Sunday, March 19, 2017

Everything Looks Like A Dildo When You're Desperate ...

Or so Beckham said, last time I attended a meeting of the Chambery Anglophone Club And Drinking School (Friday nights, 1st floor of the Café du Théatre, Happy Hour from 18:15), and I rather think I shall just have to trust her on that one.

Incidentally, and just saying, the French still have not managed to really get the concept of Happy Hour. For one thing, sometimes it only lasts 30 minutes - which is understandable enough, given that a full hour of French-persons happily guzzling at half-price would put a serious dent in your profits.

Also, it's kind of random whether you're going to get half-price drinks, or two for the price of one, or - as at the above-mentioned establishment - you can order a standard 25cl beer if you like, but it'll cost you the same as a half-litre. Or vice versa.

From this you may deduce that I've been back up to Chambéry recently and you would in fact be quite right: I have been going up for the past five Fridays to impart of my knowledge to a select group of the yoof. I do this mostly by just sitting down and hoping they'll pick up something useful by osmosis: guess we'll find out if that works in a few weeks, when they will have to sit the exam that I have yet to write.

So anyway, what do you do on a Sunday when you've been off to IKEA on the Saturday? No prizes for guessing, of course you spend it trying to erect flatpack furniture. The handy guides show two smiling asexual figures apparently having a good time doing this, this is not my experience. Especially as the stuff we bought involved vast sheets of glass and handling that does tend to make me nervous.

But at least it's done, with very little blood, and I got around to ripping up the few bits of parquet flottant that the cat had pissed on and ruined, so I guess that's something. Also, it's meant that we've been able - after only three years - to get some of the more delicate ceramics and suchlike out of storage (which is a pretty posh name for a cardboard box, I must admit) and on display, which is an achievement.

Also, I have another four little Allen keys to add to the collection I've built up over the years.

As you've no doubt worked out by now, over the past few years I've been working pretty much full-time for Cla-Val, and recently they decided that it would be nice to have a "Setup Wizard" to guide the brain-dead and the merely incompetent through the process of setting up each bit of gear. I duly did that and sent it off, and the other day I got back a list of feature requests for the next big software package release.

Prominently featured was a request from the big cheese and CEO that all texts containing "Wizard" should be replaced by "Wizzard". I guess the guy must be a secret Terry Pratchett fan, and this would be his little joke. Just because he can. I suppose I should count my blessings that I have not yet been asked to implement a Rincewind function, whereby the gear sidles around a corner before running like hell.

On the other hand, maybe the guy just can't spell. Which would have to be a UU in-joke.

Anyways, over here in our benighted corner of Ole Yurrup Spring has sprung and the omnipresent almond trees are in flower. Soon to be followed by the dreaded savage prunes. We have also had torrential rain - enough to make some roads impassable for a couple of days - and there are still some gardens that are pissing about 10 l/m into the drains.

(For your information and edification, there are a number of big old houses around here that have been built behind thick, three-metre high solid stone walls. Or so you might think, until you realise that the walls are not normal walls - a more solid version of a fence - but retaining walls, filled with soil, and that their lawn is a metre or so above you, as you walk merrily along the road. This is why the runoff comes pouring down from above.)

What does a smart-phone look like when you attack it with an angle grinder? I do this sort of thing so that you don't have to, so here's the answer.

Now it was perhaps foolish of me, but the other day I decided that a couple of my 35 year-old knives needed replacing, having been sharpened often enough that the cutting edge was a full couple of millimetres above the base of the bolster, which makes them pretty useless for chopping. So I ordered another couteau économe and a 20cm chef's knife from the online store where I buy such things, and when they actually arrived it filled me with such elation that I wandered off to Matcol to look at saucepans. Because it's difficult to have too many.

I was innocently poking around the shelves where they have such things and spotted a nice set of three solid copper saucepans with hot-pressed stainless-steel inserts (which in principle means they never need re-tinning), took a guess at the price and dismissed them from consideration because, even if you can't have too many, there are limits ...

And then the Igor guy - who knows me - shuffled out of his cubbyhole readjusting the bolts in his neck and asked something like "What might thir'th fanthy be today?". So I told him, honestly enough, that all I really wanted was another decent-sized pan for making caramel, and he thaid said "It'th difficult to beat copper, they thay". "Quite true, my good man", I replied, "but I have no wish to take out a second mortgage at thith time".

