31/10/2007 by Brigid.

Poor cats. They are on a diet.

It is difficult to be sure what a 6-month old growing kitten’s ideal weight should be, but we have begun to notice a distinctly inelegant thud each time one of the little angels jumps off the windowsill, and the patter of little paws now sounds like a gun carriage team at full gallop. My suspicions were raised by the veterinary nurse when I went in to buy worming pills at the beginning of the month. When I told her the kittens’ age, she recommended half a pill each. I explained that the vet had given them a whole pill each last time. “What weight?”, she asked. “3.5 Kg”, I replied. She seemed surprised. “At 6 months? C’est enorme!”, she said. Actually, I have no idea exactly how much the cats now weigh as we don’t possess a set of scales. However, they were 3.1 Kg and 3.2 Kg respectively, last time we took them into the vet at 5 months’, so 3.5 Kg seemed like a conservative estimate.

Anyway, the nurse looked at the instructions on the back of the packet, and reassured us hat half a pill would treat a cat up to 5 Kg.

About a week later, a visitor to the house remarked that Tiggy and Fog were “gros”. Charming. True, the cats do appear to be a little on the tubby side. The trouble is that worms can make a kitten look pot-bellied, and I still wasn’t entirely convinced of the Milbemax vermifuge dosage. Perhaps the cats are heavier than I thought, and a half pill wasn’t enough … John suggested we weigh them with the spring balance that we used for the new sash cord windows in London. To date neither of us has been brave enough to try, but we’ll let you know how it goes as soon as the scratches heal.

The Blue Cross produce a useful selection of leaflets on feline health (http://www.allaboutpets.org.uk/web/site/aap_FactsheetList.asp?mainpettype=1), so I did some research. Apparently, just weighing a cat isn’t a reliable indicator of whether or not they are overweight. Their leaflet, “Getting back in Shape” states, “The only way to tell if your cat is overweight is to look at the animal’s body shape and assess the body fat. Does your pet have a potbelly? Viewed from above, do they have a waist – does the body taper after the ribcage? Can you easily feel your cat’s ribs? No waist, a bit of a paunch, and a well-cushioned ribcage mean it is time to take action.”

Put yourself in our cats’ position. How would you appreciate a much larger animal picking you up and prodding you in your ribcage? Not much. I can tell you, however, that they are …hmmmm …well cushioned. Just as well that they are (relatively) small and unable to speak. Can you imagine explaining to Tony Soprano that you weren’t going to buy him any more canoli because he is a touch on the heavy side?

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26/10/2007 by Brigid.

The day after the electricians’ surprise appearance on our doorstep, M. Dufour had rung to say that, désolé, they would not be able to start after all, as ‘Nicolas’ was ill and had been signed off until Monday. Having been conditioned by ever-reliable British workmen, this came as no surprise at all. However, M. Dufour promised that Nicolas and his mate would be with us at 8.30am on Monday morning.

If you have read the ‘About us’ section, you will know that when we bought our house in 2002, it had been partially converted into two flats by the previous owners. We had two front doors, two kitchens and 2 bathrooms, as well as a wheelchair-accessible shower room. All that was required to complete the separation, was the construction of a partition wall at ground level and the addition of a simple staircase. Oh, and of course, new meters for the divided gas, electricity and water supplies. The electricians’ brief, therefore, is to modernise the electrical installation in, what was, the lower flat, and to reunite the two supplies, so that we can remove one of the meters. Simple really.

In the event, Nicolas and Sebastian were with us at 8.15am on Monday. They were armed with M. Dufour’s handwritten list of the necessary work and, pleasantries exchanged, set to work with gusto. Nicolas was still a bit croaky from his bug and, while he didn’t complain, one had to admit that the ground floor kitchen, with its draughty louvre windows, was a bit ‘taters* . Having remained unused since the departure of M. Victoire and his flee-bitten dog two years ago, the gas fire obstinently refused to light. Feeling more than a little guilty for my cynicism over last week’s no-show, I brought down a Thermos of coffee and some Rich Tea biscuits, for which they seemed genuinely grateful.

