Bureaucracy – a success story

Posted on 16 September, 2009 by Simon

This morning I was startled by a knock at the door. It’s extremely rare for someone to arrive unexpectedly at our door – in five months, I think the postman has needed a signature a couple of times, and Florian (hay and puppies!) has turned up unannounced occasionally.

I cautiously opened the door, to find a large casually-dressed man carrying a set of folders. Who on earth was this? Casual dress is no clue in France, as except in the most formal office almost no-one wears a suit or a tie. (Yes, I feel very much at home!). Perhaps it could be a Jehovah’s Witness? Yes they do call round – and we’ve had one visit here and one at our old house in the South, both of which surprisingly provided very pleasant conversation opportunities – but surely they always hunt in pairs?

It turns out to be something far more prosaic, and yet fundamentally French.
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Weather

Posted on 15 September, 2009 by Simon

I’ve been trying out some new weather software. You can have a look at the results here. Any comments appreciated . . . .

And yes, there is some catching up to do on the blog. Over the last week and a bit we’ve had visitors (Val’s son and daughter [+partner+baby]), and that’s kept us pretty busy. Now Val has taken them all down to the south to visit her sister and husband . . . . . so I am all alone, with loads of time for blogging. Well, loads of time once I have dealt with the dog, the puppies, the cats, the kittens, the chickens, and two sets of llamas. Should leave plenty of time for the last mowing of the year, and some sorting out of the garden. Umm . . . .

More later!

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Happiness is a Warm Puppy

Posted on 3 September, 2009 by Val

Last Friday we became the proud, if slightly stupefied owners of two puppies.

We had arranged, we thought, to go with Florian, our hay-provider and wish-deliverer, (Getting Ready for Winter) to his place in a not-too-far-away village, to have a look at his puppies, with a view to maybe having one of them, at some point in the near future.

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But when he arrived at our house late on Friday morning, he already had two (travel-sick) puppies with him to show us. He took the sorry-looking drooling bundles of fur out of his car and deposited one each in our arms.

We looked into their sad little puppy eyes and looked at each other. Florian rambled on in the background in a mixture of French and English, about their parentage, their feeding habits, their friendliness. But we weren’t properly listening. I was wondering how on earth we could possibly tell Florian to take them away again, and how we could possibly choose one and reject the other. I was also wondering how the hell we could accommodate a boinging parcel of puppiness in our small house, which was already bulging with three cats, a crazy cluster of kittenhood, and Big Ol’ Max.
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Hen succession

Posted on 2 September, 2009 by Simon

The first thing we did on the day after Big Chicken and Pretty Chicken disappeared was to order two new chickens.

This felt a little callous, but we thought it would be good for the welfare of the remaining birds to maintain the flock size. To be honest, it also helped with the grieving for us. Although Big and Pretty will still be missed, and in reality cannot be replaced, the new chickens are intended as worthy successors. As a student of French royal history might be tempted to say “Les Poules sont mortes – vivent les Poules.”
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A tragic tale of two chickens

Posted on 1 September, 2009 by Simon

This farming business is liberally sprinkled with matters of life and death. Today I sadly have to report some of the latter.

Towards the end of every day, the chickens gather back at the farm yard to preen and feed before bedtime. Last Monday seemed no different, except that there were only three chickens. Big and Pretty were missing.

And in a sense, that is the end of the story. We searched our land, then the tracks and the lane. As the darkness fell, increasingly desperate, we walked the neighbouring fields vainly calling out their names.
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Five Go Live

Posted on 27 August, 2009 by Val

A week ago, on Wednesday morning, Mother Cat popped.

Having inveigled us into allowing her momentarily into our bedroom (through an uncharacteristically beguiling demonstration of affection combined with an unfaltering degree of persistence), she wheedled her way into the warm and cosy gap between us as we sat drinking our morning coffee, and proceeded to go into labour.

Being new to the whole kitten-birth scenario (last time she accomplished the task out of sight and out of our awareness, in the secret, unreachable depths of the barn) we weren’t really sure what to expect. So when the incessant purring turned into sudden miaows, accompanied by the appearance of small wet stains on the sheet, we were taken a little by surprise.

“Hmmm…. I think she might be in labour. Should I go and find a box or something do you think?” I dragged myself out of bed to identify an appropriate cat-delivery room, thinking I’d get another cup of coffee while I was at it. My casual consideration of possible suitable venues was rudely interrupted by an urgent cry from the bedroom.
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