They're Not Like Us, You Know ...

The Dutch, as opposed to the Belgians, are as a general rule sedentary by nature, leaving their putrid reeking polders to spread dismay and destruction amongst the neighbours only between the months of February and November. Their preferred means of locomotion are the camping car and the caravan, to the despair of those who wish simply to be able to drive from point A to their destination at point B: a convoy of Low Country caravans is certainly one of Nature's more impressive sights, but coming upon the wrong end of one on a twisty route nationale is hardly an uplifting experience. Even Genghis Khan might be deterred.

They are territorial and return religiously, year after year, to the same camp-sites - always those with the best view, which is odd given that they don't seem to enjoy it and in fact go to great lengths to avoid it, or to turn it into a rubbish tip. It has been known to happen that, during their absence, these have been taken over by the native campers: in such cases the Dutch become slyly passive-aggressive, and after a few days of petty sabotage and mean-spirited public drunkenness the presumptuous usurpers soon leave.

Sharlotka - should you be wondering

They tend to be large, blond, well-fed and smug, and their children as unpleasant as those anywhere else in the world: like the English they are susceptible to the watery rays of the feeble sun in the Nord Pas-du-Calais, and so are often sunburnt. In supermarkets they quickly become the dominant species, displacing all others and hogging the shopping trolleys as they lay waste to the rayon vin et alcools.

Agriculture is virtually unknown: in the place of fruit and vegetables they have developed technological marvels of tasteless plastic or cotton substitutes which are exported around Europe, as they have the advantage of never going rotten, no matter how long they lie at the bottom of the vegetable drawer. Their "tomatoes" are considered a particular success, having a bright cheery red colour but neither taste, scent, nor texture. They may safely be eaten, but with no great pleasure.

Although amongst other Protestant virtues the Dutch are thrifty they are not especially miserly, which leads one to wonder as to the origin of the phrase "going Dutch". Enlightened etymologists ascribe it to their sexual habits, which we'll not explore further, this being family entertainment. Basically both parties, even consenting, are supposed to pay for the privilege, which is remarkably egalitarian. The cash thus raised supposedly goes into trust funds for the eventual offspring, but is often spent on schnapps.

The Dutch are not considered comestible, mainly because of the disagreable taste which mixes tulips, pig-shit (the national industry), and the foetid water of the stagnant canals which constitute 90% of the country. This being said, there are those who affirm that the Dutch of Rotterdam are somewhat finer.

Is there, do you think, a market for anthropolophagic travel books? I feel one trying to come out. Just wait until I get on to the Germans.

And while we're more or less on the subject, there's been some interesting cross-cultural fertilisation going on over the last 25 years. One of the staple "entertainments" around here is Guignol, the traditional and very lyonnais version of Punch & Judy. Like its British counterpart, it lets kids get all excited and bothered at the sight of small people hitting one another on the heads with big sticks whilst uttering falsetto shrieks: the parents sit glumly in a stuffy tent through all this and wonder why the only drinks option is warm beer.

The interesting part is that it has now become, for some reason, Guignol and Winnie-the-Pooh. I really cannot figure that one out. Maybe French children just like seeing fluffy toys get beaten.

Headed off to Sorhéa at Lyon to get a bit of work done, and as I was sitting there doing it my phone rang. Rather to my surprise, someone in the lab - on hearing the dulcet Dalek "exterminate!" tones - turned round and said "oh, you like Dr Who too? I've tried to explain it, but no-one seems to understand". So apart from apparently having a policy of hiring only left-handers (something you notice in meetings, when everyone"s taking notes) they also hire sad geeks.

Anyway, Saturday at the market and even more frigid, if possible, than last weelend. It made for a quick trip around: there was virtually no-one outside - not surprising, most vegetables are probably frozen right now, apart from our old friend the leek, and possibly the parsnip - which meant a rapid pass through the inside for clementines and a few bits of greenery before heading off for the usual post-acopalypse glass with Bryan.

Then, of course, there was all the fun of getting home. I hit the voie rapide and sneered at all the poor twits trapped in a 10-km backup to get onto the autoroute for points north, carried on barrelling along and of course, it's always after the last possible escape point that they stick the little vans with the helpful signs saying "bouchon". (Which is indeed a cork, or if you happen to be in Lyon a restaurant, but also means traffic jam)

So ten minutes later, spent inching along in a seething mass of Dutch and Parisians, I made it to the Montmelian exit and took the nationale: I'm not certain that that was a good idea because I fairly quickly caught up with some old git in an Aixam who was doing all of 50 kph and no chance of overtaking him because of all the oncoming traffic, mostly - I assume - people who'd come down from the ski stations and who had - understandably - decided not to risk it on the autoroute.