… And so we come to the point of this entry. Nicolas is probably in his mid to late-twenties and Sebastian appears slightly younger. They arrive each morning at or before 8.30am, and work through until about 5pm, with about 45 minutes for lunch. Nicolas is clearly in charge, though both obviously know their craft and work more or less autonomously, giving each other a hand as necessary. By the end of the first day, they had disposed of all the surface-mounted trunking on the ground floor, cut new holes for the back boxes and channelled out and installed the conduit for all the new sockets in the living room and kitchen. A couple of new circuit-breakers had appeared in the consumer unit, and some of the new cabling was already in place.

It is Friday now and, as I write, the whole house is reverberating as Nicolas drills through the floor of the second-floor kitchen to install the new gaine which will protect the mains cable linking the consumer unit on the ground floor to the one on the second. The cats are terrified and have taken cover under the sofa.

M. Dufour has checked up on progress once. In the meantime, Nicolas and Sebastian have completely re-wired the ground and first floor, installed umpteen new plug sockets and special connections for the oven, hob and heating, plastered and made good around all the new installations and have even neatly filled a gaping hole under our meter cupboard that had previously been stopped up with a large rock. (We actually only noticed the hole when we discovered said rock on the living room floor.)

Contrast Nicolas and Sebastian’s work with our experience of British workmen. Jim and his croneys, perpetrators of the longest-running loft conversion in history, were typical of a breed of builder that is now, justifiably, under threat from the army of keen, but generally incompetent, low-paid eastern-Europeans that now dominate the UK construction industry.

For the first couple of weeks, they would arrive at about 8.30am, have a couple of cups of tea, and disappear into the roof space. There would follow about an hour of encouraging-sounding bashing and sawing noises, after which they would disappear for “breakfast”. Little visible progress was made and interest in the job seemed to wane after this brief honeymoon period. Jim’s men were frequently late, citing illness (usually a stomach upset), “traffic on the M25″ or “problems with the van”, and sometimes didn’t turn up at all … for days! On the increasingly rare occasions when they did show up there would be frequent breaks for tea, cigarettes, tea, cigarettes, lunch, cigarettes, tea, cigarettes … and trips to the builders’ merchant for “a couple of bits”. And then, of course, they would be gone by 3.30pm. “Light’s too poor to work, mate.” That the loft got finished at all was something of a miracle.

Of course one finds reliable workmen in the UK: builders, plumbers and electricians. But, though they must exist, I have never encountered qualified craftsmen as young as Nicolas and Sebastian working unsupervised. Nevertheless M. Dufour evidently places great trust in his electricians, and they haven’t let him down.

In part, the problem may be due to differences in attitude to education and qualifications. In the UK, children are required to attend full-time education until they are 16, at which point they generally sit GCSE exams. However, the UK state education system works like a sausage machine with little quality control. Those with brains and commitment to match go on to A levels and university, where they can look forward to an early introduction to debt management. A student in London doing a 3-year degree course can expect to accumulate a debt of around £18,500 by the time they have graduated. No matter. You
don’t have to pay anything back until you are earning - hardly a great incentive to get a job!

Compare this with France, where children also attend full-time education until the age of 16. After the primary school or maternelle, children attend collège until the age of 15 when they take their first important exam, the brevet. If a child is failing at this stage, they may be required to retake a year. But, having passed the brevet, children can either leave school, or choose what subjects to specialise in at lycée.  Different types of lycée offer general, technical or professional courses.  After a further 3 years’ study students take their baccalauréat or a vocational diploma. All holders of a general or technical ‘bac’ are entitled to a university education, for which they pay NO fees. Otherwise they go out into the workplace and, hopefully, start to learn a trade.

* ‘taters: commonly-used English expression for cold, originating from Cockney rhyming slang for “potatoes in the mould”

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22/10/2007 by Brigid.

We watched the Rugby World Cup Final in our local auberge over pizza and beer. After much deliberation, we decided to wear our England rugby shirts. Though you will be glad to hear they are the retro type with a collar, not the new skin-tight style worn by the current team. John and I just don’t have the required muscle-tone - probably something to do with the pizza and beer!

