pants

There was a strange pair of underpants on the kitchen table this morning. Strange, because they looked size M, and BB wears XXL BHS's (Big Homer Simpson's).

Oh oh.

And then I remembered.

There we were, eating a healthy salade cauchoise and planning where we were going to go snowshoe-ing in the afternoon, when our English friend Mr Katie Bear and his Canadian pal, Clinton-Baker, turned up. In case you think we live in the costa del neige of the Alps - we don't. We're the only Brits here en permanence but Mr and Mrs K. Bear have a maison secondaire and come out during the school holidays (they're both teachers).

One bottle of pastis (the boys) and half a bottle of white wine (moi) later and the Canadian thought it would be a good idea to go swimming in the trout stream at the bottom of our garden (there's always one isn't there?).

So off we went, through a foot of snow, to watch a grown man flailing around in three feet of icy water in his pants. As he was emerging from the stream, Ursula Andress-style (but fatter ... and hairier .... and onto snow - so nothing like that scene really) six rider-less horses ran past. It was a surreal Twin Peaks moment and I don't know who was more startled - the horses or the Canadian.

Anyway, he must have removed his pants to dry, and that's how I found them sitting upright on the table, like a cardboard cut-out, when I came down for breakfast.

fashion

We went skiing with our neighbour M. Toupie and his friends from the city yesterday and were invited to join them later chez Toupie for a raclette.

I always feel like the country mouse going to visit the town mice when we go for dinner there. Their friends are always immaculately groomed and wearing fabulous clothes and jewels. Our farmer friend, Mini-B, wears a sweatshirt with the caption "summer, joyfully plush" above a picture of a couple ice-skating (?) and that's considered stylish round here. No-one bothers what you look like, which is very liberating - until I'm in the company of M. Toupie's friends.

I was wearing a pair of jeans with a rip in the knee and when we arrived they all asked if I'd fallen coming up the road - as if it was inconceivable that I would deliberately leave the house dressed like that. I felt so conspicuous that I took my jumper off and put it over my knee only to realise, too late, that I had a piece of dried tomato stuck to the front of my T-shirt. Everyone speaking to me just focused on the tomato. It was so embarrassing.

Ironically, on the way home from Toupies, BB slipped and fell on the ice and ripped his jeans.

loadsa snow

There's nearly a foot of snow outside - one of the biggest dumps I've seen since we came here. On election day in March 1971 there was more than three feet and that was the norm in winter here before then. It should be fantastic skiing tomorrow.

It was indirectly through skiing that BB and I met. He was on a skiing holiday in Courchevel where I was working as an assistant chef in a chalet (previous experience cooking for large numbers grossly exaggerated on my application form which in reality amounted to cooking a sausage sizzle for a halloween party, described by one guest as "like eating used surgical swabs").

He was sitting at the bar in my local one night when I arrived with my chalet guests. I ordered a round from the French barman, who came back with only half the drinks. BB turned to me, all smarmy, and said, "I'll sort it out" and I waited to be impressed by his fluent French. Instead, he said, in English, "Oi mate! Another six pints over 'ere seel voo play." Classy!

We've had a power cut for over an hour now (a frequent occurrence here), so unable to amuse himself with his computer or his power tools, BB decided to go out but couldn't get the car up the road due to the snow. We're stuck here until the commune worker arrives with the snowplough.

dinner party from hell

We were invited round to our neighbours for a fondue last night - a sober, uneventful evening we predicted, especially as they're both retired - but it turned into the dinner party from hell.

Our host had made a jug of punch for apéros, containing (we were informed later) a bottle of dark rum and half a bottle of bacardi, and by the time it was finished, all six of us were laughing hysterically, skirts were inching up (the old dears' anyway) and shirt buttons were being loosened from the flush of inebriation and the heat of the wood-burning stove.

After drinks, we weaved our way to the kitchen table, where I was directed to sit between my hosts on a very narrow bench against the wall, which only just allowed me to park my buttocks. A shelf sticking out three inches at neck height behind me meant that I had to bend forward over the table to keep my butt on the seat.

