Revolutionary Rue or Bipolar in the 'Burbs

At the beginning of this week I was in a dark place. From now on I shall refer to these episodes as 'Doom Days'; a time when all I feel like doing (and often do) is cry, feel hopeless, depressed and am naturally an absolute nightmare to be around. Roy can most certainly testify to this.

Yesterday morning I arose early and threw open the shutters, breathed in the early morning air, felt the warm mediterranean sunshine on my face and dramatically declared (to anyone remotely interested): "Today is the beginning of the rest of my life!"

A grumbling sound from beneath the bed covers suggested that Roy was thinking, "Oh God. Here we go again!"

So up I was, humming and singing, tidying up and getting Raffers ready for another fun-packed day with mummy(!), a veritable Mary Poppins.

When Roy finally made it downstairs, 2 perfectly boiled eggs (large, 4 mins) were waiting for him along with fresh coffee and ready made toast. "Sit down," I beamed pulling the chair aside and placing his breakfast on the spotlessly clean dining room table (unheard of in our house).

Roy eyed me suspiciously. Was there arsenic in his eggs? Spit in his tea? Is she having an affair? Unlikely in this part of the universe.

"Are you busy today?" I asked, placing a kiss on his curly mop of hair. "More coffee?"

"Hummm, ummm yes please...yes quite busy, you know the usual."

"I've made a pineapple cake. You know like the one we had in Brazil. The one you loved so much. Anyway I thought I'd make you one seeing as you go on about how great it was. Would you like a piece?"

Bringing the freshly made sponge to the breakfast table like a 1950s housewife on prozac, Roy touched my arm gently and enquired; "Is everything alright? You're acting very strangely? Yesterday you were so low I had to practically scrape you up off the floor, and today, well... you're like that women from Revolutionary Road."

Freezing in mid slice, I turned to him with cake knife poised and ready for action and asked accusingly; "Are you saying I'm f*cking bipolar or something?"

Yikes. Perhaps it's about time I got myself a hobby!

The Swizzle's Last Dance

Patrick Swayze has died after a 2 year battle with cancer, aged just 57.

I'm sure I speak for every woman out there who watched Dirty Dancing as a child or teenager and swooned over Patrick Swayze whilst copying the routine to 'I've had the time of my life'. The man was a legend. It is a very sad day indeed.

I remember going on holiday in the summer of 1989, having received a copy of DD on VHS as a birthday present from my Dad, and secretly hoping our destination would be like Kellermans with a Johnny Castle lookalike teaching the meringue. Alas it was not to be, but we enjoyed reciting quotes from the film all the way down to Somerset in the car. My Dad especially!

Let's not forget Point Break, Ghost, Priscella Queen of the Desert, Roadhouse et al.....but Dirty Dancing made him an icon of the 80's, tight vest and jazz shoes galore. What a star! RIP Swizz.

Toddler Hell

I'm living in Hell-On-Sea. Drowning in a current of screaming, demanding, head-butting and slapping. Jesus Christ, if I knew motherhood was going to be this taxing I would definitely have used protection! ;o)

Here is a typical day. Awake (9am-ish).
9.15am: SCREAM...MILK!....SCREAM....MILK!.....(slap to my leg because I didn't serve it in the right cup. Change cup)......SCREAM (I changed cups, what was I thinking?).....SCREAM.....(Put cup down on table and try to remain calm).....SCREAM...(doesn't want cup on table inside, wants cup on table outside...of course, how stupid of me not to know this!)....SCREAM...TOAST!....repeat procedure until breakfast is out of the way.

Break for 5. In the meantime I make various trips to the loo to contemplate flushing myself down it.

Repeat procedure throughout the day based around various themes, usually - food/drink; thomas the tank engine; getting dressed; bob the builder; dummy; getting in the car; going for a walk; changing nappies.....the list goes on.

Today I will be mostly practicising deep breathing techniques which I've found on an anger management website, crying into numerous cups of coffee, torturing myself with guilt everytime he does something sweet, and fantastising about having a job and watching English telly.

The End of Summer

It seems rather poignant that as our last guests of the summer leave, the heavens open and we have an almighty down-pour.

For the people in the UK, you'll be pleased to know it is grey and overcast today. It was drizzling this morning but seems now to have stopped, although I think any chance of sunshine is unlikely. Still, I'm not complaining. We have had a glorious summer. Blue skies, endless sunshine, temperatures in mid 30s. What's not to like?

Well, without wishing to sound half empty on the subject of the weather, but of course I will. I simply cannot help myself. At times it was just too bloody hot! Spoken by a true Brit, moaning in winter and moaning in summer. Or maybe it's just me.

However, this is a happy day. We have had the best summer with all our wonderful family and friends trekking over here to see us. I feel especially lucky to have had this amazing experience, and moaning aside, my memories of these past month will stay with me forever. Here are a few things that we've particularly enjoyed:

1. The early evening light glinting through the tree lined boulevards with the mountains in the distance.
2. The rush of hot air as you open the front door onto the deserted town square, and the sound of the church bells chiming every hour on the hour.
3. The delicious smells and bustle of the weekly market.
4. The dusty walk from our house to the lake through the vineyards, rewarded by a dip in the cool water and followed by a few ice cold beers along the canal in Homps.
5. Evening walks or bike rides along the canal. Always deserted. Seeing Raffy's little face full of excitement poking out from under his cycling helmet.
6. Pezenas, Montpellier, Carcassonne, Minerve - all fantastic!
   
7. Lunch at Les Beaux Arts in Bages.
8. Nature walk across the old salt flats in Peyraic-de-Mer.
   
9. Swimming and making sand castles at La Franqui beach.
10. The Cathar castles.
11. Olonzac park, with the swans and turtles and shady paths.
12. The amazing (and very cheap) wine.
    
13. Entertaining all our guests and most importantly spending time together as a family. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.
    

Baby bump is the lastest accessory

Czech supermodel Karolina Kurkova says pregnancy is the new black.

Says Kurkova: "You know, it's probably the new thing to be pregnant. It's not to have the Chanel python bag. It's to be pregnant." Other Victoria Secret models who are expecting: Adriana Lima, Gisele Bundchen and Heidi Klum.

What a load of old bollocks. They should ban these lollipop heads from opening their mouths in public, and just let them open their legs to multi-millionaires and their nostrils to lines of white powder.