Despite France’s loss to England last weekend, our choice of attire went down well with Gerard, the patron. He pinched John’s arm and laughed that if England won, they should swap maillots. We were joined by 4 other English fans, and together with the French (and a couple of Italian) customers we all cheered the team on, and groaned as our only try was disallowed and Jonny Wilkinson missed three drop goal attempts.

In the event, England were beaten by South Africa 6 : 15. No great surprise there then. Actually, that’s unfair. Following their 0 : 36 defeat by South Africa in the group stages, no one expected them to make it to the quarter-finals. No team has ever successfully defended a Rugby World Cup win, so to have come so painfully close was nothing short of a miracle. You have to wonder about post-apartheid South Africa, when a national squad of 47 includes just 7 black players. Whatever. They played fantastically throughout the competition and thoroughly deserved their win.

To the amazement (some might say horror) of the assembled customers and staff, Gerard and John decided to swap shirts anyway - revealing, as they did so, a hideous acreage of relaxed stomach between them. No disrespect to the guy, but Gerard has a rather larger girth than John. One couldn’t help but notice that the England shirt was a little on the small side, but he was delighted. The design was always intended to make the English players look slim and muscular. Running his thumbs down the red side panels, Gerard puffed out his chest and declared, “Voyez, je suis svelte!”

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20/10/2007 by Brigid.

Demolition work on the kitchen had been halted when we realised that the local dump was closed on Monday and only open for a half-day on Tuesday. We would also need to borrow BF’s trailer to take away the debris, and we sensibly decided not to create any further mess until we had a realistic chance of cleaning up. Mr and Mrs F, however, were in the process of demolishing their leaking shower room, so we would just have to wait.

The great day dawned on Wednesday. John and I were up with the larks and, having consumed a suitably energy-rich breakfast of bacon, eggs, fresh croissants and coffee, we laid into the second concrete worksurface with vim and vigour, a couple of meaty cold chisels … and an angle-grinder. John then left to collect the trailer, leaving me to bulldoze the ruins. Never under-estimate the destructive power of a woman with PMT and a club hammer!

Having bagged up the rubble and cleaned the floor, we stood back and admired our handiwork. “Thinking about the wiring work, what are we going to do about the damage to the tiles?”, said John. Now, I should explain at this point that the concrete units were not our kitchen’s only deficiency. The original owners had installed just one, single, power point at worksurface height. Yes, this kitchen was truly a relic from a by-gone age. An age of mangles and wash-boards, cheese safes and larders, when gyms were for boxers, petrol was leaded and global warming was unheard of. Women maintained their fitness beating carpets and kneeding bread, and no-one worried about the shape of their butts.

In fact, I wonder what modern appliance necessitated the installation of this single power socket. Some labour saving device, perhaps? You can imagine the discussion between Jose and Maria:

Jose: “Mi cariña, look what I have bought you.”
Maria: “How lovely, cheri (Maria spoke better French than Jose). What is it?”
Jose: “It is a spin-drier. You put the washing in it and it draws out the water like a mangle.”
Maria: (Opens the lid and looks into the empty machine) “It doesn’t look much like a mangle to me. How does it work?”
Jose: (Proudly spins the drum with his hand to demonstrate)
Maria: “But Jose, where is the handle?”
Jose: (Shows Maria the electric cable) “It’s electric. You need to plug it in.”
Maria: “Plug it in? To what?”

Jose picked up his well-thumbed Spanish DIY book, and hastily installed a socket. Maria was delighted with her drier and it didn’t matter that Jose wasn’t the world’s greatest electrician. It worked, after all. Being female, she probably pointed out that the electric cable looked a bit ugly where it stuck out of the wall a bit at the bottom, but was satisfied when Jose hid it with a thick dob of brown-coloured wood filler …

Anyway, I digress. Looking at the floor to ceiling tiles (Jose was an exceptionally fine tiler), our thoughts turned to the electrical work. In addition to several extra power points for the kettle, microwave, mixer, ice-maker, etc., we would need special sockets for the oven, hob and dishwasher. The electrician had warned that some tiles would likely be broken in the course of the installation. “Why don’t we take them all off?” I said, rashly. To which John replied, “You can’t be serious”, or something less polite. Nevertheless, on Thursday, John and I set to work removing about 5m² of tiles. Despite wearing long sleeves, thick gloves and goggles, both of us found that by the time we had finished we had picked up a number of cuts to the inside of our wrists. It looked as if we had been attacked by a couple of rabid kittens!

