Life In 79

I had just been spat at, on the back of my head, by a large Alpaca. I felt like a pebbledashed wall. There was no malice towards me, I was just caught in the crossfire. My son, daughter-in-law, granddaughter and daughter were visiting and we were enjoying the Alpaca experience in Sanzay. We spent a thoroughly enjoyable hour learning about, feeding, patting (though never on their backside), even kissing these intriguing animals. As I was picking the regurgitated Alpaca feed from my hair, Anna, my wife, informed me we had to make a small detour on the way home. She had seen three kittens on Facebook, who needed a home. Oh gawd, I thought, this is only going one way. As we stared at three Walt Disney kittens, and under mild pressure from certain family members we decided to have one. Wouldn't it be wonderful for our feral cat, who had been living with us for three years now, to have a little companion. How wrong we were. Our cat is named Pantoufle (my wife's choice), but for the s...

Anna, my wife, had been sneezing for the last five hours; peppering the dashboard with mucus (we even had to make an unscheduled pit stop to buy a jumbo packet of tissues)... I was amazed that such a small head could contain so much moisture. Hay fever? An allergy? I don't know what it was, except very irritating. Every sneeze was accompanied by a shrill scream, which was not doing my tinnitus any favours and did not bode well for our summer holiday.   We had always found the notion of driving down to Spain very romantic, although with all the sneezing and moist tissues, the romance was limited. We were on our way to the Basque Country; San Sebastian. Five hours south, hit the Pyrenees, hang a right, cross the border, bingo!  When we arrived, I was all ready to plonk myself on the beautiful La Concha beach, drink copious amounts of sangria and stuff a variety of pintxos into me moosh. However, Anna informed me our hotel was a little bit out of town. Fifty minutes later, having...

Ulysses went on his Odyssey, Hannibal crossed the Alps, Bilbo Baggins journeyed through Middle Earth. Me? I have been slagging back and forth to Calais for the past ten years in a Dacia Sandero. Part of me looks forward to the journey; the excitement of what lies ahead, a frisson at the adventures waiting just over the horizon. But, when I hit the péage at Saumur, my heart sinks as the novelty wanes. Six hours, six long hours - Saumur, Le Mans, Rouen, Calais. I pride myself on an ability to do very repetitive, mundane jobs for a long time, but that journey pushes me to some very dark places...I-spy, Count the buzzards sitting along the side of the motorway, What number am I thinking of? Sangatte. We could've moved to Sangatte...I hear it's very pleasant this time of year, only ten minutes drive from the tunnel. But, oh no! Anna, my wife, wanted to move halfway down France. She tries helping out; she will put in a solid 30 minutes before I notice her driving with one eye closed,...

Anna, my wife, has left me. My lover, friend, mentor, spiritual guide, soulmate, has naffed off to the Azores for a week with a friend to visit another friend who lives there (how many friends does one person need?). 'Where are the Azores?' I hear you ask...in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean... and judging by the photos she's sending back it looks similar to Scotland on a bad weather day. Yet, in the Deux-Sèvres, we bask in heady sunshine and temperatures in the early twenties...that, my friends, is karma. So while she is off gallivanting, I'm left keeping the show on the road: cooking, washing-up, feeding the fish, feeding the cat, feeding the chickens, feeding myself! Going to the mailbox EVERY DAY, collecting the chickens' eggs (who, incidentally, are now pushing out five a day...my cholesterol is going through the roof), putting the wheelie bins out, bringing them back in again. Work, work, work, give, give, give. Every now and then I feel a little vibration in...

Our first lot of chickens sadly died, I think from bird flu. One by one they started staggering about, and then, even the staggering ceased and they just sat on the spot looking at the ground. I then had to dispatch them, which was a very upsetting business. So when Anna, my wife, suggested getting some more, I wasn't keen. As usual she ground me down with the promise that if there was any dispatching to be done, she was head of dispatchments. The other thing that swung it was that all chickens are vaccinated now against bird flu.  Anna was going to Thouars market on Friday to poultry purchase so I had a few days to get the coop and orchard chicken-ready; the door had warped and a few fencing panels needed adding. Amazingly, two years on, the electronic door we bought from China was still working with a set of new batteries.  Anna produced a metal feeder she had bought for 50€. '50€!' I shrieked like a girl, 'what's wrong with the old one?'. The new one looks li...

After selling our Airbnb, Anna, my wife, was worried about having nothing to do with her time and becoming bored. I suggested the novel idea of getting a job, at which she laughed. I said a couple of days at the local abattoir would get her out of the house, enable her to practise her French, meet new friends as well as bringing in a few pennies, and maybe some offcuts. But she wasn't interested. What about gardening? The great outdoors, exercise, good for your mental health (as Monty Don keeps banging on about), etc. I love gardening and have always wanted to get Anna interested. To feel the earth between your fingers, to taste your own home-grown produce and to smell your home-made nettle liquid manure, maturing in the shed. But she says it's not her 'thing'. She loves being outside, appreciating the garden, but from her sun-lounger with a pina colada to hand.  We would be like Jean de Florette and his good lady wife, Mrs Florette (the opera singer), I told her. Tilli...

I'm not sorry to bid a fond farewell to February...my least favourite month. Unlike Anna, my wife, I don't suffer from Seasonal affective disorder (SAD); she goes into decline in September and emerges from her torpor around May/June. If I say to her the days are getting shorter, a little muscle above her eye starts twitching. February, the month when: our honey solidifies in its jar and the olive oil turns grainy because the kitchen is so cold ('boo'); all my geraniums that I thought might last the winter don't ('boo'); the Six Nations Rugby is on the telly ('hurrah' from me, 'boo' from Anna). One thing I'll say in February's favour...it's short ('hurrah'). With the incessant rain our garden turns into a quagmire; it's like walking on a giant lasagne, slipping and sliding about. Outside our front door it resembles the Somme and when hanging out the washing one is prone to trench foot. As well as the interminable rain t...