One of our village ‘voisins’ stopped by the other day to tell us that he was selling up and moving back across the Channel. Graham shall be missed, not only because he’s a fellow Brit (actually he’s Scottish and I hope I haven’t offended him) but he is also well-loved and respected in this little village. Graham has lived here for over 15 years so it wasn’t a surprise that his announcement was the main topic in the local epicerie the next day and darling Denis was practically in tears. Naturally I assured him that I wasn’t intending to go anywhere, much to his relief but it did get me thinking. Would I still be happy living here in twenty or so years time? Is this where I’m supposed to end up in the grand scheme of things? I certainly can’t see myself ever wanting to live in a city again but hey, it’s a big world out there and who knows what the future holds? Thankfully it was but a fleeting thought especially for Denis (he’s never lived anywhere else) and as I drove back through the shadow of the Pyrenees the other day, I knew I was home.

I went for a mammogram last week. As much as I hate hospitals and anything to do with scans terrifies me, it’s one of those necessities when one is over fifty. As I handed over my Carte Vitale, I realised I had forgotten to change my health insurance from the private one to the mutuel. Once you are a resident in France, you can apply for a Carte which basically pays for your medical stuff but you need to have a little extra insurance policy to help cover the bills – a mutuel . The nurse politely asked me if I was okay to pay for the mammogram now and get the reimbursement later – 20 Euros. Considering the care and attention given and the doctor doing an extra echograph as I had had the previous one in England and the NHS have lost all my records, it seemed a rather paltry amount of money. I’m told I’m good for a couple more years and to expect my scans in the post next week. Does one have a special file for those?

Aside from the visit to the Radiography unit and more trips to the vet with Coco who, having got better is now worse again, life at Rouffiac has started to get back to normal post-holiday season. The rain has gone and we are blessed with blue skies albeit flipping cold temperatures. I finally got round to hanging curtains over the big balcony glass doors which has made the lounge look much more homely and the lovely Lionel and I met at the wood warehouse in Carcassonne so I could spend a small fortune on planks for the poolside decking so he could finally finish the bloody thing. Amusingly, he insisted on sending me texts whilst I was standing next to him in the shop so I could translate what was being said – I didn’t have the heart to tell him my French lessons have been well-worth the money. Denis, of course, is the complete opposite and assumes I understand everything he says until I get a blank look on my face and even then he just says the same thing but slower.

My newly-found and becoming a great friend, Pip popped round at the end of the week with a packet of Twiglets for me. Such a delicacy was very much appreciated because although there are “English’ sections in the supermarkets, everything is very expensive and pretty boring. Poor Pip had been expecting a delivery of Christmas treats from the island which got stuck at Customs because it contained prohibited milk products. Thanks Brexit. I love catching up with Pip, rants and all, as we can both talk about anything and everything for hours and not just about our dogs (we both have to many according to our kids). Perhaps there is a Podcast in the making…..

“Life was meant for good friends and great adventures” (Unknown)

Needless to say, the beginning of 2022 hasn’t been without its hiccups. For a start, we have an uninvited guest move in behind the kitchen cupboards – a souris. You’d think having a house with 5 terriers would be a deterrent for a mouse but apparently mine are more ‘live and let live’ than ‘killer instinct’ types. The only one that gave any indication of being interested was Alice except that it was her maternal instinct that was triggered. I have no idea what it’s doing under the sink as there’s no food there but the little varmint seems to have a penchant for chewing away at bits of plastic especially at night – noisily. I was a little concerned that I would suddenly wake up to a power cut but it turned out that this morning’s electrical failure in the kitchen was down to a fuse, not our little nocturnal visitor.

Having had a few weeks with lovely warm radiators and hot showers, it should come as no surprise to those that eagerly follow our chauffage story that the old boiler decided to pack up and the new oil tank needs a refill. I’m sure there is somewhere in a boiler’s contract that states it can only die when the weather is dismal and flipping cold. And only on weekends. Thankfully Max the chauffagiste was already here to fit the bathroom towel heaters and managed to get the hot water back but the heating will have to wait for the arrival of oil replenishment on Monday. Thankfully darling Denis was ready with wings and hot-footed over with electric radiators first thing this morning. And it’s only the first week of January.