We washed and patched ourselves up as best we could, had a bite to eat, and took the debris up to the dump.

Now, regular readers will remember that I previously mentioned that M. Dufour, our electrician, has a habit of catching us on the hop, turning up, like the Spanish Inquisition, when we least expect him. At our last meeting, M. Dufour had asked us to give him a call when we had done the demolition work and put up the rails for the plasterboard lining. He envisaged being able to start within a couple of weeks. But, on our return from the dump, we were bearly inside when the doorbell rang. On the doorstep was M. Dufour with two young electricians. “We are starting tomorrow morning, ca va?”

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16/10/2007 by Brigid.

Saturday was a noisy and emotional affair. I spent most of the day having a nervous breakdown over our contribution to the buffet: mini onion tarts, stir-fry vegetable filo parcels and chicken liver pate. Whether you had two legs or four, our kitchen was definitely not a safe place to be.

There were 12 of us in front of the TV for the France v England game: 6 adults and 6 children; 5 supporting France, 4 supporting England, and 3 shouting for whichever side had just scored, reserving a specially loud scream for Jonny Wilkinson’s 78 minute drop goal, which ultimately secured England a comfortable 5 point win. The buffet food went down well, as did the Heineken lager poured from BF’s new draught dispenser, a birthday gift. True, it did produce a couple of glasses of pure foam to start with, but it would have been against the spirit of the evening to allow the beer to settle too long. It was 2am before we got home, me, as designated driver, sober, John less so.

The following morning I bribed the cats to go back to sleep by feeding them early, so we managed a short lie-in. Perhaps unsurprisingly, most of Montréjeau also appeared to have had a late night, resulting in an unusually long queue for croissants at 11.30am. There were none left by the time I reached the counter, so I made the mistake of buying left over ones from Saturday at half price. Even heated in the oven, they were horrible.

The weather was beautiful, so we decided to have our Sunday walk after all. On our way back to the car on Friday, we had been informed by a kindly fellow walker that it was rutting season for the red deer. She asked if we had seen or heard a “cerf” (stag). Although we had seen one “biche” (doe), the only other animals we had heard were cows and their bells. The woman went on to say that the season only lasts 15 days, which went a long way to explain why so many walkers were arriving at dusk with binoculars and bulky professional camera equipment.

On Sunday, we arrived at the Lac de Bordères (or Lac de Bareilles, depending on which map you buy) at about 4.15pm. We could hear a stag bellowing across the lake, but the camoflage of the red and brown autumn leaves, coupled with the afternoon shadow, made him impossible to see. We allowed ourselves a short bask in the sun to get our breath back. Then we continued up the combe where we got the most spectacular panoramic view of the lake below, but the stag remained hidden.

The light was fading by the time we started the descent to the car park. A group of people below us had spotted something in the trees. Moving very quietly, we saw the most magnificent stag and two does. We took off our rucksacks and crouched down behind a rock. The cord from my sunglasses was getting in the way of the binoculars, so I took them off and stuffed them in a shallow pocket … So pleased we were with our sighting of the stag, it was only when we got back to Montréjeau that I realised they had fallen out. They were good ones, so much grumbling and gnashing of teeth.

As we were among the last people to leave the mountain, there was a slim chance that the specs would still be where they fell. John suggested it was worth a look. So, despite the fact that he doesn’t really do mornings, we were up and out at first light. Being Monday, there were no other walkers around. We retraced our steps to the place where we had seen the stag and, lo, there they were. What a hero. How many husbands would be prepared to forego breakfast for a vertical climb over 200m up a mountain at dawn in search of a pair of sunglasses? Definitely deserving of dinner out.

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12/10/2007 by Brigid.

Happy Birthday Ree.