Oh yes, it's incredibly fashionable to feel sick at inopportune moments, dashing to the loo during a team meeting whilst pretending you're not actually up the duff. Add to that engorged breasts, piles and needing to pee every 5 minutes and I'd say - yes Karolina, I'd much rather be feeling like dog poo than prancing around P.Diddy's yacht with a new handbag.

This story also reminded me of something I read in Vogue the other day. Some supermodel was pouting in a designer dress, but the article read - "she need only accessorise with her legs" Ummm, when did legs become an accessory? Has rural France put me so far behind the times? Am I really that out of touch?

I fig you not!

Did you know I've never actually eaten a fig before. Well, that is until Manny came to stay.

Thanks to him I can now not only change a washer on a bathroom tap, but he's also opened up a whole new world to me, by simply serving up the humble fig as a starter one evening last week.

It wasn't just the perfect mix of salty jambon cru with the dense and sweet flesh of the fig, (bought fresh that day from Olonzac market), that made the whole experience so enjoyable. But add to this the enticing story to how Manny himself was first introduced to this culinary delight, involving a buxom Italian goddess named Contessa.

The fact that he prepared a wonderful dinner dressed only in a sarong, merely added a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole event.

So won over am I, that I've even included some fig knowledge for your delectation:

Did you know?

• The edible fig is one of the first plants to be cultivated by humans
• Adam and Eve covered their private's with fig leaves
• Figs are on of th ehighest plant sources of calcium and fibre
• Figs have a laxative effect and contain many antioxidants

So why not figging well get down Teccies and buy some today!!! Sarongs and goddess stories not essential, but are always welcome whether eating figs or not.

Fine Dining

I've finally had a good meal in France. In fact, make that 2 good meals, no hold on, OUTSTANDING meals in as many days. I feel like a very lucky girl.

Until now I'd have to say that Team Loser has not been completely impressed with the standard of cuisine here in La Belle France. I'm sure this has as much to do with the places we have frequented as the type of food on offer. When we have had the opportunity to dine out, we've discovered that a tantruming, noisy or even slightly energetic child is not easily tolerated in the majority of eating establishments. But you'll have to wait for my rant on this one when I eventually leave France!

For this post I want to recommend the lovely Les Beaux Arts in Bages on the Etang de Sigean, south of Narbonne. Situated in the picturesque town square with alfresco dining, the outside tables and umbrellas offered a real oasis from the blazing heat of the midday sun.

I was joined for lunch by Jill and Ron, Rafferty's surrogate grandparents, who were staying with us on the first leg of their European tour. Next stop northern Spain, then Portugal and finally on to southern Spain before returning to Blighty a week later.

Our delightful lunch was cooked to perfection with both Ron (aka. Manny due to his huge popularity with Raffers) and myself ordering the sublime Calamar de la Plancha, squid so plump and succulent it simply fell off the knife. Smeared in a orgasmic blend of garlic, fennel, olive oil and breadcrumbs, the ingredients were grounded finely together to create the perfect marriage of mediterrean flavours, with the piece de resistence being the salty freshness of the sea which glinted in the distance.

Jill (aka. Goose, as in Mother, and more recently the Baby Whisperer) choose a mouthwatering starter of Chanterelle mushrooms, juicy and perfectly formed. These were served alongside an outstanding salad of fresh leaves and juicy ripe ruby red tomatoes and complimented by a light and beautifully prepared dressing made with fresh basil.

And of course the wine was excellent. A crisp and cold bottle of white St. Chinian quickly arrived (and as quickly disappeared) leaving the Whisperer and I sitting contently in the afternoon sun watching the world go by.

The other highlight of the lunch was that Raffers was an absolute dream! He sat quitely, played with his cars and read his Thomas the Tank Engine book (well, looked at the pictures) throughout the entire meal. As a reward he was presented with a rather large and rather messy chocolate magnum type thing. Not realising it was in his best interests to hold it stick end, he grabbed it round the middle and put the stick in his mouth! Of course once he got the taste of wood and not chocolate he quickly insisted mum help out and hold it while he simply licked.



The next night was a slightly different story. As it was Manny and Whisperer's last night chez nous, we decided to go out to eat in Pezenas, which is beyond doubt my favourite town here in the Languedoc. I knew that our friends, having excellent taste naturally, would think the same.

Les Palmiers is a funky restaurant situated on a quaint cobbled side street with al fresco dining in the centre and an open plan mezzanine dining area. The feel is laid-back Ibiza chic, with palm trees and greenery climbing the stone walls, retro furnishings, and a focus on the colour red. We were seated near the entrance, which instantly made me paranoid (although it doesn't take much when dining in France) that it may have something to do with having un enfant in tow.

Raffer's was not badly behaved. He was hot and bothered and tired, but his refusal to sit down was having the exact same effect on me. I could feel myself beginning to stress out as he fell and banged the man dining with his wife behind me. Here we go I thought, bracing myself for the obligatory staring and mumbling disapprovals I've become accustomed to in situations like this.

It would seem children are tolerated in restuarants, as long as they sit still and shut up. Failing that a quick slap round the face should soon stop the little buggers from making a scene. Unfortunately for our fellow diners, physically abusing our son was not something Roy and I were prepared to initiate on this particular evening.

Apart from the daggers I was getting from the uptight couple behind me, the meal was lovely. It took bloody ages to get a menu, but the lady serving us was friendly and almost chirpy. The food was excellent. Manny and I again opted for the same main course - a beautiful bloody steak dripping with blood and bathed in blood and every bloody delicious thing about bloody steak. It was bloody lovely!

Roy choose the succulent lamb which sliced readily off the bone like a Geisha's kimono opening at the touch of her Samurai lover's sword. (Apologies for the description but I've been reading a Japanese romance novel recently. I'm all for a bit of Jap-love). The Whisperer had a perfectly seared piece of tuna, dolphin friendly of course before you get the Green Peace brigade onto her.

Of course after I'd had 2 Kir's, instructed Roy he had to drive home, and then downed a few glasses of a fabulous red (Mas de Chimeres), I quickly forgot all the stressing over Rafferty and started to relax. Indeed, I then started to feel totally guilty and upset that I'd got so worked up and annoyed with him in the first place.

But this is, I'm quickly learning, the maternal cross one has to bare. Oh the joys of motherhood!

