 'snap,crackle and pop' emerges.

World class frostiness.

Starting next week we have friends and family coming to stay in the rickety old farmhouse. Time for my gradualist DIY approach to renovation to be replaced by 'the fonts' more hands on HAP ( hire a pro ) style. Despite it being a national holiday the electrician showed up in response to the urgency of the situation. With Wilf there to supervise he spent the afternoon installing power sockets and hanging ceiling lights. Now, if only the joiners would come back to put the glass panes in the new doors.

The two mutually loathing village associations are still arguing over the reconstructed sixteenth century pottery kiln.You may remember that some bright spark erected a tiled roof over the kiln to protect it from the elements. What it took them some time to realise is that the roof would prevent the smoke from the kilns chimney escaping. Two weeks to the August 1st unveiling and disagreements remain over where the hole should be cut in the roof. 'The font' informs me that voices were raised at the last village meeting. 'The font' ever diplomatic steered the conversation onto more positive ground and as a result we have apparently agreed to buy four of the first 'authentic' pieces to come off the production line. Watch this space.

Breakfast time was enlivened by the news that Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston are to marry. How chic of the young couple to announce it to their families in 'Us' magazine. The response from the Palin family was world class in its brevity and frostiness : " We obviously want the best for our children. Bristol believes in redemption and forgiveness to a degree most of us struggle to put into practice in our daily lives". Brilliant! Oh to be a fly on the wall at that redemptive and forgiving family reunion.

Bastille Day.

Its the July 14th National Holiday and the pace of life in the village, never hectic at the best of times, has amazingly slowed down yet further. This morning we have woken to catalepsy - France Profonde style. Not a sound to be heard or a person to be seen. Wilf was able to walk for an hour along the lane, down to the horse field, undisturbed by a single car, tractor or combine. While I daydreamed, listening to the song of the redshanks, he explored the verges . These were strewn with cantaloupes where a local farmer, his trailer overloaded with melons, had driven over the speed bump too quickly. After much sniffing, proding with his nose and then tentative licking, Wilf decided he didn't like cantaloupe.

Overnight the war memorial on the village green has been bedecked with flags, a long table has been set up outside the Salle des Fetes, and the mayor has wound up the church clock mechanism with its maddening chime - eleven times on the hour every hour, twice. In the absence of Madame Bay, who is vacationing in Croatia with the septaguenarian gendarmes, we have no idea what to expect as the day unfolds. However, one can be fairly sure alcohol will figure prominently in the days festivities.

Yesterday, Wilf joined me on a trip to the local hardware store to buy an umbrella for the terrace. There, amid a riot of brightly coloured garden furniture, stood one lone 'demonstrator' umbrella. Gallic logic prevented them from selling it. " Someone else might want it " said the manager and " No, it's too late in the year to order any more". We returned empty handed. Wilf gave me his best 'go figure' look and then ran to fetch a ball.