Life In 79

To knock the edge off the dizzying night-time temperatures, Anna, my wife, had purchased a machine that looked like an industrial paper shredder. But instead of shredding paper you fill it with water and ice packs from the freezer and listen to its low hum as it blasts cool mist across the bed, similar to the vegetable misters you see at Intermarché. Our boudoir had become so intolerably hot, Anna had taken to sleeping in the hammock en terrace . Even though her sleep was much improved, her posture had started to resemble that of a banana. We had guests staying, and being the generous soul she is, Anna had offered them the paper shredder, which they had accepted. So we were back on two fans blasting warm air at us. Most of our guests are happy to lounge around the swimming pool, drinking and eating to excess...maybe the odd excursion to the supermarket. We had been doing this for two or three days and were going a bit stir-crazy, so a picnic was suggested and agreed upon. The picnic ha...

On waking at 4.30am, I was confused; my surroundings weren't familiar and why was a light aircraft landing near my head? Was I back in 'Nam? No... I was in our living room, on the sofa. Had Anna, my wife, and I had a drunken argument and I had been forced to relocate to the sofa, to think about what I'd done? No, I noticed her on the other sofa.  Then the fog cleared and I remembered; our bedroom was so hot last night, we had both decamped downstairs. I peeled myself from the sofa and turned the fan, that was blowing churned up warm air into my face, off. It had been 41 degrees yesterday, 41 the day before yesterday, it was going to be 41 today and tomorrow... then, thankfully, it would drop to a balmy 39...and it was only June! I love a sunny day as much as the next fella, but I didn't sign up for this. Jeez. Our bedroom was like an oven, and I was the sausage roll, oozing fatty fluids as I basted in my own juices. I took a sip of tepid water to try and lube the tubes....

It took me by surprise, when Anna, my wife, announced we were spending a weekend away in the south. She'd booked an Airbnb and we were off for a romantic weekend; rekindling the flame. We've visited some wonderful places in southern France, Villefranche, Nice, Cannes...no, no, my wife interrupted, not the south of the country, the south of the Deux-Sèvres. Well, that threw the cat amongst the pigeons. Trying to hide my disappointment, I was given three guesses...after, about 40 minutes, she told me. I'm going to be honest, this was not in my top-ten places to visit before I die. Where (I hear you ask), was this holiday destination? Have a guess, dear reader...no,...no,...nooo...okay, I'll give you a clue, it begins with an 'R'...no,...no...it begins with an 'R' and ends in with a 'uffec'. RUFFEC! We were going to spend 24 hours in Ruffec! That was my reaction too.  A few years ago Anna fell asleep at the wheel, drove into a ditch, hit a tree, wro...

Anna, my wife, had been wanting one for ages; ever since we moved to France. Sports car? Motorhome? Botox? Helipad? I hear you ask. Yes, she has asked for all these things at some point (except the helipad), but the thing her heart desired the most was an outside toilet. Well, call me Mr Dream-Maker, but I wanted to do this special thing for her. It's easy for us fellas, when we're in the garden and that little tingly sensation comes a-knocking; like Superman stepping into his phone booth, we sidestep behind the nearest rose bush and relieve ourselves (I'm talking 'number 1s' here, not 'number 2s'...that would be gross). But when the ladies are poolside, having imbibed in one too many piña coladas and the call of nature comes a-calling, they have to traipse across the garden...into the house...up the stairs and bingo bongo. Leaving a trail of grass and wet footprints across the kitchen floor (which can be a deathtrap for me, in my non-grip slippers; many a t...

Spring, spring, I love spring, springy, spring, spring. If only it could be spring everyday of the year. If given the choice, Anna, my wife, would choose summer...SUMMER! Three words: watering, sunburn, flies.  The spring grass is greener, the sky bluer, our windowsills are crammed with seedlings vying for sunlight, much to Anna's irritation. But I have to put up with her demijohns of home-brew, bubbling endlessly, whilst I'm trying to watch The Repair Shop - although I'm not to mention the subject, as the other day we had a glass of the 2025 brew, before the bottling process began, and it had a nasty aftertaste, so we had to pour four demijohns of the Shaws' Shite White (as we call it), down the drain.  She puts so much time, effort (and expense) into her brewing hobby. Now that our children are all grown and flown the nest she needs an outlet for her maternal juices, which she does by keeping her demijohns warm, feeding them, watching them bubble, she even WhatsApps p...

You wouldn't have the Deux-Sèvres down as a holiday destination in February; “Come to the Deux-Sèvres, slop about in the mud, enjoy the flooding and marvel at the high river levels, watch a farmer chop a hedge”. But February, it appears, is the new August. We had a busy old month welcoming friends and family to our soggy part of France.  It meant that our New Year's resolutions were blown out of the water as Anna, my wife, and I took the opportunity to eat and drink to excess.  But where to go and what to do when the weather is rubbish and everything's shut? My brother had to use up some annual leave so popped over for a few days. He is very easily pleased; he gets excited when we take him to a French supermarket, wandering around the aisles like a small child oohing and ahhing at the goodies on offer... buying a lump of pâté to remind himself of the day ...asking if he can have his photo taken near the fish counter.  The only thing better than a supermarket for my brothe...