Those that know us well may be surprised at our silence with regard to the Rugby World Cup. Most of our readers will know that the World Cup is taking place in France, and where we live in the South West is where you will find the most fervent supporters. To get tickets we would have had to apply 18 months ago, but we did get satellite TV installed so we could follow the fortunes of the England squad. Having muddled their way through to the quarter-finals last weekend, neither England nor the host nation, France, expected to meet each other in the Semis. However, Saturday saw defending champions, England, beat 2003 runners-up Australia (again, ha ha!), and France shocked the world by sending the favourites, New Zealand, home on Sunday. Tomorrow, old foes France and England play each other for a chance to meet either South Africa or Argentina in the Final.

By happy coincidence it is BF’s birthday on Sunday, so we are having a party tomorrow evening with French friends, Sabine and ‘coq sportif’ Christophe - buffet food so we don’t have to miss any of the action on TV! It is likely to be a late night, so John and I took the precaution of taking our regular Sunday walk today instead. It was about 2.45pm when we reached our departure point, the bergerie above Bareilles. The leaves have turned and the late afternoon light was beautiful. Here are some photos:

Returning, for the benefit of our American readers, to the subject of the Rugby World Cup, I realise that Rugby is very much a minority sport in the US. It shouldn’t be. True, there is very little money in it compared with football or baseball. But you have a great team. They played their socks off against South Africa (who may well be the next world champions), scoring 15 points where England (reigning world champions) scored nil! Rugby Union is a great game. Your team are fit and fast. Think of Rugby as football without the padding and tea-breaks, and you can learn to love it. Go USA!

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10/10/2007 by Brigid.

Having not yet identified an alternative French class, yesterday I swallowed my pride and joined up with John’s intermediate group. I think I’ll stick with it. Two from last week’s lesson had apparently gone AWOL, so we were 7 including me: 5 Brits, one Dutch and one German. All were of a sufficiently good standard for the lesson to be conducted entirely in French, although both the Dutch and German students speak English. The lesson was split into four, more or less equal, sessions: an informal, but informative, discussion around general linguistic and etiquette problems, a few grammar exercises, a game designed to get the students talking to each other, and prep for next week’s lesson. All very convivial, though, from past experience, any exercise designed to get English speakers to converse in a foreign language is bound to produce the odd comedy moment.

For non-Francophiles, the following exchange concerns the garden of an old house near Magnoac which is being restored:

M (German): “J’habite près de Magnoac. J’ai une vielle maison que je suis en train de restaurer. Il y a un … une … pond …dans la jardin …”
K (Brit): “Pont? You have a bridge in your garden?”
M: “Non, non. J’ai un … pond …water …”
K: “Oui, oui. Pont. Bridge.”
B : “Est-ce que vous avez un étang dans votre jardin?”
M: (Bewildered silence)
K: (Excited bridge-shaped gesticulations) “Yes. Pont. Bridge over water.”
M: “Non. Pas PONT. POND. Little sea.” (Makes circular hand gesture)
B: “Oui. Vous avez un étang. A POND.”
M: (Relieved) “Ah, oui. Un étang. C’est ça. J’ai un étang dans ma jardin.”
K: (Still trying to help) “Little sea? Un lac?”
B: “Non. M a dit qu’il a un POND. Le mot pour POND est étang.”
K: (Persevering) “Lac? Comme une petite mer?”
B: (Exasperated) “POND. The French word for POND is ÉTANG. M has a pond in his garden!”
K: “Oh … Are you sure?”

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07/10/2007 by Brigid.

Nothing particularly exciting to report. Nevertheless, a week of beginnings for John and me …

John and I both joined French classes last week at the Atelier des Cultures in St. Gaudens. Following a rather nervous interview, the school’s director reluctantly placed John in the beginners’ class. Though she said she expected him to quickly move up to the intermediates. I was allocated to the Advanced class, presumably having impressed her with my telephone skills …

In the event, John was promoted immediately and told to come back the following day. I was less lucky. My class had only two students, too few to be financially viable for the school. While we had an excellent 2 hour lesson on Thursday, it will apparently be my last for a while. I could choose, as Malcolm did, to work in tandem with a French student who wishes to learn English. This can sometimes work well, but it is an informal arrangement that relies on equal commitment on both sides and building a certain rapport with the partner student - and there were no guarantees that the school would be able to find two interested students. I could opt for one-to-one lessons, which would be expensive, or I could join John’s intermediate class. The director was doubtful, but suggested that I might benefit from the grammar. Probably very true. However, my feeling is that, with 8 others already in the class, I am unlikely to get much chance to practice speaking, which, after all, is the primary purpose of going to the classes in the first place.