Apocalypto and Surviving 2012

It's a desperate state of affairs in our house at the moment as we currently work (and rework) our way through the entire DVD collection for the millionth time. Not only have I watched so much SITC that Raffer's squeals with delight and shouts 'Carrie' when the credits roll, but I've also subjected Roy to every BBC adaptation of a classic novel. He loves a good helping of Darcy as much as the rest of us.

The other night while weighing up some nocturnal viewing choices, Roy suggested we watch Apocalypto as firstly it had been a while since we'd last seen it, and secondly, a good dose of brutality and violence coupled with enough suspence to keep your heart thrashing to the last second is always a wise choice before the peaceful lull of a good night's sleep. Ahem.

I'm not a huge fan of Mel (the anti-sematic) Gibson, but this is a bloody good film. Once the credits had ended and Roy was well on his way to the land of nod, I lay awake in the darkness unable to sleep thinking about the Ancient Mayan's, the Aztec's and the Inca's, and what little I actually knew about them, their history and their culture. The next morning I awoke with an obsessive desire to know everything there is to know about these amazing people and their civilisations.

Armed with a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, I did what I do best. I searched the internet. The worldwide web is the perfect place to discover all those things you never knew, and also a nightmarish arena of knowledge where you learn of things you really don't want, or need, to know about. After googling 'Mayans' I was confronted with site after site predicting the end of the world in 2012! Don't be alarmed though, as modern day 'experts' who study and make sense of ancient scriptures and predictions firmly believe that the world will not disappear into nothingness, but rather something catastrophic will take place and we'll be left with the breath in our lungs but not much else. Oh marvellous, should be a good Christmas then.

After spending... mmmmmm... about 3 hours reading and watching youtube videos about 21/12/2012 (oh my God it must be true - look at the numbers for Christ's sake! - I'm even becoming religious in this time of need), I now have my heart set on getting back to England and building a bunker in the back garden.

If you fancy working yourself up into a paranoid frenzy I suggest simply googling '2012' or for a more informed opinion of what may (or may not) happen, check out http://survive2012.com
- an excellent blog by some bloke in Australia who also writes about other interesting things from the world of Science, but mainly concentrates on what to do if the worst does actually happen.

Happy surviving! x

WANTED: Fancy Dress Party

I've discovered the world's greatest fancy dress costume and now i'm eager for someone to throw a party where I might be able to show off my very own answer to a human cocktail! (Sounds wrong, but it's purely innocent I assure you). I wonder if I can persuade my sister that these would look fantastic lined up behind her as she walks down the aisle...? A bridesmaid who looks good enough to drink has got to be better than a bridesmaid who looks bad and is just plain drunk!

Raffers turns 2!

My little boy is now officially a toddler, although I'd say the so-called 'terrible-two's' have been alive and well and living in our house for the past year or so. Whatever, it is still a feat of some magnificence that Raffers is doing so well and seems to be a happy and pleasant child. I shall remember these days with fondness when he finally reaches the 'terrible teens' or is that 'terrifying teens' , and he's telling me to go to hell and wishes he'd never been born etc., and I catch him smoking fags/pot/crack out his bedroom window whilst simultaneously getting the girl next door pregnant. Ah! How positively splendid that both Roy and I have these glorious years ahead. Let me not be too half empty on this matter, after all he could ultimately turn out to be far worse than this. Imagine my child being a geek! Now I'm definitely not prepared for that!

So HAPPY BIRTHDAY my darling little boy. You light up a world which is sometimes dark and refill a glass that is (usually) half empty. One day, hopefully, you'll be refilling my spillage-proof beaker with Gin and wiping my arse while I dribble and moan that 'life isn't what it used to be' Errrr....good luck with that one Raffers!

Alter-ego

"Housework? You must be fucking kidding!"

I've just discovered a brilliant site where you can create your very own alter-ego for FREE.

At madmenyourself.com you can choose everything from eyes and hair, to outfits and matching accessories. You can then download the new virtual "you" for use on Facebook, Twitter, blogging and other sites.

The creative process is all set to a backdrop of early 1960s lounge music. So grab a martini and have a go!

(I'm the one in the red. Naturally.)

http://www.madmenyourself.com

Chateau de Peyrepertuse

It occurred to me that I haven't posted anything informative and interesting about this beautiful part of the world known as the Languedoc.

So, rather than reading my usual rantings and ravings, here is a sample of some the wonderful places to visit here in this delightful corner of southern France.

Chateau de Peyrepertuse

The Rough Guide to France says 'if you only have time for one of the Cathar castles, let it be the Chateau de Peyrepertuse', and what a recommendation! High in the Corbieres, Peyrepertuse is an excellently well-preserved castle with stunning views across the countryside. The complex itself is vast, spreading the length of a jagged rock-spine with sheer drops at most points. Great if like me you are scared of heights! But once you've made the easy ascent from the car park and visitors centre through the thickets to the entrance, the breathtaking views are well worth the climb and the fear.

Some history...

The Cathar Castles, though many were built either before or after the Cathar era, are a collection of romantic and ruined medieval fortresses distinctive to the region of Languedoc-Roussillon. This twelfth century sect, whose names derives from the Greek word for "pure", hated the materialism and wordly power of the established church (don't we all), and initially pacifist they denied the validity of fuedal vows or allegiances. Of course this sent the Church bonkers and the Cathars were declared heretics in 1208, henceforth the evil meanie Simon de Montfort and his cronies descended on the area and massacured Cathar and Catholic civilians alike.

It took the informers and torturers of the Holy Inquistion another 180 years to root out Catharism completely.


Thoughts on the Cathars

I liked the sound of these dudes. Agreed with their values and moral standing, until I discovered that they didn't eat meat or have sex. Since then I've decided against setting up my own Cathars Anonymous online forum or Facebook appreciation group. Surely that would make me a heretic to my religion of choice, the Greek God of wine and fun times, Dionysus. Might as well chuck Bacchus in the mix too, as he always seemed game for a laugh.

Living in a Box

Feeling a bit ropey today, like my head has been crammed tightly in a vice and I haven't any available space for intelligent thought.

Bugger intelligence! I can't even get my head round doing the washing up! Thankfully Raffers is having his daily 3 hour afternoon nap (I know HOW lucky am I?) and Roy is wandering the house looking as dazed and confused as myself. At least he hasn't lost the ability to make a good cup of builders. Slurp. AHHHH.