That was my mistake, because he then launched into an explanation as to how they'd been placed there for sale by an itinerant vendor of solid copper saucepans, such as one will encounter in these parts, and how as they had not sold he had reduced the price on his next trip past, and then as they had still not sold the price had been knocked down yet again: outcome was that, once I'd wiped a fine mist of spittle off my lapels I walked out of there with a 700€ set of pans for the princely sum of 95€.

So at least I'm ahead of the game there.

There is, I admit, something that's been puzzling me for some time now, and luckily I have come across the answer: on - where else - the innatübz. Thanks to someone posting up a handy guide for the clueless, I now know that the acronym LGBTQIA stands for "lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex and asexual". In the interests of inclusivity I would suggest that we add a "H" for "hetero" to the end of that, and then I think we'll have everyone covered. (But still, what the fuck is "intersex"? And what's the difference between "gay" and "queer"? Answers on a postcard, please.)

Which for some strange reason brings to mind the committee of twats that wrote the MISRA standard. I have just had occasion to fiddle about with some embedded software I originally wrote for Schneider getting on four years or so ago (seven days pay for two day's work was just too attractive a proposition for me to turn down) and have spent half an afternoon trying to puzzle out why their fecking validator flags what is - according to their rules - perfectly valid code as non-conforming. I guess because their validator is shit.

Got up at dawn's crack this moaning only to be confronted with yet another beautiful day, and as the dogs and I returned from the evacuation exercise we met M. Martinez. He is a short stocky man with a browned face covered in wrinkles and a grin, and some kind of saprophyte that he has trained to imitate a moustache; he has two enormous (but very polite) dogs and an absolutely impenetrable accent. He is also a forager.

We meet often enough, and it's rare that he's not got a bag of something that he's picked up: a string bag of plump snails, or a mass of lactaire delicieux, or - like today - a good kilo or so of wild asparagus. I don't think the man spends that much at the supermarket. Come to that, I don't know if he even has a car: certainly I can't recall having seen him anywhere near one, and he seems to walk everywhere.

But waily waily!! and ohs noes!! for news has reached us that the bar is to close next week. One final Friday evening of drunken debauch, and that's it. Yes, our Dear Leader finally got his way and Ivan and Nadège have been driven out, their places to be taken - eventually - by cronies. We has sads.

Also, we is going to have to organise some sort of replacement facility, because quite frankly these Friday night meetings have become an integral part of our lives. Maybe a popup bar, "Chez Réné" in honour of our glorious mayor, which will - like some sort of moveable feast - appear at one house or the other. Whatever it is, we shall have to do it quickly.

Whatever, I should go start working on my tan.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

I Get Mail ...

And not just any old mail, but a letter from the URSSAF, that dread organisation charged by the French state with making a wild guess at how much I should be paying to support the widows and orphans of France, multiplying that by the amount of the gross national debt and adding the annual NASA budget, and then dividing that by the population of Iceland (excluding walruses). And then making me pay this ridiculous sum, with way too many zeros at the arse end, even if I happen to be clinically dead.

(Note, incidentally, that the URSSAF is not a government department. It - or rather they, for they are grouped by region - are private companies to whom the state has farmed out the job of estimating and then collecting social security taxes. Their methods are - to say the least - opaque, there is no recourse, and they are answerable to no-one. Do not ask me why this peculiar situation exists: tax farming goes back at least to the Roman Empire and doubtless before, so it is a time-honored tradition. Also, asking me about it causes anxiety and I tend to froth at the mouth, which is both unhygienic and unsightly.)

Anyway, I got a letter. A gentle reminder asking me for details of my income for 2015 (which, I admit, I had not supplied, despite their pleas and entreaties). You'd think that they could just go ask the tax department for these sordid details, but it appears that to do so would be wrong, and possibly illegal.

But I shall have the envelope framed, and hang it in my office. It is rare that one sees such careful attention paid to hand-writing these days, and it's nice to know that their employees are considered harmless enough to be able to use sharp objects like biros, rather than coloured crayons. It will be even better when their motor skills develop to the point where they don't have to use both hands to hold a pen, but I think we're taking baby steps here. (Margo suggests that just maybe it was one of those "bring your kids to work" days. I think that's so sweet.)

