Melons for sale

    As we cross the threshold into the year of the Dragon, I find myself wondering what good luck and fortune this Chinese icon will donate to us from its Far Eastern standpoint this year. Last year, the Chinese drove up the price of quality wine in this region by about 50% in their quest to homogenise their Eastern culture with Western consumables which was, if you are wine producer in France anyway, very kind of them. But, it seems, this year the Dragon is on the downturn as well, depending on whose reports you study, and that they (China) are about endure the backlash of a world recession, thus creating, yes you’ve guessed it, another world recession! Confused? Yes me too. Before I became a French peasant, I used to be an analyst until, somewhere along the way, I ran out of things that I actually understood. I think basically what they are telling us here, is that the tail which, until recently, was inadvertently wagging the dog is about to stop wagging itself, causing the dog to curl-up by the fire, and wait for its dinner from an empty cupboard until the year of the dog comes around again. In other words, once again, the spin doctors who control the world media are feeding the public another slice of B/S. Should we panic? Do we care? The real question is, not what will happen, but should we believe what they say will happen? There is a saying in France that goes: Ou est le papier? Which loosely translates as: ‘Today’s news, tomorrow’s toilet-paper!’ Isn’t it time we stopped listening to all this gloomy world forecasts and got on with our lives. Spring-roll anyone?

    Inside our own house, this year has become more like the year of the cat, although I am at pains to point out that the Chinese do not, in fact, have a year of the cat, possibly because they have eaten them all. I may have mentioned this particular cat before, his name is Spike. Although Spike may only possess the body of a half-grown kitten, he has claws of steel and the mind of a criminal genius. Never before has a domestic animal etched back the boundaries of the animal kingdom with such cunning. To start with, despite my best efforts with loft insulation, the wily creature manages to find new tunnels to get into the house, all of which somehow end up in the back of the kitchen cupboard. Every morning is like a new episode of Escape from Colditz, only in reverse, as I am greeted by the smiling cat when I open the cupboard to reach for the tea caddy. One of these days I expect to find a mountain of soil and fibreglass outside somewhere that he has sneaked out through the tiny gap concealed in his trouser pockets. The dogs are none too keen on his omnipresence either, especially Louis whose ever-wagging tail is a constant source of entertainment for a kitten of such advanced stealth and intellect. Outside the patio window we have quite a large bird-table which, during the winter months, Wendy keeps plied with nuts and birdseed. On top of this 2 metre high platform sits a pretty little bird-house, complete with perches, tiled roof and asymmetric windows. Inside that, however, silently sits a small kitten with its mouth open, for 3 hours every afternoon. The poor little birds are traumatised, when they drop in for a quick snack, only to be plucked out of the air and made a snack of themselves. You have to hand it to him: why go out and catch small birds to eat when they can come to you. I am only glad he is not human, or he would be Hannibal Lecter, or at the very least, Garry Glitter.

    My favourite time of year has arrived at Chauffour, that of lambing. Seeing young lambs prancing around in the evening dusk like fawns in a mystic forest, never fails to raise a smile for me. We had a couple of early ones this year, born just before Christmas and, against all advice, one of them has been given a name, Eve. It is doubtful that we will ever be able to eat that one now. However, one slightly larger problem still remains, that of the ram which lives here as a squatter, who still insists on attacking people. I have ended up being his most recent victim, when he hit my knee at full gusto a few weeks ago, confining me to a seat by the fire for 3 days. I am not really sure what his problem is? Perhaps, like our troubled gypsy neighbour who is his rightful owner, he just doesn’t like the English. Despite my asking this awful man, he still hasn’t got around to collecting the damn thing, which has now been in our field for nigh on a year, living free of charge. In the interest of our own safety, I feel the time has come to exercise my rural rites, and shoot the blooming thing. Only, I don’t have a gun, nor a licence for a gun, nor a licence for that particular sheep, nor a licence for a digger to bury the stupid thing with. All in all, the law is not on my side to overcome this problem, unless I turn vigilante and call in a couple of local gunslingers. Maybe I should set the kitten on the case, he seems to have the answer to most things?

    It is great to see that the French are once again in the world news, this time on the wrong end of a scandal about breast implants, known locally as tittygate. It seems that some surgically enhanced ladies have been prone to bursting in public, prospectively in some of Paris’s well known fashion boutiques. One eye witness was quoted saying: “Ooh-la-la, I ‘eard a loud bang, and zen my wife took off like a torpedo, shattering a chandelier before coming to rest in a stack of fruit’n’veg. Eet was terrrrrible. We ‘ad to buy two melons to take ‘ome!”

    Talking of fruit’n’veg; after last months revelation that we now have wheelie bins at our disposal (no pun intended), a rather handy Vente de Ferme, or better known in English as a farm-shop, has now opened down the road. My word, whatever will the French think of next? They will soon be having sliced bread, flushing toilets and round tea-bags!

    Although we didn’t make it back to Rock this Xmas, we did get furnished with a copy of the 2012 Rock X Buns calendar, which we purchased in aid of the Midlands Air Ambulance charity. Congratulations to all those ladies who took part in this exposition. I have to say that January looks good, although please excuse me if my amnesia causes me to forget to turn over the subsequent months!

    Finally, on the subject of Rock, I would like to wish my father, John Frazier, a slightly belated Happy 87^th Birthday. He is surely an excellent testament to the fine medicinal qualities of a good malt whisky.