Nevermind. The two hour class paid dividends when, the following day, M. Dufour turned up with an estimate for electrical work and we had a visit from a local architect, M. Barrau. I feel slightly sorry for M. Dufour. He has a knack of turning up early and catching us in our dressing gowns, or arriving unexpectedly when we are just on our way in or out of the front door and have other things on our minds. Being caught on the hop, my conversation skills are rarely at their best. Likewise, yesterday afternoon, having said he was going to be delayed by an appointment in Lannemezan, a few minutes later M. Barrau appeared at the front door just as I was putting the rubbish out.

So, at last, things are beginning to move ahead with the house. Earlier in the week the plumber called to cap off the gas and water on the ground floor. It has only taken them two months. As the weather denied us our Sunday randonnée, we began to dismantle the reinforced concrete air-raid shelter that the previous owner called a kitchen. The worksurfaces were made of 3″ reinforced concrete, supported by cement-filled brittle ‘briques alvéolaire’ (thin hollow terracotta bricks normally used to build partition walls), and finished with a tasteful brown and white tile worktop. Even the melamine door facias were buried 4″ deep in the concrete floor. Ikea this ain’t!

We have also managed to strip the wallpaper in our first floor bedroom. It was the easiest paper stripping exercise I can remember. We only had to turn the steamer on and the paper started to bubble way from the wall. It was just a shame that a lot of the plaster skim coat came away with it … Mind you, however easily it comes away from the wall, even the weakest solution of paste will efficiently cement old paper to the floor. The cats were most unimpressed at being shut out of the room, but it is enough that they are world class paper shredders without adding wet glue to the ensuing mayhem and chaos. If they didn’t eat so much, they might just have been able to squeeze under the door! “Mayhem” and “Chaos”, what excellent names they would be for a pair of naughty kittens.

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01/10/2007 by Brigid.

When we got home there was a distinct chill in the air, and the first snow had fallen above 1300m. After a week in London, we needed some fresh air, so we picked another ‘easy’ walk from Roger Büdeler’s excellent little book and took off into the mountains. The ascent to the Cirque de la Glère is described as rough in parts, but followed by a “promenade sans fatique” over the Chemin de l’Impératrice (’the path of the Empress’). “… sans fatique”, even to non-French readers, needs little translation, and we were reassured by the idea that the Empress would probably not have wanted to weary herself. M. Büdeler says that the entire 12km circuit, including a climb of 539m, should take 3 3/4 hours. M. Büdeler has a sense of humour.

An unmade road zig-zagged up through the forest until the Gouffre de Malaplatte, half way from the top, then shrank suddenly away to a narrow crumbling path. It took us over 2 hours to reach the grassy pasture at the foot of the Cirque where we suffered a momentary panic when we lost sight of the trail. It was already 4pm and we were a long way from where we parked the car. So far the route had been fairly well marked out with infrequent yellow arrows and painted dots but, without the aid of a map and compass, I doubt whether we would have found the Chemin de l’Impératrice.

“Sans fatigue” the return leg may have been, but it was certainly not without risk. At its outset, the path was well made with a level surface of compacted shingle. We passed a couple of families carrying small children in backpacks. They were dressed casually and did not appear to have brought any specialist walking equipment. To all intents and purposes, they were just out for a Sunday stroll. It was only further on, as we picked our way gingerly over precipitous ledges, loose rocks and small waterfalls, that we remembered the essential difference between these families and us. They are French!

The 1780m ski resort of Super Bagnères is just visible above and to the right of John’s head in this photo. Super Bagnères enjoys the unusual distinction that one takes the ski lift up to the hotel and skis down again.

The whole walk took us 6 hours, but we were rewarded with some spectacular views. They say that a picture is worth a 1000 words, so I’ll keep this post short and share some of the scenery with you. Click the photo to enlarge the image.

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