Anyways, Gristlemouse and the New Year went off with no particular problems. We ate - not to excess - and drank moderately (for a value of "moderately" that includes "vastly") and enjoyed the bright sunny weather, and occasionally moaned about how damn hot it was out in the sun ... also, I got an unexpected Christmas present, in the form of getting into the car to go shopping and finding that all the warning lights were flashing at me and she would not start.

So I dragged out the multimeter and checked the battery, and lo! it was all of 11.2 volts and as John remarked, in that lugubrious tone of his, "That's not so good, is it?". (Mind you, the battery was stamped with its date of manufacture as "2003", so I suppose I can't complain too much. Although I do, anyway.)

Rather more usefully, he gave me the URL of an apparently reputable company that supplies car batteries, and after typing in Sarah's make and model it suggested a Varta battery which I duly ordered. Two days later it arrived at the doorstep, so for the price of 94€ and a few self-inflicted stab wounds from a small screwdriver trying to get the transport plugs out, I have a brand-new battery. Also, as I was running through the menus to reset the date and time, I discovered that I can stick the lights onto "automatic", and have her turn them on when she thinks it's too dark. Only took me three years to discover that. Maybe I should just read the manual?

I could have jump-started her, driven off to a garage and got them to do the deed after a three-hour wait, but they'd have charged me 160€ for the battery plus time and labour, so even with the blood I think I came out ahead of the game.

Luckily my other Christmas present arrived in the post at about that time, for I had at long-last found - and ordered online - an egg-poacher! Which is nothing more than a pretty decent stainless steel sauteuse - of which I already have five or six, but no matter, an extra one can always come in handy - with a little stainless steel stand that sits in it and six silicon cups that sit in the stand, each ready to receive an egg.

The last time I saw one of those was when I was a kid, and it must have dated back to the 40's for it was made of pitted, oxidized aluminium and, of course, no silicone. But the principle's the same. Whatever, I can now make luxurious eggs Benedict for six with a damn sight less hassle. (You try poaching six eggs, one after the other, by slipping each one into a whirlpool of simmering water, fishing them out, sticking them into iced water to stop them cooking whilst the next one cooks, and then reheating them very gently when needed. Go on, I'll wait.)

So anyway, Margo arrived safely back from NooZild and promptly went to bed to try and get over jet-lag at about the same time as the cold front from Siberia arrived down here.

The sky is blue and bright, the sun is shining valiantly, but the high is supposed to be about 3° today and when you factor in the wind-chill that would probably be about -5° (for the Cers is only blowing lightly). Still, it's better than the high of -8° that they were "enjoying" in Chambéry a week or so back.

And in totally unrelated news, unexpected things to do on a Saturday. First, and probably the most stupid, would have to be going off to IKEA at Toulouse - along with, to all evidence, absolutely everyone else who happens to own a car. Going up and down the inside of a four-floor carpark looking for a park for what seemed like hours did nothing for my good humour.

Whatever, after much mumble-fucking we managed to get the assorted bookcases that we'd actually gone there to get in the first place, loaded them into the surprisingly small boot (I mean, she's a bloody wagon) and headed back home, and I was pottering about in the kitchen when Martin called.

To say that he and Angela had taken delivery of half a wild boar, in one frozen chunk that was slowly defrosting in their inadequately-sized fridge, and did I have any suggestions?

So I wound up going round with the sabre saw (and a clean blade) and we sliced the poor beast into rather more manageable chunks, and I came home with a 4.5kg leg of marcassin which will come in handy the next time we have about 16 guests, although I rather suspect that when the time comes I shall have to marinate it in a rubbish bag because I do not have a container big enough to hold it.

Still, if ever you find that you need someone with body-disposal skills over in these here parts, you know to whom you may turn.

Mind how you go, now.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Sunlight, and a pale blue sky ...

So the phone rang today and, as one will - on occasion - I answered it, and some young woman marketing droid claiming to be from a travel agency congratulated me on having won a free, gratis, and totally for-nothing holiday!
Sadly, I am old enough to no longer believe in these things, and for a short while I toyed with the idea of disappearing down the phone line at the speed of a wave-form in copper, only to emerge in some call centre where I'd gift everyone present a virulent case of hookworm maggots ... but the prospect of seeing them reduced to bones within minutes was not enough to compensate for the realisation that I'd surely bump my head going through the copper/fibre-optic couplers, so I contented myself with wishing the AI a good day, and hanging up.

