Noel, Noel

Goats for Sale

As predicted, le Comte and I passed a quiet Christmas here at Chateau Coldspot. We went for a delightful walk up the hill, exchanged presents and watched the Queen’s broadcast to the Nation. We have, of course, abandoned said Nation, but that isn’t anything the Queen should take personally. It’s more to do with the amount of traffic on the M6. Anyway, we still get a potted version –all the important stuff - in the form of the BBC. The Queen’s references to the Commonwealth in this year’s speech were edifying, reminding me of my time in the Girl Guides; badges, tents in lumpy fields and ‘doing your duty’, which I used to think was a polite way of refering to the latrine.
Actually, I'm waiting for France to join the Commonwealth. It seems to me that what they really lack is a Queen and ours is closest, the most obvious candiate. If France joined the Commonwealth we might get Guides, Scouts and Brownies over here too. I think the Princesses have missed out not having had the moral benefit of belonging to this excellent organisation. Instead, for moral guidance, they must choose between the incense-fuelled excesses of Catholicism and the type of austere Protestantism that owes too much to actual Protesting and not enough to the whims of Henry VIIIth. I only wish I could think who to write to on the subject.
New Year passed equally quietly at the Chateau with a game of cards and a glass of champagne for which Princess 2 joined us. Le Comte, careful as always, refused to gamble, so we played with matchsticks. Pity, I could have wiped him out. I have one or two tricks up my sleeve.
The French spend New Year as they spend most of their lives, immersed in eating large quantities of innocent animal in various forms and accompanying it with various types of processed grape. After which they jig about.
The local Mairie had organised just such an eating and jigging event in the village hall, but at 65 euros per person le Comte and I decided to give it a miss. The other problem with these local events is not only does everyone in the area know each other because they went to school together, but most of them are also related and can trace their connection back to one Ur-ancestor (lets call him Ugé) who colonised the area in the early Stone Age.
Having only lived here a seven or so years we are very much newcomers. And moreover we are; ‘les Anglais’ The family that arrived inexplicably to live in a huge draughty house with no winter sun but who (annoyingly) have somehow transformed it into a pleasant abode, called it a Chateau and persuaded lots of Happy Holidaymakers to pay them money to stay there.
Another reason for not going is that le Comte doesn’t really speak fluent French. He’s much better than he was but people don’t always want to talk about concrete mixes or plasterboard over their foie gras. Personally I can't think why, le Comte and I have spent many pleasant evenings exploring these topics.

One sad conclusion we have arrived at over the Christmas period is that our goats must go. They have managed to break out of their pen and le Comte hasn’t got time to mend it (he’s busy making a new gite for the Happy Holidaymakers – most of whom, bafflingly, seem to be Belgian this year). If we chain them up (goats, not Holidaymakers - though we have been tempted), they shout - understandably. If we let them loose they eat every shoot and every bud on every plant and then make off up the mountain without so much as a 'Cheerio'. How ungrateful is that! And our neighbours, well-meaning but misguided, come and tell us they have escaped. So that’s it, Kitty, Minnie and Dora are looking for a new home. We have taken pictures from every angle and are about to put them on ebay. Will post anywhere in the world. Please spread the word.