My blood pressure was getting up when I finally made it back to the house, so it was probably a Good Thing that I'd bough some diots just before leaving the market: they fairly quickly got stuck in a frying pan with some sliced onion, carrots, herbs and white wine and left to simmer whilst I unpacked everything else from the car. They were just starting to get ripe when Margo turned up with Jeremy, who proceeded to hoover one up and stick it down the middle of a hunk of baguette (do not ask how he made the hole for it to go in, you really do not want to know and I can tell you it's not a pretty sight) for the Savoyard equivalent of a hot-dog.

All in all not the best of days because the Western Digital hard drive that has all the TV series on it decided to go titsup, which leaves us with unrecoverable unwatched episodes of various bits'n'pieces, then I dozed off in the comfy chair (diot overload) with a glass of wine wedged between my thighs and the cat decided that there would be a nice place to sleep. As it was, until she rearranged herself, dribbling red wine all down my legs.

Some days, one just should not get out of bed. I told myself that as I was heading in to Chambéry this morning: maybe next time I'll listen to my wiser self.

PS - for a more objective view of our Dutch friends, go look at this.

What A Senseless Waste of Human Life ...

Who would have thought it, an international criminal mastermind, intellectual-property theft facilitator and penis-spammer found hiding in a spectacularly vulgar and tasteless Auckland McMansion? (Who the hell ordered that thing built, by the way? And why haven't they been arrested for crimes against good taste, and the builders executed, pour encourager les autres?)

How times have changed since the Good Old Days™, when the international press and the eyes of the world turned to our beloved country only to report on, and gloat pruriently over, the scandalous bedroom antics of some lesser-known politician and a convalescent rabid sheep. And now the shame, our proud nation's good name sullied, dragged through the mud with the full knowledge and connivance of the political elite - I can stand it no longer. (Hurried footsteps, door slams, sound of gunshot off ... "Damn!" - second gunshot ... this could go on for some time)

But seriously folks, it is making it damn difficult to find places from which to download decent TV series. I bet they never thought of that when they arrested the guy. The consequences will, as usual, be unintended. (Bonus conspiracy theory for no extra charge - yes, I have actually heard it, not making it up - Dotcom was arrested at the behest of The Music Industry, and probably Big Pharma too, to put the kibosh on their planned paying streaming service, which was going to deliver singing Viagra to millions of porn-hungry, tone-deaf Americans by the technological miracle of MADTRIPE*. Believe it or not, but remember - you read it here!)

Another one of our false friends is the word "déçu". You really would think I'd know that one after all this time but I'm apparently slower than even the rest of my sadly cynical family believe, for I didn't. In my defence, the difference is subtle ... "tu dois être", wrote Sophie, "déçu de ne pas me voir ce samedi" - WTF? Deceived into not seeing her? By whom? Is there an international conspiracy, involving dubiously made-up aliens and Area 51, and operating only on weekends, of which I am an unwitting pawn? Sophie, what is going on?

Of course I didn't bother to check before replying, too bad really because the word simply means "disappointed", and quite correct all things considered. Especially with all those choucroute ingredients on my hands (although that did work out alright in the end). It's always the little things that trip you up. As Alice Cooper once remarked, albeit in another context.

I rather foolishly bought a large chicken on Saturday, being as it was on special: totally neglecting, as one will, to glance at the best-before date - which turns out, on closer inspection, to be today, Sunday. I am not going to roast the poor beast and let it wither and dry in the fridge until Margo turns up, and I have nothing suitable with which to stuff it, otherwise I would perhaps bone it and turn it into a ballotine. My options are somewhat constrained: I could either poach it, let it cool in the stock and then do something interesting with the meat, or turn it into a stew of some sort. Decisions, decisions ...

After considered reflection, it's been a long time since I had a decent chicken pie, and come to that there all sorts of things crying out to be done with juicy shredded chicken meat and tacos, or pita bread - I rather think I'll boil the bugger. And at least like that I can freeze the leftovers, and reincarnate them as spicy stuffed dumplings at a later date. Sounds good to me.

On the other hand, I also have two rather large saucisses de Montbéliard in the fridge, originally destined for that choucroute but there was so much meat already in there that even I could not find the heart (nor, to be brutally honest, the room) to stuff them in. Quite frankly I'm seriously tempted to slum it and treat myself to something Margo won't eat - bangers and mash leaps to mind - but this talk of dumplings has got me all aroused**, so it may have to involve sauce, in which I can cook those as well. Why does my life have to be so full of choices?

(But I rather think I've had enough pig to last me for a while. Say, until next weekend.)