And then I had occasion to order a book for Rick from the Grauniad - as they're English liberals I hardly expected efficiency or competence, but even so - I guess the library pixies despatched to get a copy got lost in the stacks, or maybe the scribe that is preparing my hand-written copy is drunk ... despite the assurance on the site that I would receive an email when the order was stuck in the post that never actually happened, and it was only when I rang (and was put on hold for ten minutes) that I learnt that my order had been sent out on the 12th. With alarmingly good timing, it arrived on the 23rd. Brexit, I guess.

In other news, I seem to recall (admittedly rather vaguely) talking about the project to install some wind turbines at Moux. There was a public meeting (in the disused toilet that now holds the filing cabinets from 1947) and public opinion having been rightfully disregarded, the process proceeded to the next step, the expertise. This was done and the report handed in, and lo! Moux was an ideal spot for windmills!

But my dumb has never been more founded, and you may colour me speechless, for apparently the mairie has asked for a contre-expertise, to say that Moux is not in fact a good place to install aeoliens, and this despite the fact that the project would have involved them being built on land owned by M. Bollano, ex-maire and greasy eminence of the village.

I is perplex. Maybe the Dear Leader is growing balls - although I rather doubt it - more likely, I suspect, is the possibility that should a wind farm not be built then compensation would be paid ... it's sad how cynical one can become.

Whatever, it's been but a week since Rick set a match to his traditional solstice balefire (paraffin is a great boon to the budding arsonist) and it is already starting to feel like Spring, though the year's not even ended. The days are lengthening perceptibly, the evening light is glorious, and the lazy tramontane wind has been notable by its absence. It'll all end in tears, I know, but I am shamelessly profiting from it whilst I can. And did I say that it's up to 18° in the afternoon some days, hotter if you're in the sun and out of the breeze?

Come to that, having better things to do the other weekend I took the pack out for a decent walk. We is at the eastern extremity of the montagne d'Alaric, a limestone outcropping that stretches some 20km east from Carcassonne, and reaches the dizzy height of 590m. (I know. It's the best we can do around here.)

From that extremity there are two lower ridges that go a few km further east, with a sheltered plain between, and when you leave Moux by the south-west you go through a natural cutting in the northern ridge and from thence east to Fontcouverte (the true birthplace of our famous Saint Régis), follow the GR77 south and west up into the Alaric, or just go straight ahead, crossing the plain and following the rough road up and over the southern ridge.

So that's what we did. Alarmingly beautiful in its savage way, with dew still on the spiderwebs covering the moss on the rocky slopes on the north, sunlight filtering through the pines above, and a bright provençal blue sky and the air was chill. Then we'd get out into a clearing, or a little plateau, and off with the jacket because too hot, past the ripped-up earth where the sangliers had been looking for something to eat, and on and up under the sun.

Anyway, the year is coming to an end so I guess I should just wish you a Furry New Bear, and leave it at that. Mind how you go, now.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Dolmas Season ...

Despite appearances, I am a happy man (although I has sads 'cos Martini sec seems to be unavailable in these here southern parts) for I have a good butcher, and there are once more feijoas on sale (admittedly at an eye-watering price - I mean, 10€ the kilo?) at the market. Which means, I guess, that at some point I will dive into the pile of yellowing clippings from The Listener* (ca 1985), and hopefully come back up with that recipe for feijoa and apple bretonne.

(Incidentally, meeting Bob! later that day for a few vitamins, as is our wont on a Saturday moaning, I tried to explain the feijoa, and its flavour, to him. The closest I've come across is the anone - the custard apple, as you'll recall - and so of course the bugger wilfully misheard. "Le gout", he said, "de la nonne? Je vais certainement l'essayer alors.")

A "good butcher" is one who, should his client request 400gm of minced lamb for instance, will take a thick slab of meat from the leg of the beast, remove the bone and any unnecessary skin, then grind it and only then weigh it. And sell it to you at the price of the gigot. Such honest shopkeepers are rare birds indeed, and should ever you come across one I suggest you do as I do, and clasp him firmly to your bosom (firmly enough that he may not escape, but not so firmly that he suffocates).

