Willkommen Bienvenue Welcome

Welcome, gentle readers.

This is an everyday tale of regular folk, who moved from Sheffield to the deepest Corrèze in France Profonde and thence to the rather more cosmopolitan Lot in search of something… different. We certainly found it.

The Lot is an area of outstanding natural beauty. Reputedly, a famous TV globetrotter was asked where, of all the places in the world he had visited, he might return to. He answered, ‘The Lot’.

Fans of Channel 4’s Grand Designs will know that we built a somewhat quirky straw bale house-with-a-view here in the Lot, not far from the celebrated Dordogne river. You can read all about it in my book, Bloody Murder On The Dog's Meadow, or watch the re-runs of the programme on More 4, or view it on You Tube.

After a break in the proceedings to write a book or two, this blog now takes the form of an everyday journal. Sometimes things happen, sometimes they don't (but the art school dance goes on forever). I hope it will give you an entertaining insight into what it's like to live in a foreign country; what it's like in the slow lane as an ex-pat Brit in deepest France.

I shall undertake to update this once a month, unless absent on leave. Comments always welcomed, by the way, but I do tend to forget what buttons to click in order to answer them.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

A Christmas Message For You

The rain, it raineth every day… 
The world continues to end with a protracted whimper, not the Mayan-style predicted bang. This is surely thanks to my friend Bret’s preventative party on Friday evening. We owe our continued existence to his foresight.
So, never mind Armageddon. The four horsemen have ridden off for the time being. The shoppers are back out in force in the frantic last-minute sprint to Christmas. We’re all busy spending our hard-earned money before hyperinflation renders it worthless. That’s got to be good news for the High Street and good news for the balance of payments.
Meanwhile, chez Sampson, the fridge is indecently well packed and The Daughter is back for the holidays. Cue loud hosannas on the dog’s meadow. She and her mother have dressed the tree that I picked out the other day at Intermarché with my own fair hands. I have an unerring eye for a shapely sapin. They did a wonderful job on Saturday night under the supervision of our watchful fat-cat Myrtle, who squeezed her comfortable frame onto the top of the steps to eye-up a particularly provocative bauble. Flushed by their artistry, the girls then knuckled down to the task of going through the complete series of The Killing 3 while I assembled a compilation CD or two as stocking fillers.
As sometimes happens around this time of year, Providence has brought me some paid work at last, so I shall be busy over Yul’s tide. Real proper work brings a slight shimmer to my bank balance, but sends me into a complete spin. The weight of unseen customers’ expectations unsettles my digestion and throws my nervous system generally into turmoil. It confirms (if ever I needed it) that I wasn’t made for work. I should have been a pair of claws… Or a rich man. All day long I could tiddle-tiddle pom – if I were a wealthy man. I could use my enormous wealth to bring world peace at this time of supposed good will. I could bring comfort and joy to humanity and all creatures great and small. I could sponsor some clever brains-trust to find a way to arrest the melting of the polar ice cap.
But I’m not. Never mind, I certainly can’t complain about my lot and… It’s Chriiiiiiiii-ssssstmas! as Noddy Holder would have us remember. So, while shepherds divest themselves of their footwear in preparation for the ceremonial nocturnal washing of socks, and while herald angels tune up in glorious unison, may I take this opportunity – loyal and valued followers and gentle readers, one and all – to wish you a very merry Christmas and a new year full of eastern promise and hope for the future.
Ding dong merrily on high, Hosanna in excelsis!
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