While I think about it, I met up with Bryan today, bobble-hatted as befits an ambulatory garden gnome (him, not me you fools), as I trudged through the snow in the centre of town, and discovered just why it was that he and Beckham felt themselves unable to eat choucroute on Saturday night. It turns out that once I'd left them heading off in search of a pizza and a couple of glasses of rosé to wash it down things degenerated: they wound up at Bryan's place and discovered - to their astonishment - that there were still a couple or three intact bottles, saw that this was a shame and finished them.

When Bryan chucked her out so that he could get a bit of a nap, Beckham headed off to Cardinal's for some serious beer-drinking and, hopefully, a pick-up: she tried all the males at the bar, lost her wallet (some kindly soul apparently stuck it down the loo), got chucked out for being D&D, and fell off her bike on the way home.

So you see, there are worse than me.

Anyway, got a phone call Wednesday to say that there were forms to be filled in for Jeremy before he left for his stage in bloody Blackpool, and that he needed to sign them before Friday. Does no-one talk to others at that damn lycée? I mean, surely someone there must know that he's currently on stage for three weeks in Briançon. Pissups - breweries, in - organisation of ...

So I went there this morning to sign for him and glumly admitted that I was a complete idiot for not having brought with me a photocopy of his carte d'identité (which of course he has on him), nor an autorisation parentale de sortie de territoire, which I had no idea he needed.

Perhaps encouraged by my passivity the secretary got quite chatty (truth to tell, I was hoping to get out as quickly as possible) and confided that there ware at least six families in the same state as us and some of them had got quite shirty. "But", she said, "I'm only doing my job". I thought vaguely of reminding her that that defence has been tried before and found wanting, but she seemed to be of an age to be able to personally remember the Nuremberg trials, and of a humour to have been on the wrong side of the bars, so I let that one slide.

And I got a phone call from my friend Denis, of the SNCF, who's off on some trials up in Metz. Just a few little problems, but he mentioned in passing that the temperature inside the rame was all of 10°. Attacking a keyboard with woolly gloves on must be an interesting experience. Mind you, 10° would still be a luxurious 25° warmer than outside, which rather puts it in perspective.

Here we had a relatively balmy -7° outside, but I must admit that the wind-chill factor from the vicious bise made it feel colder. (That is indeed the word for a kiss, but applied rather sarcastically: it is close-up, on the lips - and everywhere else - long enough to feel like forever, and very cold.) If this keeps up I won't be spending much time outside at the market on Saturday before repairing to somewhere cosy where sustaining drinks may be bought.

Let's be honest, things are not getting any better. Nine degrees below this morning when I left for town, and still that brutal wind. Mind you, after half an hour or so, even with a greatcoat and gloves, you can hardly feel anything at all in the extremities (especially the ears, don't know why this should be so), which I suppose has to be a good sign.

Had to be one of my quickest trips around the market on record, though. Half the stallholders weren't there (wimps!), no salade (probably frozen), and even Goat Cheese Man was AWOL. There weren't that many clients around either, truth to tell: I suspect that most intelligent people - and even the little old ladies - had decided to stick around in their nice heated apartments rather than go out and get transformed into Popsicle-Person.

Whatever, they apparently have enough clients chez Liddy to still be able to afford heating (even if the door-handle is held on with string) so Bryan and I could at least thaw out a bit as we nursed our glasses.

*That's MAtter Disassembly, Transmission and Reconstruction, Internet Protocol Extension, for those of you that don't get out much, or keep up on the Internet RFPs. Which is, let it be admitted, most of us.

**Yes, I know, it's sad. Still, food plays an important part in erotica, and for most people - university students excepted - having a stable food supply is more important than sex. Mostly, anyway. And the Scots could always console themselves with dreams of tepid porridge***.

***Clinical tests have proven that this is not, in fact, an aphrodisiac. Which rather makes it stand out from other foods, which are.

In Praise of Brassicae ...

So, like I said, Jerry is off somewhere near Briançon and now Margo's left for Poitou or something like that, which leaves me rattling around the house with only the animals for company. Not that the dog is much good at that: having the canine equivalent of Alzheimer's she's completely lost without Margo, and rather than go for a walk to discreetly empty her nether regions paces monomaniacally up and down the street in front of the house.

I assume Jerry is doing fine, the only communication I've had from him was a text asking me to transfer some money into his account. To go skiing with the innkeeper's attractive daughter, I guess. He did promise to pay me back, mind you.

It's one of those periods of the year: much of Belgium, and I'd guess at least half their annual potato crop, are on the roads, annoying me by sticking in the left-hand lane and religiously not overtaking. When they go on holiday, the Belgian national cuisine being the only one, to my knowledge, based exclusively on the potato and beer, they bring their own spuds with them, perhaps fearing food-poisoning from the inferior French varieties.