Having had the occasion to go up to Chambéry for a bit the other week, I thought I might as well profit from the trip by bringing back a few regional specialities. (Also, two bottles of Ancona Jamaican Ouch! Burny Hot Pepper Sauce, due to there being very little left in the cupboard as a person or persons who shall remain nameless were using the stuff like ketchup on their burgers a while back. Because Mad Karen goes through harissa like anything, and Martin felt obliged to emulate her - the look on his face as the afterburners kicked in was ... interesting.)

So there was a kilo of Beaufort d'alpage for Margo, a kilo of vieux Comté for me, and I thought I might as well bring back a bottle of génepi for Martin, whose tastes run to undrinkable alcohols. (Génepi, should you not have had the misfortune to come across the stuff, is one of those "herbal" liqueurs - all of which tend, in my opinion, to resemble Chartreuse in that they smell, and taste, of sticky sweet detergent. The distillers of the up-market varieties tend to stick some sort of stem with a rather sad flower or two on it in the bottles, to add an air of verisimilitude to the story.)

So I took it off to the bar on Friday night and presented him with it, and I'm sad to say that when we left some while later there was precious little left in the bottle. I have since been requested to bring back rather more the next time. I guess I owe him, for the Tanqueray.

It is once again That Time Of Year, and as we are no longer Upside-Down Landers who heat their houses in winter with a single 500W electric radiator in the living room, grudgingly turned on for an hour or so after 19:00, we went into the utility room on the top floor and did the Propitiation of the Beast. Which goes - in our case - something like this:

"Hey, where's the bloody candle?"
"Well, I've got the little tinkly thing from last year's Christmas cracker, and the 1934 Boy's Own Digest, so that's bell and book: you're supposed to have the damn candle!"
"I think the dog ate it."
"Right, well we'll just do our best with a pocket torch shall we, and hope it all works?"

Then we turnèd the knob, and with a rush and a gurgle hot water surged through the pipes and I ran about the house opening the purge valves on the ancient cast-iron radiators and wrapping lagging around the pipes where super-heated steam was venting, and now it is toasty-warm and we is happy, and having a shower is no longer an exercise in Nordic masochism.

(Be under no illusions. The Languedoc is hot and dry in summer - and, in all fairness, mostly so in spring and autumn too - but in winter, especially on a dismal damp grey Sunday with a spiteful crachin Breton, it can get bloody miserable and cold. This is why a number of the British ex-pats go back to England for the winter: not for the weather, but for the central heating. When every room in your three-storey maison de maitre has about 4m² of French doors made with 1mm-thick glass, you rapidly learn that trying to heat it is a losing proposition.)

Other reasons to be happy: M. Bourrel sent one of his doubtless numerous minions around this moaning with a small tanker truck, and there are now 2000l of diesel in the garage along with 300kg or so of wood pellets, so we can now sneer in the face of winter.

(Also, Cash and Terry headed off the other day to the ginormous strip mall that is the frontier town between France and Spain, and very kindly brought back two bottles of Tanqueray and four litres of Martini Extra Dry. So that's me set up for a couple of weeks, anyway.)

Our neighbour Johann, the good Saarlander, would rather like a dog but can't have one; because of cats, and Sylvia. So he has adopted Widdling Emma. Being a keen jogger he trots off on a 6 - 12 km run every other day, and one fine day he shyly asked if she could go for a run with him. We did not pose too many objections.

I'm not sure which of the pair is the keenest to go: at least Johann doesn't jump vertically in the air with his forepaws straight up, which is what Emma does when she spots him coming up the steps to the gate. He seems to think that the exercise does not tire her out enough, because the other night oop't bar he suggested that he could perhaps take her for a walk on those days when he doesn't go for a run - "and I will train her, with the throwing of the ball, or of a wooden branch".

Karma + Blofeld
Something which did not, apparently, go too well when he tried it on Friday - not that Emma ran away or anything, just that she is maybe short-sighted and, as he said, "I took a ball that was green, and a ball that was red, and I threw them in the grass for her, and she could not see them. I could not see the green ball either, in the green grass, and I had forgotten that I am red-green colour-blind, so we went home with no balls, but with a stick of wood."

Let no-one say that a self-deprecating sense of humour is the exclusive preserve of the English.