Despite the house hiccups, life is slowly beginning to return to normal post family arrivals and departures. All the decorations have been taken down and the sapins lie dejected on the front lawn. We decided to dry out Papa Nöel by hanging him over the gate but after a harsh look from the Mayor as he drove past, we thought it was better to shove him back in the garage lest the police get a phone call. After such shenanigans, Denis and I began clearing some of the outside buildings which probably haven’t been touched for years. One of these will be the garden ‘shed’ so I got to work bravely removing hundreds of old plastic pots and broken tiles – remember the spider incident. The driveway looked like a car boot sale by the time we had finished and it took Denis several trips to the tip centre before we could see the gravel again. I have to say the outside buildings are already looking much better aside from the miles of electrical tubing that no-one seems to want to take responsibility for. I think it’s Pierre the electrician but the chances of seeing him before the apocalypse is pretty slim.

Speaking of arrivals and departures, the man-child is off at the end of the month. Yup, my boy is heading Down Under via the UK to see friends and family before he leaps into the unknown. I’m excited for him which I know sounds a little strange considering my initial reaction when he told me last year but a mum is allowed to change her mind. And he’s not the only one preparing to fly across an ocean, Salome will be leaving the ‘woof nest’ in the coming weeks to head off to her new life with Corey in the U.S. via the U.K too. Unlike Callum’s flight paperwork i.e. get ticket and full vaccination certificates, Salome’s entry into the old mud island is far more complicated. It would be easier to send her direct to NYC than pop her over the Channel what with all the post-Brexit form filling let alone finding a pet service that can actually enter Heathrow with all the Boris vs. Macron restrictions. And there are no airlines from here to there that will allow a 6 kg pup in the cabins although this luxury can be provided on her onward journey to her new home. I shall be sad to see Salome go, she is such a refreshing little character but she was always meant for Corey and I know, like Callum, she will thrive in her new world when the time comes to leave this little homestead. I wonder if I can smuggle a rodent onto the next plane out?…..

“A mouse never entrusts his life to only one hole.” (Plautus)

Three years ago on a miserable January morning, I suddenly decided to write a blog. I remember being curled up on a chair in the sitting room at Knollys Road, surrounded by woofers and off I wrote. Of course, I had no idea of the journey life was going to take me on or that I would be sitting here on my favourite bar stool in my little French abode penning my weekly musings all this time later. And now as I enter my fourth year without T, I think I’m finally starting to feel less ‘widowy’ (my mother-in-law if you remember hates the word) and more, well, me. If I am allowed to ask the Gods for one thing in 2022, it would be for calm seas and no more bumps in the road. Please.

The reason for this brief reminiscence is The Book. Having made so many excuses as to why it wasn’t the right time, I am now in full tap tap flow. Callum bought me a new printer which, after a number of punch-ups, I can actually work. The first job has been to print off all the blogs and file them so I can refer to them as I go through my strange tale, hence my nostalgia. Some are still very difficult to read, especially the earlier ones, and to be honest some are downright boring but there’s a book in them so go through I must.

I had a rather drunken text from the lovely Lionel yesterday wishing me a Bonne Année followed by him telling me what a wonderful person I was to work for and how much he was looking forward to the travail ahead. He has no idea. It’s only five months until summer and he has a very long list of ‘to-do’s’ lined up which will make him regret those words once the celebratory season is over. And darling Denis will need to take all the decorations down on Thursday, we still don’t know the outcome of the nail-biting village competition but apparently we are in the final three. As much as I’m itching to pack away all the lights and baubles, I am going to follow the Christmas rules and wait until after Epiphany which is when I hope Lionel doesn’t have one.

We were the lucky ones this Christmas as the entire family managed to get here for the festivities, albeit a day late as is normal for the Collins’. Fifteen of us sat down on Boxing Day (someone laid the table for sixteen which was a little creepy) for lunch followed by kids and adults alike oohing and aahing over presents and far too much wine (adults that is). Amusingly the kitchen island whilst covered with food preparation and cake, also had several boxes of lateral flow tests littered about – part of the norm I suppose. We even managed to get some family photos done, I can’t remember the last time we all posed together although I did leave the woofers in my house – far less stressful. They had a wild time with the younger nephews and nieces chasing them around the gardens oblivious to the noise they were making, apologies to the neighbours but one hopes they were full of Christmas spirit in more ways than one. But sadly, such fun comes to an end and all is quiet once again. The driveway is back to looking like a driveway again and not a multi-storey car park and the woofers are snoozing away in the oddly warm January sunshine.