Popular to contrary belief, my birthday was not the booze fuelled-drug fest-sex orgy I'd have hoped for. Of course I jest. You can keep the sex. It was in fact a rather mature and perfectly lovely few days spent with our good friends Pete and Jenna, who had flown all the way from the east end of Laaarrrndaaarrnnn to drink wine and enjoy the sunshine. So why on earth we feel so completely mullered today is beyond me.

Perhaps it is the dawn of realisation that 3 days on the booze is not as easy and pain free as it used to be. Even without the hangover, it's the sheer challenge of getting one's arse into gear. "Oh look the sink is full of dishes.....shit, how the hell am I going to sort that out?" Cue sobbing and running to the bedroom, throwing oneself dramatically on the bed like a Victorian lady of the manor. "I can't cope with this! I just need a cleaner!" - Or failing that, ANOTHER Gin and Tonic will do the trick.

So what can you do on a day like today? Watching Madagascar and Slumdog Millionaire is a good start. Drink tea. Surf the internet. Add some more mindless musings to my blog. Perhaps later I might set aside 45 minutes to work out how to load the washing machine, and 30 minutes spent plucking my eyebrows is never time wasted.

So Happy Sunday one and all, wherever you may be and whatever you are doing. Here is a picture of me today and I'm wondering if some of you may feel the same? xxx

Happy Birthday

It's my birthday today, so I'm up early having enjoyed a luxurious champagne breakfast in bed prepared by Daniel Craig wearing nothing but a smoking jacket and a red rose between his teeth.

After Daniel has heped me open my thousands of presents, including a diamond ring to rival that of Cheryl Cole, the keys to a brand new convertible Mercedes, plus designer shoes and bags galore, he will bathe me in ass's milk and give me an all over body massage with a unique blend of essential oils freshly prepared by DC himself this morning.

We will then lie back on our designer satin sheets, gaze into each other's eyes and spend the rest of the day.......mmmmmmmmm......ooooooooooo.....ahhhhhhhhhhh........ggggggggrrrrrrrrrr.......
(Cue noises from the street - 'allo, 'allo', bonjour madame, ca va? and then some nonsense about le meteo) uuuuhhhhhhhhhhh, what? Eh? And I'm awake.

I've just checked and Daniel isn't lying next to me exhausted from all the rampant love-making. Roy is though. Thank heavens for that! So I guess he'll be up soon and jumping into birthday mode. Shall I hunt for the presents or just wait for them to be bought to me on a silver platter? Best not spoil all the surprises he has planned. Mmmmm, still not much movement. Was that a snore I just heard?

Anyway, plans for the BIG day that marks the beginning of my descent into the wilderness of my 30s, are as follows:

1). Have a cup of tea (balls, we have run out of English teabags. Right, have a cup of pissy French tea)

2). Deal with the usual early morning tantrums from Raffers..'MILK' 'TOAST' all screamed in my face. Dole out a good dose of the naughty step.

3). Go food shopping (Roy has offered to come with me as it's my birthday. He's all heart, I know)

4). Drown my sorrows in a sea of Gin

Should be a good day!

To Tweet Or Not To Tweet

Last night I introduced Roy to the wonderful world of online social networking. Now those of you who know our hero (in this particular tale as opposed to your everyday action type) you'll be aware that he is one of a rare and dying breed. Yes, ladies and gents, Roy Boy is perhaps the last person on our lovely planet who has regular access to the worldwide web and yet does not indulge in the shameless self-promotion that is social networking. "No way!" I hear you cry. But yes my friends, 'tis true. He isn't the slightest bit interested in whether Carole whatyamacallher who he sat next to in Chemistry over 20 years ago is married to Barry whojamaflip who lived next door but one to his Great Aunt Phylis in 1976. He wouldn't even bat an eyelid at his cousin's ex-boyfriend's latest status update telling his 365 'friends' that he's enjoying a cup of tea and a wank whilst watching This Morning. Nor that the girl on reception at his old company has just bought home a kitten but is scared her fella is 'gonna kill her!' I'm telling you people, he simply just doesn't care!

So imagine my surprise last night whilst logged on to my Facebook account and catching up on the latest happenings with all of my 262 dearest and closest 'friends', he strolls in and plonks himself down besides me with all the wide-eyed wonder of a boy scout on his first ever camping trip.

It's important to point out that he had in fact been drinking. There is of course no way on this earth that he would stoop to the depths of depravity that is Facebook or Twitter if he hadn't have been under the influence of something reasonably mind altering. The fact that it was only booze and not acid is still somewhat surprising.

After perusing typical Facebook fodder - photos of stag do's/new born's/trekking in South America etc., plus endless images of pissed up antics - we turned our attentions to Twitter. Now, let me make this clear. I do not Tweet. I don't actually know anyone who does it, and yet the Media would have you believe that every person on the planet, be they young, old, thick or with half a brain, is at it. I mean who the fuck actually thinks that someone, or anyone who has a life, is interested in knowing what you are doing every second of the day. Hey I know, let me just scratch my arse and change a tampon and alert all 200 of my 'followers' to this. Or better still, my boyfriend has just prematurely ejaculated and I'm now having to pretend that 'it's fine.' I mean for the love of God, who really thinks that we give a shit?

Apparently, we all do. People love it. You see them on buses and walking in the street, mobile phone in hand, scrolling up and down and typing in nonsense, smiling and giggling to themselves, content in the knowledge that they're inside the life of another human being 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I did of course check out one of Twitter's more famous Tweeter's - Mr. Ashton Kutcher. A few months ago I'd read a story in the Times concerning a Tweet he'd posted containing a rather personal photo of his missis, Demi 'gimme' Moore-plastic surgery, in the nod. I mean what a pratt. Was she humilated? Of course not! Just another opportunity for her to showcase the latest ass tightening technology and what's rocking in the world of designer vagina's. Good call Demi, just keep dealing out that wad of cash and you'll be 21 forever!

As for Ashton's Tweet's, well I couldn't understand a bleeding word of what he was gobbing off about. It was all abbreviations and cyber 'it' words. Basically a load of old balls to a cyber has-been like myself.