Or more to the point, as they've elevated the pomme frite to the status of a religion (it's probably about the only thing on which the Flemings and the Walloons can agree) they're unwilling to blaspheme by using anything other than annointed Belgian potatoes to make them.

They travel in flocks in ridiculously large cars, and tend to leave small shrines to mark their presence, these usually taking the form of carefully constucted little cairns of beer bottles with dull-coloured labels, exotic and unpronouncable names like "Das Grimsberger Gustpot" or "Jubilator", and eaten away by the appallingly high alcohol content.

Whatever, it could have been worse - at least most of them were heading up to the ski stations rather than back to their homes - so I made it to the market without any noticeable rise in my blood pressure. I was tootling around, squeezing mangos and sneering at those round reddish things that the Dutch like to pretend are tomatoes, when I bumped into Bev - or, more accurately, she bumped into me and addressed me by name.

I'm not really very good at that, but noblesse oblige and all that and I hardly hesitated before blurting out "Oh, hello there ... Bev" (pronounced, à la Blackadder, as "Bob") and, much to my surprise, got it right. (The trick, I've discovered, is to pick a name more or less at random, but speak it so confidently that the other party feels so guilty at not actually being called that, and accepts it - at least temporarily - as their name for the duration.)

So we chatted for a bit and practised snagging passing caddies, earning ourselves some dirty looks from the little old ladies dragging them, before I repaired Chez Liddy. It's usually full - mostly inhabited by elderly men (well, over 65 anyway) - but I was lucky enough to score a table at the back before the rush. Not that it did me much good, for a flock of five came in, talking gaily about their adventures with e-mail and how great it is to be able to send photos of the grand-children off to everyone, and squatted the other seats, leaving me huddled in a corner.

Shouldn't complain, because they ordered a bottle of chilled Macon white and, perhaps feeling a bit guilty or maybe just as an act of spontaneous generosity, served me copiously from it, and the charcuterie that accompanied it. Probably a good thing that I had other stuff to do, for otherwise I might well still be there.

That other stuff, of course, involved le Café de Paris for the usual executive meeting and some health-food. Unfortunately I very nearly got kneecapped by Beckham, as I'd apparently committed the almost unpardonable sin of having heard of Bryan's top-secret plans (which  definitely do not involve setting up a language school which will in no way be in competition with his current employers) before he got around to telling her. I don't see why that should be my fault, but it seems that women see these things differently.

Mind you, she was even more pissed with Bryan, who only managed to wiggle out of it by promising chocolates, flowers and a decent bottle of wine. In my opinion, that woman is very high-maintenance.

It was about that time that Sophie texted to say something along the lines of "Please don't hate me, something's come up and I have to cancel", which left me in the rather embarrasing situation of having everything required, save for the actual cabbage, for a choucroute.

(One of these days I really should get around to making my own cabbagey bits as well. Godnose it's easy enough, just cut the stuff into fine strips and stick them into a 3% brine solution for three weeks. Unfortunately, this does tend to stink a bit at first, so maybe I'll carry on buying choucroute crue at the supermarket.)

Weaker spirits might have quailed, but I ran through the mental rolodex of everyone I know that likes the stuff, and Stacey's number came up. She was more than willing so I trotted back home, stopping off to pick up a kilo of choucroute, unloaded the car and decided to spare fifteen minutes for some quality time with the beasts.

Which turned out to be a bit of a mistake, because when I opened my eyes I was stiff, the cat was weighing on my chest, the dog snoring loudly on my feet and it was five o'clock.

Doing a decent choucroute garnie starting with choucroute crue takes at least three hours. Start with your kilo of choucroute and squeeze it to get as much of the liquid out as you can, and mix it up with some juniper berries. Then line the bottom of a large - as in five-litre or so - casserole with strips of bacon and stick half the cabbage on top of that. 

After that add 500gm of smoked pork shoulder, in one lump please, and 500gm of smoked pork sausages, and an onion, cut in half and studded with cloves. Add the rest of the cabbage, and a bottle of white wine: let boil until the alcohol has evaporated off, cover and simmer for two and a half hours in the oven or on the stovetop. Either's good: as we have the old wood-burner going I tend to use that.

At the end of that time, add as many halved potatoes as you feel like, and eight or ten decent frankfurters: just put them on top of the seething mess, cover and let simmer again for forty minutes more so that they cook in the steam.

At the end of this time you should have enough choucroute for at least four people: fish out the pork shoulder, slice it (makes serving so much easier) and put it back in the casserole, and start in on it. If you ask me there is very little point to serving anything else with this, certainly not a salad: some people, can't think why, will insist on putting mustard on it. I would not recommend that personally, but feel free if you must.

So there we were, just the two of us with this enormous steaming mass in front of us - we made a pretty bloody good effort but Margo will definitely get her share when she comes back: even after leaving a pile with Stacey there was still enough for four.