So here’s to 2022. To open roads with no speed bumps and seas with calm horizons ahead. And swimming pools that can actually be swum in……

“I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past.” (Thomas Jefferson)

I am mindful of the fact that since my next blog will be in 2022, I should use this one to reminisce about what a rollercoaster of a year has passed for us all. And even though we all had a glimpse of lockdown freedom over the summer, my heart goes out to those both here and in the UK who have had their Christmas torn away from them. I think we all think the same thing when that wishbone is pulled.

It’s been a year of sheer magic watching Alice become the most incredible mum to six healthy puppies, all of which have found wonderful homes (Salome goes to NYC in January). And although I had no intention of keeping any of them, the Gods gifted me with Sherman. You can never replace a dog but he has the soul of my beloved Macgyver so there was never really a choice. But there has also been heartbreak with the sudden loss of Evie in the Spring, my Chihuahua Princess forever laid to rest under a fig tree in the garden.

The last 12 months have otherwise been dominated by two things; the renovation of the main house and the headache that became the bloody pool, both of which were only supposed to take a few months but instead lasted the whole year. At least I can now say that both houses have heating and the piscine has its blanket on for the winter. The lovely Lionel and darling Denis spent Friday afternoon in high spirits messing around with a mallet, banging the poles in to secure the cover – I hadn’t laughed so much in ages. I sent Lionel off with his Christmas gift and a bottle of my home-made vin chaud (mulled wine) resulting in quite a few slurred text messages on the wonders of such a bevvie. I think both men were as relieved as I was that the bloody thing had finally been put to bed until next May.

Not only did I become a French resident earlier this year, I also ventured into the world of investments. I would say I’m rather proud of myself doing such stuff without Tony but since I drove all the way to Montpelier to sign the documents only to find out I had got the wrong day probably has him laughing his head off up there. Hopefully I’ll get there and back tomorrow without any hiccups. In French or English.

I was one of the lucky ones in 2021 as not only did I get to see my siblings and their offspring over the Summer, I also had a visit from my bestie Irene in the Autumn. And of course, Callum made it over even if he is about to travel to the other side of the world in a few months. I made new friends and got myself on a language course, the latter of which was supposed to be so I could do the former but things have a way.

So as 2021 begins to wind down, I’d like to thank everyone for reading my weekly murmurings, the popularity grows! Thank you also to Mr Max the chauffagiste for getting the heating on (eventually) and always making me laugh, to the lovely Lionel who had far more shoved on his plate than he bargained for (he hasn’t seen next year’s schedule yet) and of course, to darling Denis without whom nothing would have got done. And above all, thank you to my woofers Arry, Simi, Yogi Bear, Alice, Neo, Mo Cridhe, Coco Loco, Gizmo and Sherman. No-one wants to be a widow but I’m glad that when the going gets rough, you lot are always there to give me crazy and comfort in equal doses. To my family, I love you and to my darling Tony, miss you always especially when I’m trying to wrap presents and keep the Sellotape in a straight line.

Merry Christmas one and all and see you in 2022! oh, and below is the Christmas photo….

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” (Søren Kierkegaard)

After three plus weeks of rain and howling winds, the sun has finally decided to return and just in time for me to do the obligatory photo for the decorating competition. I have battled against incessant gales and heavy downpours to keep the covers on Santa and the elves and despite everything the weather threw at it, the star is still on top of the fir tree. We have had a minor issue with some of the lights that I connected to the main house’s electricity which promptly sent poor Mumo into darkness – bit of an overload me thinks but all in all, the place looks amazing. My job is done and I’ve given you a sneak preview in this week’s photos.

I had a rather nice surprise this week, the winter cover for the bloody pool arrived at long last. Of course, we can’t actually put it on at the moment because the lovely Lionel has to fix the deck in and can’t because someone broke his excavator. You couldn’t make it up. I do wonder if the damn thing is ever going to be finished but as the metier has forecast better skies at least until Christmas, I’m going to try and stay optimistic even if it means badgering Lionel and Denis to get it sorted. At this rate, the extortionately expensive pool blanket will be coming off before it’s even gone on.

