Hairy-Minded Sweaty Pink Bare Bear ...

As I sit up here in the office typing away, I am reminded that down on the terrace, on the table under the big sun umbrella, it is currently 44°. Up here, under the roof tiles, it is quite possibly more ... and I do not wish to know what would happen if I put the thermometer out in the sun. (Poor thing only goes up to 50° anyway.)

Were it not for the botheration and the general embuggerment involved, I swear I would shift my office down to the ground floor for the duration. Come to that, despite these things, I think I shall do exactly that anyway: when you are sitting at your desk performing no effort whatsoever and yet still your T-shirt starts to get huge damp splodges, it is too hot.

As a side-effect of certain things* I now find myself completely bald. You'd think that this would be kind of convenient, given the weather, but this is not the case: instead of the sweat being soaked up by my (admittedly almost non-existent) hair, there is now a glistening cap on my scalp, starting from around 9 am. And I shall have to change my ID photos. On the bright side, I need spend next to nothing on shampoo (damn that urge that made me go out and buy a spare bottle of the stuff, just in case!) and the hair-dryer has been retired.

Also, should ever I find myself at a child's birthday party, I could terrify everyone by jumping out from behind a curtain, pretending to be a giant suppository. Such are the simple pleasures of life, when you get to my age. Could also do it on a paying basis I suppose, to top up my miserable pension.

Anyways, the big thing in our particular corner of a foreign land these days is so-called "zero phyto", ie no weedkiller use. In practical terms, this means that the mayor's idiot nephew and his team of minders use small flamethrowers to kill the weeds that grow in the many cracks in the pavements and roads of Moux, and I guess you can already see where this is leading. Yes, the other day they fanned out about place Saint-Régis, enthusiastically fanning flames at every tiny bit of greenery poking through the cracked concrete of the trottoirs.

Sad to say, they lingered just a bit too long in front of Mme Morettot's (wooden) garage door, and four hours later some innocent passer-by noticed a wisp of smoke curling up ... yes, one of the uprights inside the door had caught, and was happily turning into charcoal. Cue some excitement as the fire brigade turned up, and doubtless some words were spoken at the mairie: to little apparent effect, for three days later they only went and did it again, to a door in someone's remise. That one burnt very well.

The puzzlement is that this treatment is totally ineffective: they incinerated the weeds at the foot of our steps maybe two weeks ago (I am not a silly man, I moved both the cars) and now they are back, healthier and lusher than ever.

Last night The Smashing Burritos played at the café de Marseillette, and after a restrained drinking session oop't bar Sarah and I headed off there, taking with us an English couple who are currently staying with Jamie and who fancied a bit of "Electric Blue". (Yes, I know, I tried to tell Réné that the reference that leaps to mind is softcore porn from the eighties on one of the pay channels in American hotel suites, but no-one ever listens to me ...)

Heard them before, at Fabrézan the other year, and was not disappointed. Also impressed, at how these - let's face it, elderly - geezers can keep an energetic first set going for 75 minutes. But at 22:20 it was almost my bed-time, so I left my charges there - secure in the knowledge that the (English) bartender had assured them that a taxi to Moux would be no problem - and drove sedately home, to lie sweatily in the bed, hoping for sleep.

I am not, as all know, a man given to obscenity or intemperate language, but right now I think I can be forgiven for swearing to the gods that I shall turn to strong drink and then, when sufficiently illuminated, I shall exterminate our dear leader Réné Mazet and all his bastard spawn using only a box grater and three cloves of nutmeg, and I shall burn down his house and then sing comic songs as I dance on the ruins.

OK, that's perhaps just a wee bit over the top but I do have some justification ... about a year ago I went bravely off to the mairie with a DP (that's a déclaration préalable to you lot, a statement that you are going to do some work on the house which modifies some aspect of the façade and consequently requires permission) to the effect that we were going to rip out the teeny window in the stairwell and replace it with a big block of translucid glass bricks, the object being to let in a bit more light.

Done, granted, no problem ... and a week back Cédric turned up (finally) to start work. So there is now a large hole in the wall for the new window, and a smaller hole in the wall where the teeny window used to be - and this afternoon a young man from the Police Municipale turned up to ask me if I realised that I was possibly in infraction? Now it is true that due to physical constraints Cédric had to rotate the new window by 90° in order to avoid removing the staircase, and shift it down and across by maybe 50cm, but otherwise nowt has changed ...

I can only assume that Réné is feeling particularly sexually frustrated (not been able to get his fill of young Tunisian lads this summer, on his annual holiday) or maybe the stick up his bum is giving him pain, because this causes him problems. I have been up to the mairie twice today: the upshot of this is that the old idiot insists that the hole of the old window be filled before anything further is done, also that I must re-submit a DP showing the correct orientation. And whilst waiting a month for that to be approved, work may not continue. Leaving us with a large hole in the wall, covered with planks. It is definitely a Good Thing that it is not the dead of winter.

Tomorrow moaning Cédric and I will go up to the mairie - again - and I shall doubtless have moaning words with Philippe, but I am most emphatically not a happy camper.

Speaking of Philippe reminds me that he and Caroline came round for dinner the other night, and as they are both carnivores and I happened to find myself with a large and rather tasty côte de boeuf about my person, I decided to do that (sadly, neither of them like blood so it was slightly less rare than I would have done it just for Margo and myself) with some beurre de Café de Paris on the side. The ingredient list for that runs to a couple of pages, including the chopped fines herbes, white wine, mustard, maybe some curry powder, a couple of anchovies, paprika and cayenne ... On top of that you really should let it ferment in the fridge for a few days before using it, so that the flavours meld.

It is a bit of work, I admit, and also requires a bit of forward planning if doing the job properly, but it is well worth it and Caroline was most impressed. I gave her the name, but she didn't want the recipe from my trusty old edition of Pellaprat: "I shall Google it", she said. I'm not sure that I really want to know what she found, for Philippe told me later that the actual search term she used was "beurre de garçon de café" and the possibilities there are enough to make my mind, such as it is, boggle.

I mean, the first thing that springs to mind - to mine, at least - is some sort of cholesterol-rich substance made from the cream of young waiters, and I do not want to go down that road.

Anyways, there's still another week to go before we hit September, and over here in Furrin Parts the vendanges have already started. Combination, I suppose, of a wet spring and a hot dry summer ... I shall make a special point of testing all the vintages which happen to come my way, purely for your edification and in a spirit of scientific enquiry, you understand. Mind how you go, now.

*Things such as, for instance, running a razor over your scalp, which does tend to remove any hair thereon, despite what you may have thought.