But she won't be quite as lucky with the galette des Rois, sad to say: what we didn't eat disappeared at breakfast, at least my bit did.

Anyway, it's a grey and dismal Sunday afternoon and I am totally uninspired ... time for another coffee, then I suppose I ought to get a bit of work done. Enjoy your summer, people.

Flogging a Dead Horse ...

Gray and dismal on Thursday, just the right sort of weather for an early start and a trip to the arse end of Switzerland. Why go to Monthey, you may well ask - simply enough, and not even obscene, it was to set up the supervision software for the security installation at a chemical plant there. It's quite a major site, with 6 km of perimeter to be secured, so Bruno (my client, Sorhea, you may remember) thought it worthwhile to turn up armed for bear.

First thing, once we'd gone through getting ID badges and frisked and having body cavities inspected and such-like, was to spot that the PC on which it was to be installed was XP SP2 running IE6, which seemed a bit outdated. I suggested that perhaps it should be updated, a suggestion that was, sad to say, acted on: for having downloaded the IE8 package and a few prerequisites, the poor machine went into an endless reboot cycle. So one of the security guys headed off to Lausanne to get another one, and we decided that perhaps it would be a Good Time to have lunch.

Which turned out to be dead horse, but I can handle that. In fact, once you get over the idea that you're eating little Flicka the pony, it's not bad. Tastes, in fact, like a good steak, which is probably just as well because if it tasted like a bad one there'd be no point to it, now would there?

Whatever, once the new PC arrived things went more or less swimmingly, apart from a few hardware problems with the security gear that Bruno had to go off and look at whilst I twiddled my thumbs, and we managed to leave the dump around 20:30. Which was, I admit, rather later than I'd planned on, but what the hell.

It also turns out that the Swiss must be big fans of Doctor Who, because as I was looking over the plan of the site I couldn't help but notice that there was a big swathe of bog marked as "Les Tardis". Go figure.

Once again I've been abandoned; bloody Beckham's off lunching in Aix, and Bryan's doing politics in Lyon. Which meant, as I had half an hour to kill before going off to see about Stacey's computer problems, a glass at Modesto and then another at l'Arbre à Bières (yes, I do like to spread my favours around liberally).

I actually spent rather more time at l'Arbre à Bières than I'd sort of planned on, 'cos when I walked in, unhooked the camera from my shoulder and plunked it on the bar the only guy in there was in fact the cook, who turned out to be an amateur photographer himself. So after a bit of discussion on the relative merits of verious DSLRs he obviously noticed that I have a bit of an accent, asked me where I was from, and then I got the full interrogation about what New Zealanders eat.

In all honesty, I do not know anymore. What do you buggers eat these days?

Anyway, although we've always felt welcome in the place, I suspect that we have become friends. Always nice, not that I've ever felt the need to complain about the service, and they've always been able to seat us somewhere.

For some strange reason the market was relatively quiet, I wasn't in a rush, and even the old hags with their scythed shopping trolleys didn't give me too much aggro, so when I did finally turn up at Stacey's I was feeling relatively human, hardly wanted to kill anyone. For once.

Although it might not have taken much to bring me to the tipping point (suppressed rage, don'cha know) so it was probably just as well that I happened to have some diots in the car just waiting to be cooked - which is what happened to them. Onions, red wine, carrots and pig, with garlicky mashed potatoes on the side: sublime.

After that, home and time to do my manly duties, namely the Cleaning of the Chimney. It was indeed about time, for the pipes turned out to be as tight as a cat's arse, full of soot and tar, and cleaning that lot out occupied me for some time.

And then, of course, it was off to see Pierre and Arlette for dinner, which started, auspiciously enough, with whisky before moving on to a frikking ginormous couscous (and as a pied-noir, Arlette knows how to do a decent one) and a baba au rhum and little cinnamon biscuits: I vaguely remember falling into bed sometime around 3:30. I suppose we must have had a good time.

Sadly, later that same day we had to get Jeremy off to his stage. I was still feebly whimpering in bed, so it fell to Margo to do the deed: she'd checked up on weather conditions, decided she really didn't want to head up to Briançon under the circumstances if she could possibly avoid it, and dropped him off at the gare routière at Grenoble to take the bus.

Which he managed to catch with about ten seconds to spare, which is fine. On the other hand, when he did eventually turn up at Briançon it turned out that he'd got off at the stop after the one he should have got off at (because he hadn't really bothered, being a Jeremy, to check on details) but that was alright because once Margo texted him the full address he just hitched down (godnose how he managed that).