When I thought things couldn't get any worse, Madame appeared with a pan of oil (it was a meat, not a cheese fondue) which she balanced precariously on a tripod over a bunsen burner right in front of me. It was like being in a badly written French farce. There I was, surrounded by drunks waving fondue prongs, leaning into a vat of burning oil with nowhere to run. The next 40 minutes passed in a blur as I tried not to think about the consequences.

I may be in therapy for some time!

Here's my recipe for cheese fondue, which is much safer.

Ingredients
Serves 4
1 clove garlic, halved
8 oz/225 g grated emmental cheese
8 oz/225 g grated gruyère cheese
1/2 pint/290 ml white wine
1 tbsp kirsch
bite-sized pieces of bread for dipping (see Top Tip No 2 below)

1. Rub the inside of your fondue pot with the clove of garlic. Add the wine and bring to the boil. Lower the heat and gradually stir in the cheese until melted.

2. Add the kirsch.

3. Dip the bread into the fondue using a fork or fondue prong.

Top Tip No 1
Always make sure, when seated, that you have at least one clear exit route.

Top Tip No 2
Use small pieces of bread otherwise you'll end up with a giant cheesy rubber-band in your mouth and you'll choke.

Top Tip No 3
When the cheese is finished, add a raw egg. It cleans the pot and makes very tasty scrambled egg.

two blind mice

I phoned Dad tonight to tell him about my blog. I said I would email him the url, but because he's a bit of a technophobe (he's only just mastered email) and I'm rubbish at giving instructions, things got a bit tricky after that. Mum's the computer whizz chez eux, but she's on holiday (frittering away our inheritance) so it was a case of the blind leading the blind:

Me: You have to highlight the address with your mouse, then right click, click on copy and then ....

Dad: What mouse?

Me: You know - the thingy attached to the side of the computer by a bit of string.

Dad: Hang on. I'm going to have to write this down.

Me: Then you have to right click on copy and open your web browser.

Dad: Where's that?

Me: On your desktop. You know - the 'e' for internet.

Dad: Eh?

Me: Look at your desktop and there's a big 'e' thingy. Can you see it?

Dad: I'm looking at the desktop but all I can see are some post-its and my marmite sandwich.

Me: No, on the PC ..... maybe you should wait until Mum gets back?

After I hung up, BB, who had been listening to the whole conversation, looked up from the instructions for his new tilting arbor spindle moulder (try saying that when you've had a couple of beers) and said: "why didn't you just tell him to click on the link in the email?"

Doh!

it’s all over

We've been away visiting friends in Switzerland for the past couple of days, so imagine my surprise when we went to the mairie to vote today to see that M. Chèvre was standing again. I thought that was a bit sneaky (although that wasn't how we phrased it when we saw his listes on the table!).

Half the village turned out again to hear the results at 6.00 pm and because we only had two votes this week and seven candidates, it was all over in about 40 minutes. Result: Mme. De Ville and the other first lister received the most votes and were therefore elected. M. Chèvre was third and BB was fifth (only seven votes behind 4th place). So Mme. De Ville is now mayor (although only 40% of the village voted for her).

I'm slightly disappointed that BB didn't get in, but judging by the number of people who voted for him, we have been accepted into this small community where, if you were born two miles away, you're regarded as a foreigner.

ultra-thin kerf crosscut blade

Instead of the gulping and scratching this morning, BB sat upright in bed and said, "How much do you want to know about the ultra-thin kerf crosscut blade? Do you want anti-kickback, sound-deadening cut-outs or should you be concerned about thermal expansion or excessive wear? What bevel angle do you go for? That's what I can't decide."

What does a girl have to do to get some sleep round here!

With the elections nearly over, BB must now focus his attention on rebuilding the mill next-door (hence his ruminations on circular saws). He has already converted two ateliers (workshops) on the property into a house, and this year work starts on the main building. Which, for me, means months and months of "can you come and hold this for me?"

On the subject of circular saws: we were recently witnesses at the civil wedding of friends of ours in another village, where the mayor conducting the ceremony (who runs a sawmill) had just had his hand sewn back on after picking up a (still spinning) circular saw!

You can tell who the sawmill workers are round here because they have to take off their socks and shoes to count up to 10.

Memo to me: take out extra health insurance.