Despite tales of French rudeness, I have found it very, very unusual indeed. Our experience since living here has been of a people who are extraordinarily polite. Thus on those rare occasions when we come across it, it always comes as something of a shock.

So it was today, at a certain supermarket in St Junien, in the Haute-Vienne département of the Limousin region. Specifically the person who is employed there in the little counter where they sell jewellery and mobile phone accessories. At first this person was not there at all. After being summoned over the tannoy, he arrived after seven minutes, with no apology, but an angry scowl on his ugly face. I realise he cannot help being ugly, any more than he can help being a t-d-c, but the scowl was unnecessary.

With him was a customer apologising for the fact that whatever he had bought did not work. The angry ugly man tutted and muttered as he prodded it with a penknife, then slammed in onto the counter and took a moment to glance at me.

“Yes?”

“I would like to buy a SIM card for my mobile telephone, please.”

“Wait.”

He snapped something at the apologetic customer, who left dejectedly. Then M. Ugly-Angry served another gentleman who had arrived after me, and having done so asked what I wanted.

Speaking slowly and clearly, I asked for a SIM card for my mobile phone, again.

“Passport,” he snapped.

“I don’t have a passport with me, would my driving licence be acceptable?”

“Not unless it’s French.”

“It is.”

This was clearly a defeat for him.

“What package do you want?”

“The Mini, please.”

His moment of triumph: ”We don’t have any! You will have to come back in a week. Or fifteen days.”

He turned to another unfortunate would-be customer, indicating that my shopping experience was over.

So, you pathetic little excuse for a vendeur, you kept me waiting 14 minutes to tell me you didn’t have what I wanted. Given that you knew instantly, without having to check, presumably it is fair to say that you could have mentioned it when I first asked. But you didn’t, because you are a prime fuckwit. Bravo.

Go back in a week, or fifteen days? Is he having a laugh?

Wimperklimpernd

This is a delicious word that I found on Netty’s German blog.

It is not one of the four German words that I understand, so I had to use translation tools to find the meaning. Google Translate helpfully gave the English translation as “wimperklimpernd,” but a couple of other sites came up with  ”lash-tinkling”, or “eyelash-jingling.”

What a wonderful expression.

Over the six years that we ran our two holiday cottages, over 200 people came to stay in them.   Some were so unobtrusive that they came and went without leaving any impression, but of the rest many were charming, interesting and delightful. A tiny minority were evil. Uncle Charlie’s Legacy is about those I found memorable, in one way or another.

How could I ever forget Matt and Elaine?

“The next arrivals for Pissenlit are in their twenties. Matt is a big man, well over 6′, Elaine is plain, with frizzy ginger hair, and both are quiet and shy, and they are studying for their medical exams. They enjoy having our dogs and cats around them, but aren’t great socialisers and prefer to be left to themselves. We wave when our paths cross, and that’s all. The weather is perfect, and they spend every day just sitting in their courtyard, studying and drinking tea. Matt returns the bottle of wine from the welcome pack, explaining that they are teetotallers.

Terry is here at the moment, and this afternoon we take the dogs for a walk. As we pass, Matt and Elaine look up from their books, smile and wave. We have walked about half a mile when I remember that I have forgotten to take the bread out of the oven, so I sprint back towards the house. As I round the corner I can hear a rhythmic, grunting, moaning and gasping, and I catch a glimpse of a huge pair of pale male buttocks. Although I turn my head away instantly, I cannot help noticing that Matt has Elaine pinned to the wall of the courtyard. They are both wearing their shorts around their ankles. Her head and hands are buried in the Virginia creeper, and he seems to be trying to hammer her into the wall. As I continue running into the house, over the crunchy gravel, I wonder if they have seen me. Matt certainly could have done so, but with her face full of foliage, Elaine probably didn’t.

Having pulled the bread from the oven, I wonder how long to wait before venturing out again. I have to pass them, there’s no other route, and Terry is going to wonder what has happened if I don’t reappear fairly soon. I faff around in the house for five minutes, humming, talking to the parrot and generally being noisy. After holding an imaginary telephone conversation in a loud voice, I shout: “Cheerio! I’m off out now.”  Then I bang a couple of doors and chirping to the parrot “See you later,” I skip out of the house, past the courtyard, where the guests are sitting demurely at the table, with their books, teapot and a packet of Garibaldi biscuits. They glance up and nod and smile as I trot past. Did they see me or not? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.

When they have left at the end of the week, I open the guest book, and laugh, because they have written: “A wonderful stay in adorable little Pissenlit. Thank you for your hospitality and for making us feel so welcome. We have thoroughly enjoyed our stay and meeting you and all your animals. It has been a perfect relaxing holiday, with plenty of fresh air, just what we needed.” They have signed it: “The Harvey Wallbangers.”

Last week: The Hollywooders, Part I

Next week: The Hollywooders, Part II

There’s an article in today’s Daily Wail claiming that having a dinner party is more stressful than working. I don’t know what kind of work is meant – there must be jobs that are more stressful than others, and I can’t remember ever finding my own stressful, although if I’d been a miner I probably would have. Be that as it may.

If entertaining causes stress, then there’s something inherently wrong, and it must be the company, surely? One of our greatest pleasures is having friends for a meal, which we try to do at least once a week. Sometimes it’s a challenge, financially, and we have to cut back on the Sevruga and the lobster thermidor and have bubble and squeak instead, but I’ve never thought of the event as an board examination of my culinary skills or lack of, or a display of matching crockery and the best silver. It’s about spending time with people of our choice, exchanging ideas, hearing their news, and generally enjoying their company.