So he's wound up in a small family-owned hotel of ten rooms or so; mornings spent preparing for lunch or dinner, he can borrow skis should he feel that way inclined (yes!) and the owner has suggested taking him off for a days skiing in the weekend.

On top of that the Wifi works, so he can squat in his room and do whatever it is that he does with the Internet.

So long as the owner does not have a too ill-favoured 17 year-old daughter, I can see this all ending happily.

I can see that the weekly round-up of search terms is going to become a tradition. So far, we have

	bent over spanking
	missing a shot of methamphetamine in my neck
	white things on my penis

For some reason, no-one comes here looking for tentacle hentai  porn which is, all things considered, probably just as well. This is, after all, supposed to be family-friendly. Provided, of course, that

    (family == Addams)

evaluates to TRUE, which may not be the case for everyone. Can't all be lucky.

So anyway, it's late, I'm tired and looking at heading to bed with a small pile of biscuits and a glass of wine (just to keep the biscuits company, you understand): catch you later, people.

Cooking For Two ...

Having nothing better to do as the pork roast, slathered with a purée of crushed garlic, fresh rosemary, gros sel, paprika and olive oil, slowly roasted in a terrine with white wine and chopped tomatoes, I went looking for dessert and wound up, as I often do, here. It may just be a genoise batter poured over chopped apples, but you really do need to make it. Would I lie to you?

Although, being an inveterate (as distinct from invertebrate) fiddler, I did stick 3 or 4 tbsp of powdered almonds in the batter. And next time, I would perhaps dial back the sugar a bit. Maybe put a bit of lemon oil in there too. And I think there will indeed be a next time. But even in its raw state, no-one's complaining. In fact the whole meal was eaten more or less in silence, which around here means that it's been judged acceptable, or at least fit for approximately human consumption.

(We eat first, and then follows the critique raisonné. Unless it's unspeakable, at which point the critique starts with the first mouthful, rapidly becomes deraisonnable and continues for the length of the meal, until eventually I have to go out to the kitchen and commit seppuku. Fortunately, this is a rare event.)

From the faits divers column in one of the local online rags, a sad story from last weekend: in an underground carpark in Montmélian (the only underground carpark there, we know where he was) some chap let his wallet fall on Saturday night and it slipped through the grating on the stormwater drain. Having no fear, and apparently less brain, he removed the grating and was groping around for the offending article when he slipped and slid headfirst down the 1.5m hole, where he remained stuck.

Luckily for him, as Margo remarked, he was rather more than 1.5m in height, for the next morning someone coming in to pick up their car noticed the feet coming out of the floor and, as one will under such circumstances - especially when the feet in question are moving feebly and thus stand a fair chance of being attached to something living - called the emergency services, who managed to drag the poor guy out, suffering a bit from hypothermia which might well, as it happens, turn out to be the least of his worries.

For the story does not end there: the cops came along as well and, poking their noses into the circumstances of the little drame, discovered (stuck in the sewer, he'd been unable to tidy away the evidence) that he'd actually been siphoning used oil from his car down the stormwater system. An offense punishable by a maximum of two years en taule and a swingeing fine of 75 000 euros. Still, as I always say, you have to laugh, don't you?

More search terms for your entertainment (and also, on the principle that positive reinforcement must have something going for it, trying to get the page hits up - I mean, if they're looking for it, they're going to come back if I give them more, aren't they?):

	bottle blonde girl
	sophie leper lyon
	vegetables raping our women

and the curiously poignant (albeit incomprehensible, unless totally stoned perhaps)

So Sue, what do you think beyond all gold curtain hope is better in fruit bowl of cherries, yes

I'm not sure what to think about all that.

Whatever, I've got the menu for Saturday. Sophie was quite reasonable - for her: her only exigence was the coquilles St-Jacques as an entrée, and that the main course be fish, accompanied by - of course - a salad. Otherwise, my choice. So after a bit of thinking and digging around in the books, it's going to be

Coquilles St-Jacques à la nage - sauce au vin blanc et crème

Coulibiac, beurre blanc à la badiane

Salade Sophie - douceurs du miel, pimenté au malice

Sharlotka

To do a proper coulibiac you really need to have a supply of vesiga, this being the dried spinal marrow of sturgeons: my greengrocer does not stock this (nor, as it happens, do they have dried tiger penis or bears' paws, which kind of scrubs another couple of classic dishes from my répertoire, shit happens, what more can I say) so it won't be 100% authentic but what the hell. And I suppose the sturgeons will be happy. Those of them that haven't had their guts slit open to remove the eggs, anyway. Or their backbones whipped out, just to get at the marrow.

But in these degenerate times we're happy to take a bit of fluffy steamed rice, mix it with some finely chopped, wilted shallots and chopped dill, sandwich the lot with a couple of sliced hard-boiled eggs between two slabs of salmon and then wrap the whole damn thing in some puff pastry and brush it with an egg wash before sticking it in the oven for twenty minutes.