With less than two weeks until Noël, the race is on to get the radiators up and warm for the arrival of siblings and their add-ons. Bless Max chauffagiste, he has been working non-stop (apart from his three hour lunch break of course) with the help of his new buddy Arry who, for some reason, Max absolutely adores. Arry who also helped himself to a pot of decorating glue giving the poor bloke a panic attack – I did think for a moment I ought to call the vet but to be honest, I don’t think he actually ate much apart from the plastic lid. Living with this nutcase of a German Shepherd means being in a semi-permanent state of anxiety which, after six years together, you just get used to.

I have my last French lesson on Tuesday although I have already signed up to do the next one in the New Year. Despite my initial fears of having to sit and talk for two hours en français , I have come to really enjoy my sessions with Dominique. I feel a lot more confident now and can even hold a conversation with the likes of Denis and Max, the latter of which informs me that I say all the right things but not necessarily in the right order (to alter a famous quote). I only hope that I can keep my courage through Wednesday as I have to go and sign some documents in Montpelier and I’m pretty sure I’ll be the only English speaker there. And it’s at 10 a.m which doesn’t really give enough time to drink the required three cups of coffee to make sense in the morning. Still, after that it’ll be straight on into the festivities as the first of the Collins’ brigade arrive and I can show off the illuminations. Ho ho ho or as the French say, ho ho ho……

“I’m playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order” (Eric Morecambe)

Frankly, I’m sick of the rain. I think we have had two days in the last three weeks when it hasn’t poured down and the wind is blowing a hooley, all of which is playing havoc with our attempts to get the façade ready for the competition. I spent most of yesterday tying down the Santa sign and securing covers over everything that wasn’t waterproof – which is most of it of course. Darling Denis spent hours up a ladder fixing all the lights on the houses, getting drenched in the process and having to patiently remove bundles of cable out of puppy mouths. I only hope that the deluge stops by the end of next week when the judging starts, soggy Santas aren’t going to swing the vote in our favour.

Despite the depressing weather system overhead, I have managed to stir up a little Christmas spirit by getting my little abode all sparkled up. I know there is always much debate (especially within my own family) as to when the tree goes up but I like the festive season to last as long as possible so I buy and bling up the tree the first week of December. Amazingly, most of the baubles have managed to stay attached even with Sherman and Salome’s attempts – any sudden jingling is usually a giveaway kids. As much as I love putting up all the Christmas paraphernalia, it’s a bit disheartening when you don’t have anyone to sing ‘Santa Baby’ with but at least the woofers don’t cringe when I’m warbling and they do like a bit of a boogie round the ‘sapin‘.

Last Wednesday was the second anniversary of Pop’s passing so Mumo and I took a trip over to L’Horte to say hello. I feel guilty sometimes that I don’t go over to see him as much as I used to but apart from the land he loved, I have no attachment any more to the home my family had for over a quarter of a century. We have had an offer from some organic farmers to rent the land which I know Pop would approve of, it would be a shame to just let it fold into nothing like the buildings on it. The lovely Lionel is keen to pilfer some of the wooden doors and take off the balcony railings so we can use the latter by the pool and the shutters somewhere here at Rouffiac. They’d only get nicked by someone else or decay along with the rest of the house there although I’ve no idea where we’d store them here, this place is groaning with bits of flooring and furniture still waiting to be needed. Mind you, Denis and I would probably find some use for everything in the exterior decorating department, so far we’ve uncovered the old tractor for ‘Papa Noel’ and dragged out Tony’s old skis for the elves. You’ll have to wait for the rain to stop before all is revealed though…..

‘White Christmas’ is the ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ of Christmas songs.” (Stewart Stafford)

Forget Autumn, it seems Winter has decided to start a month early. Bitterly cold winds and endless drizzle all week not only dampened the spirit but also meant any chance of getting any further with our new garden ideas hitting zero. The only plus side was that Max chauffagiste finally managed to get my radiators working (it’s only taken a year) so I can finally walk around chez moi without boots on. Max has assured me that he will get the big house connected by the end of next week which couldn’t come soon enough, a few paltry electric heaters does not a warm Mumo make.