(In unrelated news, a Kindle Fire can apparently survive a fall from about 80cm onto carpet, and the depredations of sharp puppy teeth: although the cover is looking a little the worse for wear. I do not get paid for these unsolicited testimonials, just saying.)

* Note for younger readers: this was an actual paper magazine which in fact listed the TV programmes for the week. I guess The Watcher or The Couch Potato Tuner Guide were not snappy enough.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Shaken, Not Stirred ...

... with a twist of lemon, leave out the bloody olive.

To all of you in the God Zone, hope you're OK.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Party Like You're It's 58

Which is, by an odd quirk of fate, exactly what I will be by the time you get to read this here deathless prose. Yet another year down the tubes, on this rough beast's slouching journey to retirement.

Well, thanks for asking, it was a good party the other night. Julian and Batu, who bought old Charles's vines (along with the Mayleish dream of life in the south of France), finished the vendange (all done by hand) and threw a party for all the devil's little helpers, in the chai on the ground floor.

As an aside, the house that came with the vines was in rather worse shape than The Shamblings™, and living there is still kind of approximative. Although there is electricity - of sorts - and something that makes an effort at imitating plumbing. And of course, gravity is free. Charles's son Philippe was squatting the place at the time, and I must admit that it's the first time I've ever heard of a real-estate agent having to ask someone to clean the drying cannabis leaves out of the attic so that he could reasonably show prospective buyers through the place without too many questions, possibly of an awkward nature, being asked.

Anyways, old Charles and Isabelle were there, and we took the opportunity to raise the question of child support for little Emma and her sisters. He hummed, and hawed, and allowed as how it might just be possible, but insisted on DNA tests and if they turn out positive he might just have to charge us stud fees, given as his dog is mostly beauceron. Also, that would make us family, of a sort, which is an alarming prospect. The better part of valor is running away: I think we'll call it quits.

Batu must be seen to be believed. Ever watch "N° 1 Ladies Detective Agency"? Extrovert, larger than life in all senses, and you'd swear she'd never met a person she didn't like. Or if she didn't like them, there were certainly bloody good reasons. (She makes an exception for me.)

Johann did the music, being a pretty mean guitarist, and old Nev did the vocals for a couple of songs - in what was, I must admit, a bit of a revelation for us because I can now see how he managed to make a living for a while singing in clubs and bars. Seventy-mumble, and a great voice.

Of course there was wine - it's only a bloody winery, innit? - and between us all there was enough food for a smallish army, and dancing was committed. And then sometime around midnight the impressively-mustachioed local pharmacist turned up, he being the pharmacie de garde for Sunday, and jovially consented to drink a few glasses in between welcoming people turning up to buy a packet of aspirin at 1am.

I had occasion to go see one of the inspecteurs des impôts at la cité administrative at Carcassonne the other day - a little question of a re-estimation of tax due (guess I make too much money, must stop doing that) and it left me unnerved for a week.

First of all, I rang and requested an appointment. "When", I asked, "may I come in to see you?"

"Why, at your convenience, sir. I exist merely to serve you, the public". Already, that left me a bit queasy. A public servant - a fonctionnaire - announcing (over an unencrypted communication) that he is there to serve the public? I don't think so.

It got even weirder when, once he'd fawningly accepted a date and time for a rendez-vous, he told me that rather than wait at the accueil with the other plebs I should just give him a call and he'd come down directly, and to this end gave me his personal cellphone number. Alarming, I think you'll agree.

And then I turned up at the appointed time, called the number I'd been given, and a little white-haired guy bounced out of a stairwell and cheerfully led me to his office, where he proceeded to have problems with his computer - still, I noted, running XP.

Then he clearly and courteously explained the administrative procedure which would be followed, and went on to congratulate me on my excellent grasp of the French language before discussing the natural beauty of New Zealand. And finally, before shaking my hand and leading me to the stairs, "You will, of course, receive a letter. When you receive this letter, you should call me and bring it here, and I will explain the necessary elements to you. You may not be aware of this, but there are certain inspecteurs who are not gentil, but even so they may not oblige you to pay the full amount in one sum. Should you have problems you have but to call me, and I will ring his superior. I wish you a good day, and also to your doubtless equally charming wife".