You will of course make a couple of holes in the top of the pastry (do remember to decorate them nicely) for the steam to escape and after ten minutes cooking you could usefully pour a bit of cream in there. And do not cook it too long, fish should always be pink and soft, not grey, sad and dry.

And just so that you don't have to go digging around in the older posts, the beurre blanc recipe is simplicity itself: stew a chopped shallot in butter till soft, add a peeled chopped apple, two star anis and two or three glasses of white wine. Let that simmer gently for twenty minutes or so, then strain through a small sieve (note to self: Sophie doesn't have one of those, take mine) pressing down on the apple and shallot to extract a maximum of juice. Reduce the liquid, add cream and bring to the boil to thicken, then off the heat whisk in 20 or 30 gm of butter.

As for dessert (the recipe is in the link above, I did tell you to go check it out), the only "improvement" I have in mind is to mash up some Philly cream cheese (or mascarpone, if that's all I can find) with chopped dried apricots, then slather that over the top once it's cooled down a bit and sprinkle it with cinnamon. I really cannot just leave well enough alone. Mind you, if that's my only personality defect I should not complain.

So off to the market as usual: gray, dismal, and as you can see, chilly. There is a tendency here to emblazon shopping bags with rather meaningless semi-English phrases (I mean, "Fragrance of Woman"?) and one that puzzled me a bit as I sipped at the second glass (drinking alone, sad to say, the other two alcoholics having hard-heartedly abandoned me to my own devices, and gone off to Grenoble): "24/10/2011 Save the Date". I honestly didn't know they were an endangered fruit; you learn something new every day.

Didn't actually have too much time to ponder that: had to go off and cook. I'd been very organised and everything: even made a little list of everything I thought I'd need, packed up the implements I knew Sophie doesn't have, took a decent chopping board and noted down a reasonable prep order. Which, on starting, I promptly proceeded to ignore, which is about par for the course.

Poor Lucas was just leaving for an afternoon's ski du fond as I arrived: he contented himself with a few pointed remarks to the effect that he was sure to be famished on his return, and that it would make a nice change if, once in a while, people would think of others, such as himself, and make sure there were leftovers. And as there were just the two of us, he turned out to be in luck. No scallops - those, and their sauce, disappeared in short order - but we didn't quite manage to eat all the coulibiac, and although we tried we didn't make much of a dent in the dessert either.

Whatever, it was indeed une tueurie, as she says, and good practice for me too: been a while since I had to plan a menu, organise and prepare a decent three-course meal - and been able to sit down and eat it afterwards - and as Stacey is supposed to be organising one for me soon, with Jean Lain and other notables de la bourgeoisie Chambérienne, I really should get back into it.

Like I said, you do learn something new every day (the French expression, incidentally, is - literally translated - to go to bed slightly less stupid than when you woke up) and I learnt, quite by accident (and I cannot for the life of me remember how the subject came up) that Sophie loves a good choucroute. As do I, and as does Margo: sadly for her, we've organised that for more or less all day on the 28th, when she's away at a salon. I suppose I should save some of the leftovers.

We Don't Want Your Steenking 2012 ...

Dumpster-diving must be pretty unrewarding around this time of year, I imagine. If the big containers up at the top of the road here are anything to go by, their contents are running at about 90% empty chocolate boxes, with the rest being an equal mix of picked-clean turkey carcasses and oyster shells.

Our New Year was kind of quiet: drove the yoof up to Geneva to catch their flight back to Glasgow: of course, by preparing for the worst (autoroute clogged with bloody holiday-makers, and snow) no such thing eventuated, and we arrived early, around 12:30. Missed some quality drinking time, there. Their flight was still marked as being on time, but the preceding one, that should have left at 11:50, was up as being expected around 14:30 ... I assume they got back eventually, will doubtless find out some time.

Margo dropped Jerry off for a party, and I stopped off on the way back for a few rounds with Beckham and Bryan - oh the shame, for the first time in my life I have been kicked out of a bar! Not, I hasten to add, for drunk & disorderly, but simply because Pierre decided he wanted to close early, like around 15:30, and ejected everyone manu miltari.

So we staggered off to somewhere more congenial, like the Café de Paris, and as we sat nursing our restoratives who should stagger up to the bar but the odious little morsel himself. Still, he paid our round of drinks, which was rather unexpected. (Still didn't make up for poor Bryan's heartbreak on seeing Alison, the hot waitress, with her arms draped around him. Doubtless fishing for his wallet.)

And finally, home for a decent meal and a mug of hot chocolate before snuggling into bed to the damp-squib sound of soggy sky-rockets going off (did I mention it was raining heavily?).