I’m an experimental cook, and like trying out new recipes. They don’t always turn out as I might hope, but well-mannered guests will usually eat what they are offered with good grace. That’s what we were taught (made) to do as children, being reminded that it was very kind of somebody to take the trouble to cook a meal for us, and the least we could do was to eat it politely (and let us not forget the little starving children worldwide who would have been grateful for it.) That’s a tenet that I’ve stuck to throughout my life, in the face of some pretty nasty meals on occasion.

I think none of our regular guests are the kind of people who would be ungracious enough to complain, either directly or subsequently. Whilst I always try to cater for individual likes and dislikes and to serve dishes that are healthy, nourishing and enjoyable, there will inevitably be occasions when somebody will find something not to their taste. In those circumstances I was brought up to eat a little and leave the rest as discreetly as possible, and that’s what I expect guests to do.

We have one friend who has been known to have a grumble about the food to other friends, and have simply removed them from the list of invitees. They are still a friend, just not a dinner guest. No stress.

The first time we invited some French friends to dinner, they didn’t eat very much, and when I asked afterwards if they hadn’t enjoyed the meal, they replied that as they had heard how awful English cooking is, they had eaten plenty of toast before they came.  However, they continued, they were amazed at how beautiful the food was, and hoped they would be invited again, which they are, and they don’t fill up on toast any more.

Bits of Galileo this time, to wit a tooth, a thumb and a finger which is shown below, which were recently sold at auction. Looks like a jolly long finger to me.

Why would these grisly objects be up for sale? What way is that to treat parts of a person? Apparently it was because he was so revered that it was decided to keep little bits of him as souvenirs. He was lucky to keep his head.

Don’t people do dreadful things?

What are you putting on your face? Expensive nourishing creams? Perhaps with melted people in them?

Peruvian police have arrested several people who have admitted abducting and killing plump peasants for the purpose of harvesting their body fat with the intention of selling it in Italy for the production of high-end skin care creams.

According to police reports, the victims were beheaded and dismembered, and their torsos hung on hooks from the ceiling. Lighted candles placed beneath them encouraged their melting fat to dribble into pots and pans, and the resulting harvest was decanted into bottles with a price tag of £9,000 per litre.

After reading this grisly story here, I’m more than ever satisfied with Lidl and Aldi’s low cost face creams.

So everything is peaceful and I’m tapping away, when there’s a small popping noise, and the electricity fizzles out. I push, pull, twist, turn and press all the knobs and buttons on the box, to no avail, and spend the entire afternoon without telephone, Internet or the use of the coffee machine.

When the husband, who can usually sort these things out quickly, gets home, he is mystified. He too pushes, pulls, twists, turns, and presses. He examines all the fuses. I stand watching to see if a light comes on, shouting “No,” “No,” “No” until I would like to scream. Our kindly neighbour, a retired electrician, is invited to have a go, and for half an hour he too is puzzled.

The answer is simple once we know it. The cat, the beautiful tabby cat with the filthy habits, has neatly urinated directly into one of the wall sockets. Just the small yellow puddle gives it away. It has an attraction for electricals. Once it peed all over the top of a brand new monitor, causing it (the monitor) to give a loud bang, emit a veil of smoke, and die. The cat was seen streaking down the garden with all its hair standing on end.

Qui? Moi? Jamais.

This is the birth of a dragonfly.

Last year there was a very ugly and sinister bug thingy with pop eyes on one of the lily pads. Idly I wondered what it was, until one day, as I was watching, it started to move, and slowly split open down its back, releasing this beautiful dragon fly.

Rather similar to the tale of the ugly duckling?

I caught part of a documentary on television last night – I don’t know which channel it was on. I could only watch for a few minutes, as it was just too painful to listen to elderly men talking about the physical and sexual abuse they had suffered at the hands of Roman Catholic priests when they were at school.

That these hateful men terrorised, degraded and damaged for life defenceless children who had been placed in their care is beyond belief; but I believe it.

Because I spent four years at a Roman Catholic boarding school, and experienced the tender mercies of the nuns to whom my father, at considerable expense, had entrusted my care and education.  While I was not sexually abused, the physical and psychological torment that those black-habited bitches practised on some of their small captives, myself amongst them, was mind-blowing. Pushed down staircases; forced to stand all night in a dark and freezing corridor on bare linoleum, in thin pyjamas; hands burned on a hot stove; denied urgent medical treatment; pinched and slapped; personal possessions stolen; public ridicule and humiliation – I could go on. The worst part was that there was nobody to turn to, nobody would believe a child that said it is being hurt by the holy brothers and sisters. The child must simply endure, submit and accept whatever cruelty is administered. Looking into the eyes of a being with total control over you, knowing that you are helpless before them, is a very unpleasant and unforgettable experience.

I cannot understand why it took so long for the truth about these sadistic sociopaths and their abuse of power and position to be exposed, but thank heaven that it has. Far too late for far too many souls, and unfortunately far too late for retribution. Or is it? If we believe (I don’t but I wish I did) that after death the departed will be judged on their life and either reap a heavenly reward or be condemned to eternal damnation, then there must be many cassocks, habits and guimpes burning in the eternal flames. Didn’t they ever consider that? Or didn’t they ever believe in it anyway? Were they just perverted misfits who wanted a uniform that would give them a licence to fulfil their twisted behaviour?

I wish everybody would pronounce Moët correctly.  It’s Mo-wett.  The two little tittles indicate that the ‘t’ isn’t mute.

When I hear somebody saying “Moway”, I have to clench my teeth to stop myself from adding the ‘t’.  That could be why my molar has broken off.