It’s difficult to get into the festive season when Mother Nature is in a gloomy mood but Denis did manage to coax me into a bit of retail therapy, namely Christmas decorations, for our grand plan to win the village competition. Now, there isn’t a lot I miss about London but the absence of shops overflowing with gaudy baubles and cheap fairy lights anywhere around here made me long for a quick trip down Streatham High Road. Apart from one or two aisles in a couple of toy stores, there was virtually nothing but tinsel to get excited about. Poor Denis was so deflated but I assured him that Amazon delivers and by time we’ve finished the decorations, we’ll be seen from the Moon. Between us, we now have a theme, actually two as we couldn’t decide which was best – I’m just a little concerned that we might blow the Aude electric grid in the process. It is nice having someone else involved in putting everything together though, last year I did it all myself which was less ‘ho ho ho’ and more ‘oh dear no’.

I really really hope the winter cover arrives for the pool next week, not only am I terrified that one of the dogs is going to jump in and get hypothermia, I’m also sick of pulling all the leaves out of the skimmers. As soon as I clear the bloody thing, the wind mockingly throws a whole lot more in. I’m sure the neighbours must think it’s hilarious watching me and my net battle the elements. I wonder if I could turn it into an ice rink?

With December just around the corner and no sign of the dismal weather abating, I’m busy doing the Christmas cards and making present lists whilst watching terrible movies about disillusioned damsels in distress converting Scrooge types into charming (and rich) princes. I have no idea why I keep watch such saccharine rubbish but I suppose it’s escapism at a time of year when all you want to do is snuggle up with your better half. I’ll just have to put up with the woofers spreading their hairy selves over and around me instead, who needs radiators after all?….

“A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water.” (Carl Reiner)

Last week should be named the ‘week of the lurgies’. I got a stinking cold and a poorly Coco diagnosis revealed bladder stones. On the plus side, Coco can’t feel anything from the waist down so basked in all the attention he got at the vets – I doubt they get many dogs who don’t mind their private parts being poked about and x-rayed. I, on the other hand, stood there rubbing his chest, trying not to wince as probes were shoved in his ‘ahem’ and all the while managing to keep the sneezes at bay. The vets must have thought my facial expressions were that of a highly emotional owner rather than one battling with a runny nose in a mask.

The French translation for “I have a cold” is “j’ai un rhume” which sounds like something out of an Inspector Clouseau sketch (for those who remember the Pink Panther films) especially when said through a bunged up nose. Such words are enough to keep anyone from coming within two metres of you in case you are spreading something much worse. It doesn’t however stop them from giving their expert opinions on how to treat such lurgies; Denis insisted that I eat my bodyweight in pomegranate seeds (we have a tree in the garden) and Nathalie, my lady what does, suggested getting pole-axed on whisky and honey. Luckily I found an ancient packet of Lemsip in the bottom of my medicine drawer and the sniffles have run their course. Straight up Callum’s nose instead.

Despite my misery and the cold weather, Denis and I still managed to get our garden plans in motion. As much as it is lovely to have so much space for the woofers to run, there isn’t much in the way of floral abundance, so I had an idea for a rose garden. We cleared a small area at the bottom end of the property and Denis brought one of his climbing roses to set the whole thing off. There’s nothing quite like getting soil under your fingernails to make you feel better.

My neighbour tells me we’re in for a harsh winter because the Pyrenees are already covered in snow. With this in mind, I’ve made sure that the vulnerable trees have been wrapped up in their polyblankets so that they stay cosy and warm until Spring. The citrus look a bit like badly constructed snowmen on my balcony, a reminder that the festive season isn’t that far away and now is the time to concentrate on winning the annual decorating competition. I’ve roped in a few ‘elves’ this year to get all the lights up but I need a theme. Ideas anyone?…

“The colour of springtime is in the flowers; the colour of winter is in the imagination.”(Terri Guillemets)

Arry and I have a lot in common aside from long noses. We are both ‘doing’ sorts, that is to say we don’t cope well without having an energy outlet and tend to go through life at breakneck speed. I put Arry’s exuberance in all things active down to his natural zest for life (and pools), I think my frenetic approach has more to do with a search for some type of inner peace. I am happiest when I have a hundred and one things to do but why do I have the urge to complete everything immediately? And if I do find that magical place of serenity and bliss, will I actually calm down?

My favourite time to think is when I’m out running with Arry and Alice, now joined by Sherman and Salome, since they too need to burn off energy and I can keep up with their training more easily. There, on the trails, is the one place where I get close to that inner peace I long for – that is except when I’m not discussing what defines idiocy with Arry. I let my mind wander through random thoughts as to what would heal the wounds that the last few years have carved into me. That and practising putting French phrases together which for some reason is always best when wheezing up a hill. I suppose, like Forrest Gump did, one day I’ll just stop running.