Jeremy has moved back in with us, and I must admit that we're already counting the days until he heads off on his next stage. Not that he's unpleasant company or anything - surprisingly human in fact, when I look at what some other people have to put up with - but my god does he stick the food away. Having no great inspiration I made lasagna the other night - enough for six or eight normal people. And Jerry wasn't hungry ... until the munchies set in at midnight, and the rest disappeared with him to school for his lunch. I had rather been counting on leftovers, seems that's a thing of the past.

Dawned gray, overcast and - the first time this winter that I've really felt it - cold today (is half-heartedly trying to snow as I write, small ploppy flakes falling sullenly), but I is made of sterner stuff and anyway, we needed more potatoes at the very least, not to mention wine.

So it was off to the market, and I'm pleased to note that I'm starting to find my way around again. Rediscovered the cheese-monger, and managed to find a second source for my preferred rougette lettuce (just as well as I have not yet found the first source, I know they're there somewhere, but well-hidden).

I said that they'd severely reduced the floor space for the indoor market: this has one unfortunate side-effect (amongst others, but let's not go there) which is that the old hags with their shopping bags trundling approximatively behind them can even more effectively block the traffic. And to be honest, it's not just the old hags. More and more young folk (OK, we're talking 30's, 40's here) seem to be taking to the diabolical things too, and not only do I have to be athletic and all pointy-elbowed in the market, but on the footpaths around as well.

I mean, here I am with a bag of 10kg of meat, fruit, vegetables and dope in each hand, trying to get back to the car as expeditiously as possible and thus striding along at a great rate of knots, and then you get the Young Family ahead of you. The Father with Pram, the Mother with The Shopping Trolley trailing erratically off to one side, and the Small Daughter who is apparently practising an elliptical orbit that would have gladdened Ptolemy's heart.

The road side is of course blocked with double-parked Porsches - not much to do there apart from scratch a key down the side - so your choice is to wait for them to realise that they're in the way (bonus points if you have an air horn in your pocket, or maybe a small airgun), or barge straight through.

Though this may come as a surprise to those of you who know me as a patient man, I'm not inclined to hang around till Doomsday so I usually go for the bulldozer option: this does sometimes occasion collateral damage, usually the Orbiting Child. And a few muttered harsh words rapidly disappearing behind, along the lines of "Well! Did you see how rude that man was! Come here Chloë, I'm sure it's only a flesh wound. No, he wouldn't have rabies."

Such are the delights of the marché. So you can see why I so appreciate the simple pleasures of a little apéro afterwards, if only to get my blood pressure down. Which is why Bryan and I (Beckham being apparently indisposed) found ourselves at Le Petit Bar du Marché, previously known as Le Bar Sans Nom, formerly known as Chez Liddy. (They've definitely gone downhill in the name department. But it remains cheap, warm, and welcoming: everything you want in a bar on a cold January day.)

They've no literary pretensions but there is a shelf of books along one wall, above the heaters: mostly French authors from the 50's but tucked in just beside "The Male Nude" (yes, with photos) there's a 5-cm thick (and apparently much-used, for the spine has split and it's now in two parts) work entitled "Dictionnaire des Mots de Sexe" which, after inspection, turns out to be a rather exhaustive work on the subject. With a very impressive bibliography.

The word ruelle, for instance - which would mean "little street" - actually derives from the space between the master bed and the wall of the room: would have been the warmest spot in the place and was reserved for intimates. Only later, it seems, did it take on its sexual connotations. Which I will leave you to imagine.

It's a good way to pass an idle half-hour or so, even if Bryan did look rather embarrassed.

Sophie is off for the weekend in Paris - at last notice, wandering like a lovestruck mooncalf through the musée d'Orsay. I have to admit that if there were only one museum I could visit in Paris (that would be for reasons of time, not because I've been banned from the Louvre for sticking chewing-gum on the Mona Lisa's titties) it would be that one.

Although there is, somewhere - just have to dig out the trusty old Taride - an honest-to-god museum of erotica, and another which apparently has a fascinating and rather encyclopedic collection of wine corks. One day, when I have the time ...

Rodin may not be your thing, but let's face it, he wasn't limited to sculptures of fat guys with haemorroids: one of the pieces I vaguely remember up on one wall - I think it was supposed to represent the gates of Hell, but I could well be wrong and can't be arsed googling it - was pretty damn impressive. And the Art Nouveau rooms are magnificent. As is the old dining room from back in the Belle Epoque, when the place was a train station - worth going there just for that, in my opinion. So if you're ever around ...

Whatever, she's just gently reminded me that I still owe her one Xmas present, and sooner rather than later - like next weekend - so I'd better go and start brushing up those menus.