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Oh to be in Paris now that my birthday is here!

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                                                     Not so much fun: It’s been a busy here with the new heating system going in and a fresh roof being fitted on the out-building. I’ve spent my days brewing endless cups of coffee while watching our bank balance shrink with every invoice—or “devis,” as the French say—that lands on the kitchen table.   Adding to the chaos is a flock of hefty sheep that wander through our property. We haven’t chased them off, since they’re doing a fantastic job of munching down the stubborn weeds. They arrive and depart with uncanny purpose, as if following an ancient trail known only to them, softly baaing as they thread their way between the trees and back to wherever they came from.   So much fun: I managed another trip to Paris (yes, another one!) and, honestly, I fall in love with it all over again ...
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Title: Life in the fast lane

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      Just don't overtake me! I have realised that there is a universal language that everyone understands- it’s called the Beatles. We attended an event recently which had guys singing and very good they were too. However. I did think it was a bit strange as they were French but were singing English songs to a French audience (except us). The French did look a bit bored as they did not know many of the songs but when they played ‘Hey Jude’ they all came alive and started singing along. The same thing happened in Indonesia last year, everywhere we went we saw groups performing Beatles songs and everyone was singing along. So, if you are ever in an awkward situation and you are struggling to be understood just start singing “She loves you yeah, yeah yeah.” 20 top tips for living or visiting Normandy 1.        A French driver is obliged to overtake you, no matter where you are, how fast you are driving and what the weather condi...
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Catastrophe!

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  Wine woes Our plumber Yves recently visited Athens. When I inquired about his trip his face broke into a big smile. "Beautiful city," he said, though he lamented the crush of camera-wielding tourists and café prices along the Plaka. But when I mentioned Greek wine, his entire demeanour transformed, his shoulders slumped as if beneath an invisible weight, he exhaled a deep sigh, shook his head with the gravity of a man who had witnessed something truly tragic and muttered "catastrophe, never again." The French approach their wine with a reverence bordering on religious devotion; you'll never catch a Parisian gulping a vintage Bordeaux. Instead, they savour each drop with deliberate patience, allowing it to unfold on their palates and almost always alongside a three-course meal. I've cautioned readers previously, but I would not advise arriving at a French host's doorstep clutching a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, as they've probably spent conside...
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