The word "gob-smacked" is, I think, in order here.

Just like Donald Trump, I have an accountant - which is where the similarities end. For one thing, I actually have to pay for their services, also they have not yet found a creative way of letting me lose some 900 million dollars. Which is a shame, because if I could pass the resultant tax credits onto the kids, as part of their inheritance, I guess that this particular branch of the Bimler family would be living tax-free for the next ten generations at least.

Anyway, I guess that they must feel guilty about making me fork over hard-earned cash for their services, and as some sort of consolation every three months or so I get a large envelope from them in the post. I must admit that I'm always eager to get it, for it contains a glossy booklet absolutely brimming with articles of passionate interest to accountants. My favourite would have to be the last-but-one issue, with a full-colour tear-out section on ring binders ...

What I actually meant to say was that I have just learnt - from the aforementioned little fascicule - that France is taking a leap forward of some fifty years or so, for in 2018 they will be instituting PAYE! Only a few decades behind the rest of the world, but you wouldn't want to rush things. (Also, the French taxman has discovered the innatübz, and has embraced it with a vengeance. To the point where, when you receive - as you will, inevitably and sadly, very regularly - demands for your taxe fonçière or the taxe d'habitation, all of which involve frightening numbers and a due date for payment which is unnervingly close, you will note that you may pay online. The advantage of that is that you have an extra 15 days before the cash comes out of your account: that much more time to plan a bank robbery.)

Whatever, I shall pass on the sordid details of my birthday, mostly because I can't remember that many. I spent some time officiating at the bigger of the barbecues and then, having dished out the chicken wings and the bulgogi and merguez and fish and this, that, and the other, quietly slipped upstairs and went to bed - half-cut, and completely knackered. Didn't bother anyone, and I got to sleep the sleep of the just.

And the next weekend our old friend Jacques came down from the mountains to see us, bringing his fractured L1 vertebra with him (the old fool would slip and fall on his arse playing ball with various grand-children: godnose I've tried to tell him but will he listen? No). It was mainly to see his youngest daughter Claire (whom I mostly remember as a ten-year-old kid when we first turned up in France) do a 180km run, starting from Carcassonne: heading off to points south before looping off to the east to take in Peyrepertuse (and actually running up 1100m to get to the chateau itself, before running back down again) then back to the west and up to the starting point.

This, I should point out, on goat-tracks and the sort of pistes that SUV drivers tend to avoid. (Because you really don't want to scratch the paintwork on your brand-new Cayenne.)

We duly saw her off, and welcomed her back 44 hours later, and quite incidentally discovered a few worthy restaurants in Carcassonne, which is nice. But I think that at some point Jacques must have offended whichever god it is that watches over the SNCF, for his train into Narbonne was 50 minutes late (due to flooding, which didn't help that run either) and then as we were sitting on the quai waiting for his train back to St-Avre there was an ominous (and of course, completely incomprehensible) announcement over the Tannoy which, on enquiry turned out to be to the effect that his train would be delayed at least two hours ...

 And to cap a busy month, our friend Mad Karen turned up, abandoning her cosy nunnery in Seyssel for the rigours of life down in the Languedoc. Ie, booze and sunshine. Mostly.

Sad to say, we missed the inauguration of the House At Pooh Corner, due to having better things to do. Shame really, apparently there was a vin d'honneur and nibbles and everything: but quite frankly, cutting the ribbon on a sewage treatment station does little for me.

Now if I knew that our estimable M. le maire were to be ensconced on his throne and, to general applause, give the first flush, that could be a different story - sadly, no.

Whatever. I'm not going to be watching the news for the next four years, and I'm seriously thinking of taking up drinking.

Sunday, October 2, 2016

Sweet, To Taste It ...

By which I am, of course, referring to this, which is absolutely excellent hot or cold. It's the sort of thing I make for myself when Margo is away, because it involves pastry. But be warned, caramelised onions are sweet, which may surprise some.

So anyway, the week started off really well when I went out to take the two big morons out for their walk one evening and I could not help but notice that the front right tire was completely flat. Rare are the cars these days that have a full-sized spare, so I had to put the dinky little galette on and, whilst I wait for the tire to be repaired, am thus obliged to drive around at a speed not exceeding 80 kph. Which is a) boring and b) surprising, because even at that speed I was not being overtaken when I went in to the market at Carcassonne this moaning. No wonder I bitch.