If there was a week for many tasks to be completed, it certainly wasn’t the one just gone. The temperature dropped and so did the rain, the grey skies matched my mood and a funk ensued. With no work poolside and the soggy clay underfoot making any jobs in the garden near impossible, the only thing I could do was paint the alcove under the apartment and it’s not exactly my favourite job in the world. It’s also freezing cold down there so the walls take a long time to dry and the paint stinks. The wet weather meant having dogs underfoot whilst being precariously balanced on a ladder and trying to stop Sherman from re-creating The Coat of many Colours. To add to all the mayhem, Max the chauffagiste had finally decided that this was the week to change boilers so a multitude of pipes and wires decorated the floor like a weird game of Twister. Probably not the best time to update the downstairs decor. And no, we still don’t have any working radiators but darling Denis came round with a load of electric heaters, which was just as well since Mumo wasn’t feeling all that well (she’s better now thank you). I dread to think what my electric bill is going to look like but the woofers are loving the tropical ambience chez moi.

It’s off to the vets tomorrow with Salome and Simi. Salome is having her ovaries out and Simi, a couple of little lumps on her leg removed and sent off to the lab. I might have to take Coco in too as he’s a bit poorly this morning. Why do dogs always get sick on a Sunday? And not wanting to be left out of the party, Arry decided to add a bit of cross-country skiing to his daily zoomies so is now limping. So much for peace and inner calm.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. The quarterly village newsletter arrived with the announcement that there is to be another Christmas Decoration competition! If there is anything that’ll bring me out of a self-pitying funk, it’s festive fairy lights and fake holly. Denis and I have already begun planning the display – my only worry is that if Max hasn’t fixed the boiler, will our electric grid take the strain?

“Momma always said you need to put the past behind you before you can move on” (Forrest Gump)

Having basked in twenty-odd degrees through October, November has decided that we should have more seasonal temperatures. And a biting wind. I wouldn’t mind so much except that we still don’t have any heating, Max the chauffagiste is busy fiddling with all sorts of pipes but as yet, the radiators stand cold and useless, matching my mood over the last week. The woofers have taken to curling up with me at night which doesn’t leave me a lot of bed space but at least I’m toasty. Between Yogi Bear on my pillow, Arry spread out like an electric blanket on the end of the bed, Sherman snuffling in my face and the others squeezing into the remaining space, it’s unlikely I’ll freeze overnight even if I can’t move my legs in the morning.

As much as I would like to go into hibernation until Spring, there is always much to do chez nous. Manu, our incomprehensible Spanish plasterer has finished doing up the alcove and ‘bootroom’ under my front staircase leaving it for me to paint. Since slapping undercoat on external walls isn’t exactly aerobic exercise and therefore, unlikely to keep the cold at bay, I’m not exactly rushing to get it done. Mind you, it would be better than de-leafing the pool – never has there been a more pointless task, as fast as you skim them out, more drop in. The lovely Lionel assures me that he can start constructing the terrace at the end of next week which means we can put the extortionately expensive winter cover on and I won’t have to look at it again until the Spring. I’ve made darling Denis ‘directeur du jardin‘ which has delighted him and we spend hours discussing all the jobs needed to do over the cold days and months ahead. Of course, he gets the design and redo ones and I get the tidy up ones, mainly raking up the remaining walnuts before someone breaks an ankle on the flipping things.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. The Virginia Creeper has turned out her seasonal colours and much of the village is now decorated in glorious tones of red and gold. Now that my knee has had a bit of time off, we are back on the running trail through the stunning autumnal landscape bedecked with multi-coloured vines and early morning dew. Arry and Alice have been joined by the two pups which is great for them but less so for me, more high jig than jog as I try to avoid getting tripped up. Having said that, they are much more obedient than their elders – Arry seems to see the whole exercise as a sort of extreme assault course with the added excitement of bunny butts disappearing through the undergrowth.

With Christmas fast approaching, I coerced Mumo into taking my annual ‘family’ photo. Since Callum refuses to be present for my yearly festive card, I have to use the woofers instead. As always, trying to get them all to sit still, face the camera and not look like abused strays, and make myself look less than 55, ended in chaos. Still, we finally got a ‘take’ even if Mumo couldn’t work out my camera. And I’m not in it……

“Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year”(Chad Sugg)