Plan "B"

Well-that didn't work. This morning, as I entered the "kitchen" with some trepidation, I found the mouse trap empty and the morsel of Lindt's finest dark chocolate with fondant whisky flavour centre missing. So now to plan B. Having taken Mackerel the cat to the vets this morning, we found that his (He is a boy!) routine injections cost 51.50 euros. Much expostulating from M in the tiny vets waiting room as to the cost.His mood probably not helped by fact we'd had the earliest appointment, had to wait 45 mins for the vet to turn up, and M had no breakfast inside him. Anyway, it does make me think that it's time that this small cat, who apparently is 4 months old, started earning his keep. My daughter was right about this. As with so many things. So it's banishment to the cold utility room for Mackerel tonight, with a hot water bottle tucked under his bed-although this might cause some tension tonight since we only have two, and I'm not relinquishing mine...

The Trap is Set

For a few days now, I have been aware that we have a mouse visitor in our utility room which is also our temporary kitchen. My inital urge was to scream when i realised this, and run away. However I also realised I would only have to come back again and M does not respond to screaming any more so I've had to think how we'll get rid of it. Mackerel the Foundling Cat seems too small still to sleep in an unheated room, and face possible attack in the depths of the night from a ferocious rodent. All the mouse traps available locally are vicious, lethal things designed to torture and maim-not just kill. By now, of course, I've started to form a vague relationship with this little incontinent creature. Luckily, our Swedish freind Pelle came up trumps and produced this humane mouse trap. I have baited it with the finest french dark chocolate which I'm told is a mousie favourite. Hopefully tomorrow, there will be a little mousie sitting in this trap and we can then take it somewhere far far away. We shall see in the morning...

Friends

Bess the Staffie and Franck the Teckel are pretty good friends. Being different kinds of dogs, they sometimes misunderstand or even irritate or annoy each other. But they never bear a grudge and are always ready to offer each other a shoulder to lean on when it's needed. If they were people, I'd be almost inclined to call it love.

Escape!

Before he met me, M was a wild man like a pirate who did all sorts of terrible things like jostling old ladies, scaring babies, and spitting on the floor. I am sure there were much worse things than this but he wouldn't tell me so this can't be made public. Anyway, a nefarious past is surely the only explanantion for the ease with which he removed these bars from the kitchen window today. Well I can always fantasisie...

Sundays

Since we sort of live on the job, we don't have regular days off. However, Sundays are different not least due to arrival of the "bread lady" in her little van at about 9.15am. Usually, we just buy a couple of croissants but today I treated us to a couple of little tarts so to speak-here displayed on my little Alfred Meakin plates against background of pseudo Cath Kidstony tablecloth.

We are, apparently, at the start of the bread lady's round. Perhaps this is due to the french feeling "les Anglais" are unlikely to indulge in anything other than the most perfunctory bedroom activites even on a Sunday morning.

When will I ever learn?

Like most French houses, ours has nearly all hard floors. This has pros and cons from the cleaning point of view. It's nice to be able to mop the floor quite easily-but large clumps of fluff and dust can accumulate and blow gently around the floor like that stuff you get in desert films when someone's about to die-which I can never remember the name of.For a long time, I managed with a broom and brush and dustpan, then one day, I decided to buy a little hoover just for upstairs to get things really nice and sparkly clean. Will I never learn? We went to the nearest big supermarket and i carelessly selected the cheapest hoover. it cost 34.90 euros and I was robbed.

It's so plasticky that the hose doesn't bend, the on/off button has already broken, and it's got less suck than an ashtmatic kitten.

Now I think about it, 34.90 may have seemed cheap (for France), but in fact if paid a minimum wage, (which is common here), you'd have to work at least 7 hours just to buy this useless heap of plastic junk. Of course, nearly all your money, wehn you're poorly paid, goes on basic living expenses, so in fact this hoover would take you at least a full working week to purchase as long as you had no other indugences that week and someone gave you a lift there and back to the shop to buy it.

Now, because it's useless, it's going to exist as a pice of horribly coloured plastic whilst my grandchildren's grandchildren are sitting around discussing the meaning of life.

Also-doubtless the people who produced and assembled it worked in miserable conditions for next to no money.

Why couldn't I have just carried on with my brush and dustpan until I could afford a quality item? or bought one second hand?

This is not the first time I've made this mistake.

A Dogs Prayer

As I lay me down to rest,

I hope that I have done my best.

I've walked to heel, I've stopped and sat

I've hardly even chased the cat.

I've chewed my bone, I've played and run

I gave my family lots of fun

But now it's night and I'm in bed,

There's just one worry in my head.

It's not of baths nor even of vets-

It's just one question...

Does God love pets?????????