Having a puppy is very much like having a small child: you tend to become obsessed with bowel motions. Every time I come back from taking Widdling Emma for a walk I must report each dejection in detail and when, the other morning, I came downstairs to find not a single puddle of piddle nor pile of poo in the verandah, I rushed back up to write a letter to the local rag.

I should probably not have done that, for she took advantage of those five minutes of absence to make a veritable lake by the front door, but it's a start: those of you who childless live just can't begin to understand the excitement.

(Also, whenever we meet Angela and Martin, who have Emma's sister Manon, before we can proceed with other topics of conversation there are certain niceties that must be respected.

"Hey! I took Emma out this moaning and she had a crap just outside Cash and Terry's front door!".
"Damn. Manon didn't make it past the doormat. But there was no piddle on the carpet! And she slept through the night".

We don't have that many friends anyway, and now people seem to be actively avoiding us.)

Of course, that would be the day the weather broke, and after three months of drought it fair pissed down. But by the time I'd cleaned up Lake Erie there was but the occasional drop, so off we went - and got to about ten minutes from the house when the heavens opened again. Now you may not know what happens around these here parts when it rains heavily: let's just say that the phrase "flash flood" is possibly inadequate. Also, all the culverts are blocked with bits of crap that've blown in there over the summer, which does not help, but mainly there's an awful lot of water falling on hard dry slopes that has to go somewhere.

Which meant that we struggled uphill back to the house with about 5cm of water slooshing along the road: not that little Emma minds that one bit. In fact, I'm pretty sure she was looking about for deeper bits to go jump in, to get seriously damp.

Indra and Jara, on the other hand, were totally unimpressed. As were, I imagine, the vignerons, because it fell right in the middle of the vendange. Mind you, it had all dried out the next day so I guess there was no great harm done.

Anyways, Saturday we is confiding Emma to Angela and Martin, and Jara and Indra to the kindly care of Cash and Terry, before loading up the car with vast quantities of wine and heading off to see our friend Mad Karen, who will be celebrating her 50th birthday in her convent in Seyssel.

Having made it back from that, we took little Emma off to the vet on Monday for her first round of booster shots. And after the obligatory "Ooh she's just so sweet what a lovely healthy happy puppy" came the bit I really did not want to hear: "She's only 8.5 kg, I'd be surprised if she gets to weigh more than 35". Her mother was - mostly - spaniel: I suspect that Martin and I might have to go off and see old Charles and have a serious talk about child-support payments due from his enormous black Labrador.

Occasionally, as some sort of punishment for my sins, I do follow the American political scene and I've not been able to help but notice the gesticulations and brain-farts of Lamar Smith (whom God preserve), Republican of Texas and chairman of the House Science committee. (Which seems a bit like putting the fox in charge of the hen-house if you ask me, but then, the Murkins didn't.)

Not, it seems, content with issuing subpoenas left right and centre to the scientists at NOAA, who'd had the temerity to suggest that perhaps, if you measured it against the proper baselines, climate change was more significant than previously thought, he is now doing the same to the Attorneys General of a number of states and the SEC, who are looking into the admittedly murky affairs of ExxonMobil. (Admittedly there is a bit of consistency there, as the grounds for both actions are that First Amendment rights are imperiled. Well, colour me shocked.)

Whatever, I guess that issuing a subpoena to an actual AG might, on dim reflection, have seemed a step too far, for he called in a brace of lawyers to supply some legal justification. Which is what really interested me, if you must know, for one of these legal eagles rejoices in the name - and this is, apparently, true - of "Ronald Rotunda".

I mean really, people, what is going on here? At least Willy Wonka had the excuse of being a fictitious character, and everyone knows that Ronald McDonald is some sort of pervert killer clown, but can you imagine anyone - anyone at all - who a) having had the misfortune to be born one, would keep a surname like "Rotunda" and then b) having for reasons unimaginable decided to stay a bandstand, call their child "Ronald"?

I don't know about you, but personally I find that it beggars belief. (On the bright side and totally in keeping with the principles of nominative determinism, the guy seems to favour rather psychedelic bowties.)

Anyways, must go: we've yet another party to head off to, to celebrate the end of the vendanges, and I need to make a quiche.