Within half an hour Roy's interest had naturally dwindled and I was left to stalk Katie Price, Stephen Fry and Coleen Rooney. It can be a lonely life locked in the world of online stalking, but as long as you have your 'followers' or 'friends' you can rest assure that someone out there in cyber space actually cares about your bowel movements and your mundane journey to work.

Overworked and Unpaid

I feel as if every time I login to my Blogger account I'm preparing for an overdue apology. I sort of dread it really, especially when I realised it's been nearly a month since I last posted. A month!? Where did that go?

Good question. I think the majority of it has been taken up drinking the local tipple, along with many a pre-dinner G'n'T, preparing, serving and eating 3 meals a day, plus changing bedlinen and cleaning bathrooms in preparation for our latest guests.

I had been warned that once we moved to the south of France (especially and convienently coninciding with the summer holidays) that we would be inundated with house guests. Aint that the truth!

I am absolutely knackered and in desperate need of some TLC. A Clairol foot spa and a cup of Horlicks will do for starters. Plus some 'quality' time with my boys. Or preferably with my big boy running around after our little boy, while I 'supervise' (sit with feet up watching chick flicks, drinking tea and barking orders).

This weekend we are off to the Emerald Isle for a wedding and a night out sans Raffers, and boy are we excited. I can't wait to be the guest for a change and think a break will do us all the world of good. The summer sun is getting to me and I'm shamed to admit that I'm actually looking forward to sliping on a cardy, or even my beloved leather jacket, for a few days respite by the Irish Sea.

Come Monday I'll be dying to get back to top up my tan, just in time for our next bus load of visiters flying in to celebrate my (extremely significant of course) 29th birthday!!!

Bring on the dancing girls and hire in a chef! I'm on strike!

Quality Time

During a brief trip back to UK last week, Roy and I managed to do the impossible. We went out for a drink, alone. As in 'sans' Rafferty.

Ok., so you might be imagining a romantic evening gazing into each other's eyes in some uber chic Oxfordshire Michelin starred restaurant or boutique hotel. I'm wearing a little Marc Jacobs number and Louboutin heels, and Roy is looking relaxed and all Daniel Craig-like in Prada. We are sipping champagne and I'm making intelligent and fascinating conversation while Roy tells me how amazing and fabulous I am, just like it was before our darling Raffers came alone.

WRONG! Guess again.

It wasn't ever really anything like this before our son was born. When I say 'really' I mean it wasn't. Think more pissed up stagger home from the Purple Turtle at 3am and passing out on the sofa, rather than drifting off to sleep in a lavender and sandlewood haze wearing his 'n' hers waffle dressing gowns.

Having spent the day working on the garden at the beloved (ahem) house in Cambridge Street, we found ourselves with a spare hour before my sister delivered Rafferty back to us and thought (how spontainious of us!) we'd go to the pub. I wasn't, incidentially, wearing Marc Jacobs, or even Marks & Spencer. I was head to toe shabby chic, or just plain shabby, in my DIY gear and as for Roy, well quite frankly, he looked the same as normal. Tell a lie he didn't have his tracky bottoms on, which in hindsight, is always a blessing.

Toddling off down the Oxford Road we shared the acknowledgement of how strange and how liberating it felt to be without a buggy or toddler running off in the opposite direction. Without the constraints of a wee man yelling for 'goggie' or 'cake' or 'cars', we suddenly found we had the time to really soak up our surroundings, the sights, the smells, the wonders of Reading town centre.

Before we could soak up too much atmosphere, we darted into the nearest establishment selling alcohol. Glo is a south east Asian influenced eaterie that sells pretty good cocktails. The fact that they served a Martini in a Martini glass (unusual in Reading) got a massive thumbs up from me.

In an attempt to go native, Roy ordered a Tiger beer, and we settled back into the leather couch and indulged in a little bit of people watching. The results of which I will save for another time.

"We really must do this more often." I said to him, leaning across the table and putting my hand on his arm. "It's important, you know, for us to spend some quality time together." The Martini must have gone straight to my head as I was feeling really rather positive and even, everso slightly romantic!

Roy smiled and as he slowly leaned in for a cheeky smooch, "ring ring", my phone rang. "Balls, Lenny and Raff are outside." And with that, our date ended abruptly.

But thanks to that fateful afternoon Martini in Reading, the seed of romance has been well and truly planted. In August Roy and I will be treating ourselves to a romantic and highly indulgent night in a hotel. And yes this will be without our son, who will be left in the very capable hands his surrogate Grandparents, the Goose and Gander.

I'm currently umm-ing and ahhh-ing over where we will stay but thought I'd share a couple of fab sites for chic retreats and boutique hotels. So if you fancy a bit of how's ya father, why not book a night or 2 at one of the amazing places featured on http://www.i-escape.com or http://www.mrandmrssmith.com

Enjoy!

Re-KINDLE a Love for Books

I've just read an interesting article in today's Indie (online) about the latest e-technology craze sweeping across America; the Amazon KINDLE.

The KINDLE is set to 'chance the face of publishing' and apparently revolutionise reading. It's the ipod for book worms, meaning any number of literary pieces can be downloaded by a click of a button and a flash of a credit card, convienently stored and ready to whip out at a moments notice when a good book is urgently required.

Fantastic if you've ever been stuck on the London underground (likely), or facing a flight delay, or your significant other is late to meet you for lunch. Especially useful in those moments when you want to look preoccupied thus avoiding any unwanted advances from complete strangers. But is this really the future for books and for those of us that enjoy the physical act of turning a page, losing our bookmark, dropping it in the bath and having to dry it out on a radiator, or spilling a glass of red wine over the pages.

Roy would say 'yes' , 'fantastic' - 'the way forward!' But I'm obviously a little backward when it comes to the advancement of technology and call me sad, but I like the smell of old, yellowing pages with a well worn bind that's been past from family to friends to next door neighbours and work colleagues. Chances are you'll never get that fantastic book you recommended back, and likewise I have a whole collection that I know I'll never return. But that's all part of the fun.

Luckily (for me) the KINDLE is only available in America. To American's with American bank accounts, addresses etc. So I could ask my mate Duncan to get me one. Or some of my family members who are permenant residents. But for the time being I think I'll just make do with a good old fashioned book printed on good old fashioned paper with good old fashioned ink. How quaint!

To read the article on the Independent website visit:
http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/gadgets-and-tech/features/kindle-this-book-will-change-your-life-1694447.html

Gaga reveals shock truth!

