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.