A Crisis Averted

Our Friends from the Fens arrived this week with their large voiture packed full of delicacies from dear old Angleterre - peanut butter, oxo cubes, marmite, Branston pickle, HP sauce, salad cream, cheddar cheese, packs of bacon, Christmas crackers and, most important by far, Yorkshire tea. Your Chatelaine confesses to have been panicking slightly as said friends were last week stuck in Las Vegas, victims of the Icelandic dust cloud, and their descent to southern France was in doubt. An earlier trip had also been cancelled and tea stocks at Chateau Coldspot were dwindling worryingly. The situation wasn’t helped by the Princesses who have recently decided that a cup of Yorkshire tea is their second favourite drink in the entire world – after Malibu and pineapple.
Prepared, as always to take desperate measures where necessary, le Comte had instituted rationing (to preserve la Chatelaine's delicate temper), issuing the squarking girls with books of tear-off tickets each to be redeemed against one teabag. It was thus with huge relief that we heard the large voiture draw up in the drive.

Readers will be saddened to learn that the demise of the duckling occurred about three days after it was predicted in the last blog. In the end it wasn’t a fox that got it, but a cat, quite likely one of our own – Bubble of the Boudoir. Despite her deceptively pleasant countenance she has always displayed a sinister predilection for torturing small birds although we keep trying to wean her onto mice.

The other things that have expired recently are our passports. Due to my administrative negligence, le Comte and I are not currently able to make the trip back to dear old Angleterre so you’ll all have to manage without us – for the next two or three weeks anyway.

I have spent the last couple of days spring-cleaning the large gite in preparation for the Happy Holidaymakers that will soon descend. In principle this is a good thing as it means we have bookings and therefore money for food, diesel, boiler beans and, of course, golf. In practice it’s a pretty dull job as no matter how pristine we leave the apartments in October, they get themselves mysteriously grubby over the winter. Every surface needs careful wiping and every corner needs its collection of insect life removed. I cannot, I’m afraid, put all the spiders outside so I spend a large amount of time muttering apologies. Every now and then I am crippled by a crisis of conscience and throw two or three medium-sized arachnids through the window to take their chance with the ducks. Nothing in particular determines which ones are chosen, thus proving that fate is arbitrary.

It goes without saying that the whole gite cleaning process would have gone much more smoothly on Saturday if I had remembered to remove the egg from my pocket before I started. My first job had been to let the animals out of their various pens and collect any offerings. I picked up the egg from the hen house and placed it carefully in the pouch of my pac-a-mac while I escorted Daisy and fat-Luna to their field. Mid-morning, still wearing the pac-a-mac on account of the prevailing cold and damp, I was puzzled by the appearance of an unusual yellow slime running down my trouser leg. It was then that I realised...

In Charbonville this weekend, the inhabitants hung up their favourite red white and blue bunting and paraded round the Market Square on decorated floats to celebrate Victory in Europe. (This happened some time ago, btw, for those of you who are unsure.) And this year, as most years, they did it in the pouring rain. Interestingly, fate has proved itself to be not arbitrary at all in this respect, but quite determinedly focussed. It always rains on all Charbonville festivities. It is a town evidently not blessed by the Gods.
In addition to the parade there is a little fair with dodgems, stalls selling candyfloss and rows of those impossible but compulsive grabber games. Princess 2 usually becomes addicted to these and spends her entire allowance trying to capture a stuffed Betty Boop.
In previous years, when the rain has been more moderate, le Comte and I have attended the parade and its accompanying entertainments, but this year it was really tipping down. So we didn’t go – and unfortunately I can’t imagine that anyone else did either.

End note:
Some of you may be wondering what happened to Prince Arsenal and his Lib Dem stake boards down in the deepest South West. Unfortunately that little piece of Angleterre that was to be forever canary yellow turned a billious green and then suddenly bright blue - even after the recount. It's still a bit green round the edges, admittedly, but in the last analysis there turned out to be, as someone accurately observed, 67 Lib Dems too few in Cambourne & Redruth. Prince Arsenal has learned a useful lesson, however, - it's not all about stakeboards, some of it is about politics too.  Tant pis.