More water, gushing rivers and good news

St Alexandre

We were lucky yesterday evening that Jean-Jacques came around to see us at the time when the water had risen to it's highest around the pool. He and Martin, who is working with him this week, immediately set to and diverted the water from the pump and they and Jon then re-routed the water tumbling out of the upper field, across the road and onto our garden. They created a further three waterfalls which tumbled musically for the rest of the evening. We used bricks, an old paddling pool surround and anything else we could find to create miniature dams around the chalet and pool. The pool guys sealed the pump block and we are waiting for it to dry out completely before they come back to commission the pool.

We had been invited out to lunch today and travelling along the river Lot we stopped to take some photographs. The Lot is usually quite a lazy river but this gushing torrent was taking huge tree trunks with it on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. We read in the local news that the Lot, our very small babbling brook the Céou and several other rivers around here are on yellow alert for fear of bursting their banks.

Super good news tonight. Tree surgeon man came round and says he will take our horse chestnut down next week!!!!!

Lord Lucan?

Ste Martine

Looking at the local paper yesterday I noticed their top story for the Lot department was about a British couple.

Much against my better judgement the story led to me looking at The Sun on-line. I wish I hadn't - ugh. The story is here if you really want to take a look at that revolting newspaper's website.

If you don't, I'll fill you in.

Some guy decided to fake his suicide (sound familiar?) by 'disappearing' on a ferry in the Irish Sea. A couple of months later he got in contact with his wife who was only too pleased to see him and they went off together to live in hiding. This all happened 14 years ago. His debts were paid off. Then he allegedly got a job as a security guard in the DSS office in Belfast. Finally, a couple of years ago they moved to France where they have been drawing pensions not only in the false identities they assumed but in his own name too.

You couldn't make it up, could you? The mistake they made was to let their four children know the whole story. A secret they kept for all this time until one daughter finally told all.

The only question is: Why did she wait so long? She and her siblings were apparently all appalled at the deceit and only one of them still speaks to their parents.

I suppose it is very easy for someone to come and live over here and take a new identity, settle down in one of the many remote cottages and have little to do with anyone else. I expect there are some people who do want to get away from their previous lives for whatever reason. But I do wonder if Lord Lucan might be living just around the corner?

Eventful day

St Marcel

Yesterday we bundled Figgy and Misty into the car and took them, shouting obscenities at us all the way, to the vet.

They don't know yet that they are going on a little holiday themselves to a very nice cattery some 40 minutes from here, but they were totally unimpressed at the car ride to the vets, not even half the distance.

Once there they settled down in their carriers in the waiting room and not a peep, even when a big Boxer dog wanted to make friends. We were quite surprised when he walked in accompanied by his two mates the cat and the rat, but they seemed to be a happy family.

They went ahead of us and we were joined in the waiting room by a very skinny greyhound instead. Poor things, they always look so terribly undernourished, don't they?

The vet was a very, very nice man and said all the right things about our babies.

'They are very beautiful' Well that's enough to make me his best friend for life anyway but then he said:

'Your French is very good'

I smiled and simpered. That's the second time in three days that someone has said that to me - what a boost to the confidence. Although I've studied French to quite a high level I don't get enough practice what with our non-communicating neighbours and only usually chatting in shops and the post office, and I'm extremely shy about speaking French for some unknown reason.

I didn't make any New Year's resolutions but maybe I should make a mid-January one to get out more, speak to more French people. Basically, just, go for it!

We decided to take a drive out in the afternoon, intending to visit one of the local summer 'hot spots' and see how closed it is in January but on the way it started raining so we just carried on and did a tour of the Northern reaches of the Lot department. The far north east of the region is quite different from here (sorry, no photos since the weather was just appalling), it is green and hilly (very hilly in places) . We followed a gushing river for mile after mile, climbing higher and higher until we came to a huge lake. We really must explore this in the summer, if we can stand the traffic!

On the way home we stopped in a supermarket for some vegetables and a loaf of bread. At the checkouts we were overcome by the smell of ... well, I can't put it any nicer ... stale urine. We looked around to see where it was coming from and at the next till was a lady wearing the most revoltingly dirty anorak. The staff and customers, fortunately there were only a few, were all surreptitiously covering their noses with their hands, scarves or whatever else we could find. The checkout 'hostess' moved from her till as soon as was humanly possible to another part of the shop. When we went back to our car we were amazed to see the malodorous offender clamber into a huge new 4x4 vehicle.

It made me wonder:

1. Why did none of us say anything, either to each other or to the offender?
2. How on earth did she not know how revolting she smelt?
3. Would the manager of Sainsbury's have been called to request, politely of course, that she might leave the store and come back after she had taken a bath and burned the offensive anorak?
4. Does anybody ever speak to her?
5. How come someone with a lovely vehicle (which was very clean, by the way) not care about herself enough to pong so?

Maybe I'm doing the lady an injustice. Maybe she had just that afternoon fallen into a pile of horse pooh and wee-soaked straw. Maybe she has a serious illness where she can't smell anything or see the stains on her coat.

Is it me?

St Davy, Montcuq*

St Davy
Yesterday's weather: sunny, reasonable 18 degrees.
* All will be revealed

I've been trying to find out the origin of the French St Davy, and can't locate anything. I tried a search on French websites but there's nothing coming up. Why would the French use the diminutive form? I think I may have come up with an answer. Do you remember The Monkees? Davy Jones, he was quite small, I don't know how big they were in France, but maybe they have nominated him a diminutive, living saint. He was always my favourite Monkee anyway.

Whilst searching for information on St Davy I found on the Orange France website an article relating to a local village so I thought I'd spend a few minutes introducing you to French humour. It is fairly well know that the French love slapstick. Benny Hill is still a big hero here - there are hundreds of sites where you can download the theme tune to use as your ring tone. Luckily I haven't heard it anywhere yet. They also embrace Eddie Izzard but I don't know whether it's his dress sense they like or the humour itself.

Some years ago now, a television series called Le Petit Rapporteur, an irreverent look at news stories, did an article on a small village in the Lot called Montcuq. Twenty years later, in recognition of the boom in tourism created by this programme, Montcuq named one of it's roads rue du Petit Rapporteur. Now, isn't that nice?

Locals pronounce the final 'q' in the name Montcuq but normally in French the final consonant is not pronounced. Thus Montcuq would be pronouced 'mon coo' or to the French 'mon cul' meaning 'my arse'.

The reporter began his report by announcing:

'Aujourd'hui, pour la première fois à la télévision, je vais vous montrer Montcuq' (Today for the first time on television, I am going to show you my a**e').

It went downhill from there:

'I have the impression that my a*s* is very narrow, does it often become blocked?' He asked of the narrow streets.

'I believe you can get here by bus, but I've never seen the terminus of my a*s*'.

Continuing with refrerences to the 'pure, clean air of my a*s*', he was followed around by locals reminding him that the 'q' is not silent (unlike the p in bath - think about it).

Nowadays the village thanks him for the notoriety he gave, there are postcards on sale with pictures of scantily clad (female) behinds promising 'lovely kisses from Montcuq'.... Dear me.

Toilet humour lives on, thanks to the renaming of one street in this very pretty Lotois village!