Popstar and latex devotee Lady Gaga, has revealed to the world that she is in fact a bisexual! Now why doesn't that surprise me? Aren't all the trendies and kids these days? The phrase 'any hole's a goal' never rang so true.

Interestingly, even a reasonably sensible (albeit it terribly liberal) newspaper like the Independent deemed this revelation newsworthy enough to put on its homepage. Indeed it's up there with melting ice caps and MP's expenses.

Mind you it was eye-catching enough for me to click through, but after all I'm not exactly a deserning reader. But I'm obviously not the only sad case out there that reads this sort of mindless drivel (and absolutely loves it!).

What the article failed to mention however, is that Lady Gaga's earth shattering announcement also comes with a government warning. NO ONE IS SAFE! Except your household pet of course, but no doubt she and the rest of the kids will be shagging whatever's "en vogue" next week.

Was it something I said?

Having spent the last 6 months in the middle of nowhere and driving around in an English plated vehicle, I had become accustomed to being stared at as if I'd risen from the black lagoon. I am in fact a fairly normal looking sort of person, you know, nothing to write home about. I can easily blend into a sea of supermarket shoppers. I don't dress outrageously, in fact I'm rather understated so as not to draw attention to myself. I also make a point of not speaking in a bolshy, loud and arrogrant manner which may appear abhorent and uncouth. Of course when on home territory I have been known to shout, roar, heckle, tell dirty jokes and occassionaly partake in the odd bit of binge-drinking...but when in Rome, as they say.

Cultural stereotypes exisit whether we like it or not. And perhaps more interestingly than what they are, is what we perceive them to be and how it can affect our own behaviour when in foreign climes. I personally take a blending in approach in order to discreetly hide the fact that I'm a foriegner. This includes not aviding snapping everything in sight, subtly consulting a map, and always looking like I know where I'm going and what I'm doing. Dawdling and gawping are dead give-aways. Anything so as not to draw attention to myself, and more importantly, my rather ropey grasp of the French language.

Granted this is rather narcissistic of me. After all who the hell is going to be looking anyway? But time in solitary confinement (otherwise known as stay-at-home mum world) does strange things to you, or me anyway.

I'm no expert on what the French really think about the Brits. Or what any nationally really thinks about another. But as a person with half a brain, I can hazard a guess. I can understand and appreciate somethings however much I don't like to tar others with the same brush. Like, for example, not bothering to learn the language (oops guilty as charged) or pushing the local property prices up (not guilty, but working on it). And I suppose that our international image of beer gluzing, casual sex loving, drug taking, street fighting lunatics with the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe, spiralling crime levels and children under the age of 5 being treated for depression, doesn't exactly paint a heartwarming and positive image. But hey, how many of us can say we perpetuate even one of these social misdemeanors. Oh balls...GUILTY AS CHARGED!

But seriously, once you get to know us, we're really not that bad.

Earlier today Raffers and I were minding our own business, busy trying to 'blend' in during our weekly outing to the supermarche. (I like to go to the big one once a week just to get a big dollop of consumerism and to help with the long term withdrawals of a life without TESCO).

So whilst I was 'blending' in by frantically stuffing a goggie (aka dummy or dodee to the Irish in the house) in Raffers' gob as I wheeled hurridly past the pain au chocolat and gooey cake section. Anxiety building as I sensed a potential T A N T R U M brewing (never say the world aloud, it envitably happens if you do!) once the request for 'croissant' had been denied. The sight of a toddler red faced and screaming would instantly reveal my true identity. To date, I still haven't witnessed a French child having one. C'est vrai!

Suddenly someone touched my arm and I turned to see a sweet looking elderly gentleman with a broad smile spread across his tanned, leathery face. He said something to me incredibly fast which I just couldn't fathom. So I asked him to repeat, but still couldn't understand a bleeding word he said. Cue fire-engine red cheeks and an overwhelming sense of shame that I'm not tri-fucking-lingual and studying for a Phd in European languages. When I apologised and told him I couldn't understand, I was met with such a lovely forgiving and friendly smile, coupled with a gentle touch on the arm. 'Ah' he nodded knowingly like a wise old sage. 'Espanyol?' (Worth explaining I've caught the sun so am working a slight med look at the moment). 'Non monsieur.' I smiled back sweetly. 'Je suis Anglaise.'

'Ah' he said abruptly and quickly stood back as if I had revealed that I was in fact disfigured with leprosy. Shrugged his shoulders and shock his head in either disappointment or disaproval, either way the clarity of his action was extremely telling. And with that he was off.

Now call me paranoid if you will but do you think, just maybe, it was something I said?

Secret to a happy relationship...

It's 9:30pm and I'm tucked up in bed with Monsieur lap top, enjoying a good old cyber surf, while my beloved is in his study doing what he does best - "working" - (Is Liverpool playing tonight?)

The secret to a happy and long lasting relationship in the 21st century? Never having to say..."Get off that lap top and get a life!"

If this keeps up, we'll soon be Skyping each other in at meal times!

Alive and blogging!

It's official. I am THE worst and least dedicated blogger on the planet. But I am back in the land of blogging and promise to (hopefully) this time keep regularly updating the few of you who stop by for a mere nose, if nothing else.

The truth is the last few months of our time in Sauvage country where relatively jam packed. Now i'm talking rural France jam packed, so don't get excited. But I did meet some really lovely people, with the added bonus of play mates for Raffers, and so life became all non-stop lunches and play dates and coffee mornings. Not that I'm complaining. It was wonderful to have some native speakers to sound off at, and from a sociological perspective, it was a real eye opener as to the the attraction of expats to rural France plus their experiences here. I feel I could write a book on the 6 months alone!

But time came for us to pack up the trusted Corsa and head on our merry way. We departed from Le Sauvage on April 4th, in a whirlwind of stress and anxiety, mainly caused by some administrative cock-up at AVIS in Poitiers. I mean, when you request a people carrier, you expect to get something relatively large and capable of carrying your (recent) life possessions to your new abode down south. AVIS' answer to a people carrier? A bleeding Renault Megane!!!

Mad panic ensues as Aged P had flown out to help us move and was very nearly involved in a coin toss between leaving him behind or Raffers' trike. We opted for Aged P (in the end) and with minimal tears from Raff, we left the trike along with a number of other possessions too big to squeeze into the 'people carrier' with our lovely landlords and AP was to collect them at a later date.

A memorable (read stressful) 6 hour drive involving nearly running out of petrol, flat tyres, baby screams and pulled neck muscles, we arrived completely knackered into our (new) home town in the early evening. Just enough time to pop to the local supermarche, buy a couple of bottles of the local red and an enormous packet of crisps to enjoy as we relaxed in the late evening sun slowly lingering on the cavernous walls of our courtyard garden.

Ahhhh this is the life I thought. Nothing but beautiful scenary, good wine and long days of hot sunshine. Now this is what I call a glass half full, and reached to top mine up from the bottle of 2,75 euro Minervois.

The following 2 1/2 weeks it did nothing but rain.

With Aged P back in UK and Roy living the high life in 5 star luxury Shanghai style, me and Raffers watched gloomily as the rain battered against the window panes, day after day after day. I tried in vain to get the log burner going but completely lucked out. I'm not an open fire kind of girl. I like them if someone else can get the damn thing going, but seriously...I mean how the hell does the bleeding thing light!? Give me central heating any day. Mmmmmm central heating and carpet. Ever fantasised about new build houses in the Thames Valley? No? Neither did I before I experienced freezing cold French townhouses.

But I'm over that now. We've had some great weather the last few days and the house is beautiful with original features and bags of character. I'm really happy to be here and looking forward to getting to know our new home and settling in, for however long it is this time.

What's all this about climate change?

I'm ashamed to admit that it has taken me a whole month to get round to recounting a rather eventful start to the new year spent in Le Sauvage (savage by name and savage by nature, never rang so true!), and I really have no excuse. Well, not a decent one, I'm not exactly rushed off my feet here.

It has only really been since the UK 'shut down' for a week that I was reminded of our own personal experience with the dreaded white stuff, and thought you might like to hear it. I know it's all me, me, me isn't it...the endless shameless self promotion of blogging!

Admittedly, it's been beautifully sunny and rather mild here the last few days. But believe me, reader, I feel your pain. Climate change is after all so ball-achingly inconvienent, although an absolute winner when it means not having to face a painful Monday morning meeting or traffic jam. The worst part about it all of course is we only have ourselves to blame! Yes fan-bloody-tastic...the world is going down the pan and I'll just add it to my list of things to beat myself up about...like doing badly in my GCSE's and having that almighty teenage party when my parents were away and trashing the house. Now all the polar bears are dying and it's my fault because I do my washing at 40 degrees and sometimes (although not often and I feel really, really, bad about it) I tumble dry towels!! But ONLY when we have guests. Promise.

Although the (general) jury is still out as to whether climate change a). exists, and b). is due to the greed, disrespect and downright selfish nature of man; I have to say that after the weather we've experienced in the last month alone, believing this is normal would be like saying Bush did the US an outstanding service, or that Kerry Katona was not off her tits on This Morning...she'd just had a late night, you old cynic. Sometimes you just know the truth. Or in the immortal words of Jack Nicholson: "You can't handle the truth." Quite right, Tom Cruise hasn't a bleeding clue.

So as we fasten our safety belts, or rather build a nuclear bunker in the back garden, a decade of floods, hurricanes, blizzards and monsoons are set to wreak havoc on life as we know it. And the reason for being so defeatist? I WAS SNOWED IN...AND IT WAS HELL!

Cue last night of Kelly, James and Lyla's stay with us. The log burner is roaring, the vin rouge is flowing, the babies are bathed and in bed and we're just about to settle down for a lovely 'last supper' (the calm before the storm) when out of the silence beyond the front door comes the first flurry of snowflakes.

Like a load of pre-teen girls at their first sleepover, we skipped outside with "WOWS" and "AHHHSSS" and "isn't this amazing!!!" and danced as the snow hit the ground and started to settled. Before we knew it the ground was white, the night was silent, and all we could hear was the cracking of the snow beneath our feet.

"Wouldn't it be amazing if we got snowed in, and then we would have to stay here forever!" came Kelly's immortal words...

Yes folks, be careful what you wish you!

I think I hugged her with a shriek of delight wishing it would come true, and if I didn't I meant too, but things were admittedly a little hazy after all the excitment.

Once the novelty had worn off, or maybe the last glass of wine, we realised how bloody cold it was and dashed inside to have dinner with little thought of how this might effect their flight home the next day.

Little did we know the flight was the least of our problems.

By lunchtime the following day, the snow was thick to the ground and showing no signs of thrawing, but it was so beautiful and the most I'd ever seen, in the flesh so to speak, that we didn't consider my car tyres on the road outside the house. Or the lane that leads down to La Combe, a neighbouring hamlet, or the hill that leads to the main road and on to Sauze-Vaussais, the nearest big village and petrol stop.

All bundling into the car ready for our journey to La Rochelle airport, a journey of 5 mins quickly became 30, during which I suffered a minor nervous breakdown whilst trying to control the steering wheel sliding through my hands and ending up skidding all over the road.

Deciding to turn back to the house and asking Roy to take them to the airport (if anyone can do it he can, I thought...as if Roy is some sort of f*cking superhero!) the 5 minute journey went from 30 to an inflated 1 hour 20, involving multiple stops, getting poor freezing Lyla (aged 18 months) in the car, out the car, in the buggy, out the buggy and with me and Kelly pushing James up the hill, along the lane, out the ditch, onto the road...you name it we did it! We eventually made it back in time to the house about an hour before their flight was due to leave. Needless to say, Kelly's wish had came true.

After a shot of something wet and seriously alcholic (purely medicinal) we weighed up our options. James and Roy would take the overnight ferry 2 days later with Kelly and myself following by Ryanair (a form of transport that deserves more of a description than simply a 'flight'...how about thieving, crooked, devious bastards) with babies in tow. A cab would come and take us to Poitiers and we would be 100 euros lighter, plus the costs of flights). Done deal. Or so we thought.

After numerous telephone calls to Poitiers airport and Ryanair respectively...with great difficulty to get a solid answer from anyone, we decided to risk the trip up to the Poitiers, even though the flights had been cancelled all week. And it would seem, after a 3 hour wait, they were cancelled this day as well.

Balls, bollocks, f*ck, shit and w@nk, were just a few of the extremities flowing freely from our lips and echoed in unison by our fellow travellers. I do love a good extremity in a time of need. Hundled together like a scence from the Kryopten Factor, Kelly and I (taking over the Team Loser mantel from Roy who was now back in UK being fed grapes and having his feet massaged) decided we would hire a car, drive to Caen and get the overnight ferry to Portsmouth where my sister, Lenny, would pick us up and drive us back to her place, the Mecca that is Basingstoke.

Decision made...now let's hire a car! Mmmmm easier said than done. Hertz, Europcar, Avis - the desk was empty. We called, no answer. The, now I use the term lightly, helpful people at Poitiers airport, helpful in a kind of "I do not have time for this, you are English and stupid and I want to get home," called the car rental firms, but guess what...there ARE NO CARS in Poitiers! Don't ask me why. Maybe everyone in the town decided that today they would hire a car but we couldn't get one for love nor money...of which by that point we had very little of both.

Hundle up...think think...what do we do? Get a cab to the train station, at least for more transport options to let us down. Get to the station, a very nice cab driver, Kelly then attempts the walk of shame to every car rental place opposite...quelle surprise - NO CARS! My poor dear friend looked like she'd gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson as she crossed the road dodging the ice only to report back the bad news. We've got to get the poor girl home...there must be a way! Cue Superman music (in my head of course, not over the train announcements...this isn't a film) Dur dula dula dur dur durrrr....TGV!!!!

Within a flash of Kelly's credit card, we were on the next fast speed train to Gay Paris, the kids battering the window panes with their minature plastic farm animals, wriggling and getting restless as we wondered if it looked bad to drink G n T's so early in the day.

Within 2 hours we arrived at Charles De Gaulle, tired, hungry, mentally tormented, only to be heckled by a group of young men. "Always good to know you're still got it..." I winked at Kelly. Even looking like we did, and feeling like we did, it was good to laugh as the prospect of ending our journey loomed closer.

And end it did. Thanks to Kelly's mum who (bless her) phone airlines and ferry companies and manged to get us last minute flights to Luton. We landed back in Blighty at 10:30pm looking like a couple of Victorian match stick sellers, all ragged and forelorn, and wavering a white flag of surrender.

I quickly nipped into M&S and bought some G 'n' T's in a can (very good..cheap and strong!) to top up the much needed ones we had on the plane, and by the time James arrived to pick us up I was beginning to feel more like my old self; dazed, confused, knackered and everso slightly tipsy.

Kelly and Lyla were safely home and me and Raffers were, as ever, on to our next little adventure.

Le fromage et le vin rouge - a match made in gourmet heaven

Xmas review 2008 or 'Can women get gout?'

To say its been an eventful year would be an understatement. And no I'm not talking 2008 here, I am in fact referring to this year, 2009, of which feels like 12 months have been and gone in a matter of weeks and I have to say, has left Team Loser (of which I am captain) feeling a little worse for wear.

A bountiful and boozy Christmas with Aged P, Auntie Lenny and Uncle Hu came and went in a whirlwind of gluttony and hardened arteries, followed by the immense carnage to my liver more affectionally known as New Year's Eve.

With friends joining us from as far afield as Los Angeles, Ewelme, Bournemouth and the ding, we closed the shutters, set the log burner ablaze, decanted the red wine and settled down for a delicious (cooked by yours truly) 6 course meal. Well, it was supposed to be 6 courses, but due to my excitement about how exciting new years eve was going to be, I spent new years eve eve having a jolly old time with some rather fine labels and choreographing tag team rave manouvers with my good pal, Disco Dave. Needless to say I was feeling pretty rough the next day and had to be scraped off the sofa and steered round the supermarket by the ever efficient and practical Kelly, whose Dauphinoise potatoes saved the day and complimented the Confit de Canard perfectly. Poor girl even ended up having to prepare her own main course (unlike the rest of us Henry VIII gorge-athoners who'd rip the hind legs off a deer if we were hungry enough) she is a vegetarian. I'd shamefully forgotton what to prepare for her and of course feeling like your head has been trampled by a stampede of wild elephants coupled with the irrational fear that everyone hates you, left me feeling everso slightly useless. I recall glancing into the fridge and bringing out that age old carnivourious chef's solution to vegetarian cooking...and turning to Kelly sheepishly (geddit) enquired "if Goats cheese would be ok?"

With a sprinkling of veggie magic, the goats cheese appeared alongside caramelised onions and wrapped in filo pastry. Kelly seemed pleased with her creation and I was left off the hook and free to concentrate on not throwing up on the starter.

After lashings of shampoo and a revival of that 80s classic cocktail Bucks Fizz, we were good to go with the (homemade) french onion soup, courtesy of that infamous french culinary wizard...um...ahem...Madame Delia Smith (fantastic recipe) http://www.deliasmithonline.com

To really get the party started (whoop whoop) this was followed by a huge plate of langoustines and oysters, providing Roy with the perfect opportunity to try out his Christmas present from yours truly - an oyster knife! Generous to a fault 'tis true my friends. I even got it in the bargain bucket section, but of course I wrapped it. I'm not that bloody heartless.

Merriment followed through to the next course of duck, and of course goats cheese, and followed by the glutton fest commonly known as the assiette de fromage. Not forgetting the best course of all; the "I'm so wankered I'll try anything in the spirits cabinet" course, working your way down alphabetically...Armagnac, Ameretto, Baileys, Cointreau...you get the picture.

Dessert was supposed to be Cognac infused chocolate mousse, but I couldn't get my head round the whole mousse thing so opted simply for some bars of dark chocolate and well, some Cognac. See what I did there? Clever.

I can't really tell you much more about the rest of the evening although I do recall trying every French TV station looking for the Big Ben chimes (how arrogrant can you be?), although why the hell they didn't have it is a mystery to me...I mean its a new year tradition for christ's sake! Followed by a 'pub quiz' on CD with, get this, real pub sound effects (think clinking glasses and muffled voices, rather than vomiting teenagers and dirty old buggers) which I embarrassingly remember getting rather competitive about and openly insulting my oponents with some real corker fighting talk, including "nah nah nah nah na...you are thick as f*ck!"

Ah well it's not new year eve's without waking up the next morning with your head down the toilet and cringing at what a complete knob you can be sometimes.

New years resolution no.1: drink less (the same as every year since 1993)