3 - 1!!! Take zat Luis Aragones, you nasty, 'orrible, rascist, Spanish footballe managerre!!! And au revoir Torres, Fabregas, Raul and co. Your dream is overre. You are histoire. Au lait indeed!!!

Now..., despite my adopted and somewhat elderly French team getting just as far as Angleterre's over-rated, over-indulged and ludicrously over-hyped bunch of stuttering nervous wrecks, I've yet to see a tricouleur flag hanging from ze window of a local townhouse, farmhouse or any ozzaire kind of maison, or flapping in ze breeze on a battered Citroen, Renault, Peugeot, lorry, van, tractor, combine harvester, moped or bicycle, in support of 'les bleus magnifiques'.

Zo..., because our degree of expectation is somewhere around zero, when we get knocked out in ze next round by Brazil, zere'll be little in the way of disappointment. Par example, I fully expect Christian, Didier and various ozzer neighbours to merely shrug zeir shoulderres and say "zerre's alwayz ze rugby!".

But..., when les Anglais get knocked out, can you imagine ze consequences? Zere'll be tears, anarchy, suicides and work absenteeism on a scale never previously witnessed. Not to mention a gutter press lynch mob for Sven plus whoever's turn it is to miss zat crucial, extra-time, penalty decider. Zut alors. Doesn't bear sinking about.

Zo..., who's going to knock les Rosbifs out?

Well..., if France somehow manage to beat Brazil (zey've done it before; and wiz Henry on fire, and Vieira and ze majestic, superbe Zidane making superhuman efforts to retire at ze very top, it's a distinct possibility - especially if ze samba-boys have an 'off' day) and Sven Zabor's prima donnas manage to stutter zeir way past a depleted Portugal, zen it'll be a France Angleterre semi.

Oh..., I weesh.

Dave and Sue, a couple of chums from my college days way back in the sixties, popped in last Sunday for a flying visit.

Aaarrgghh!

The trouble with having visitors is that I'm suddenly forced to see the house for what it really is. Yes, it may have a brand new roof but the rest of the house is, at best, a dump. Familiarity, of course, disguises this fact. And luckily, bless 'em, Dave and Sue made a monumental effort in disguising their shock horror when they first arrived. But their ashen-faced, jaw-dropping, eye-popping countenances, combined with an involuntary attack of Tom'n'Jerry suspended animation the moment they stepped indoors, revealed the embarrassing truth. However, after a few moments, they managed to recover a semblance of composure, sat down, had a cuppa and very kindly donated two huge boxes of teabags and various packs of choccie bics to the GT survival kit. Hugely appreciated.

Having been warned of their imminent arrival well in advance, I was able to book them in for the night at the local small hotel in Felletin where they continued their recovery. By the time I met up with them again at the local pizzeria later that evening, they seemed completely back to normal after the trauma of being introduced to my somewhat novel version of domestic bliss. In honour of their visit, I'd made a huge effort in preparing for a rare night out by having one of my bi-annual showers and a hairwash, followed by an equally infrequent shave and quick splash with nancy water. Then I'd ditched my rags, dug out a shirt and jeans (unironed, of course) from one of the many cardboard packing cases that litter our maison, most of which have remained unopened since leaving civilisation and, finally, headed into town.

I think we then had a very pleasant soiree with an excellent choice of home-made pizzas, some jolly banter and a wee bit of maison rouge. Meanwhile, the rest of the assembled noshers choked on their pizzas as they suffered the humiliation of watching a bunch of South Koreans giving a footballing lesson to the French World Cup team on the restaurant telly (the final straw was a Zidane substitution). The evening was then crowned by a splendid thunderstorm as I drove back to our chateau (I naturally assumed this to be the gods' reaction to the ridiculous idea of a mere mortal replacing 'Zizou'). Back home, I discovered that the new roof had passed its first rain test with flying colours. No further buckets necessary. Marvellous.

Met up again the following morning for a quick chat and a coffee with a sunny outside table at the town centre caff, as swallows sang, circled and swooped overhead. It's a splendid gaff which, luckily, hasn't yet been modernised and thus still retains its original charm (if you're in the area, a visit is compulsory - it's right next door to the pizzeria). Then my travelling twosome prepared to hit the homeward trail north. Next stop would be an overnight stay with another old college chum and his wife who live near Paris. But Dave and Sue have only just heard that hubby was thrown out last August for one too many philanderings...

Despite Georgie's strict instructions about not making any of my usual derogatory or inflationary remarks about anything or anyone whilst conversing with my chums, I couldn't resist the temptation to express delight on hearing of this philandering. Personally, I find it rather reassuring and highly amusing to hear news of old dog aquaintances who flatly refuse to lie down and die, and who instead, resolutely continue to display an enviable, though perhaps somewhat undignified capability for summoning up the considerable energy, enthusiasm and devil-may-care attitude necessary to chase, chat up, woo and ultimately tup totty, blatantly ignoring the risk of a fatal heart attack whilst 'on the job' and, far more seriously, the probable dire matrimonial, legal, financial and life-changing consequences.

As retribution for exclaiming "good man!" on hearing news of my old chum's apparently interminable womanising, a less than sympathetic Sue immediately bit my head off. So too did Georgie when I inadvertently let it slip during a phone call that I'd voiced a modicom of support for my Viagra-munching, sex-machine of an old mate. As I said, I just couldn't resist it. Anyway, it's probably a very sad story but, nevertheless, looking forward to further info...

PS - Have heard a bit more and, yes, it is a very sad story. So kindly ignore my previous flippant remarks (it says here).

PPS - Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I hasten to add that I have no intention whatsoever of following in my geriatric, gigolo chum's footsteps. I'm perfectly happy with my beloved Georgina, thank you very much. Besides, as a Jock, I naturally consider chatting-up, woo-ing and all the rest of that nonsense to be a ridiculous waste of valuable drinking time. And as a proper bloke, I'm blessed with a listening cut-out device which automatically activates at the sound of a woman's voice, thereby severely limiting the likelihood of achieving any form of intercourse with a female member of the opposite species.

What a great day. Bright blue skies, dazzling sunshine, twittering birds, chirping crickets, the gentle hum of a tractor in a distant field, a warm breeze, the pleasant aroma of freshly cut grass... parfait. Just the day to be outdoors.

But unfortunately I spent most of the day indoors shifting furniture then Polyfilla-ing, sanding down and painting a couple of walls in the boudoir. Then there was the clearing up to do. Plus selecting a World Cup dream team line-up on the Daily Telegraph website.

Then, around seven-ish, with the evening shadows lengthening, I threw the dogs in the car and headed up to the cemetary at the edge of the hamlet. It's one of my favourite dogwalks. A two mile hillside circuit across the valley opposite our house. It begins along a forested ridge which opens up with glorious views, then meanders down a forest track which eventually leads up to an old farm. Then it's back to the start along a high lane. Takes about an hour. But sometimes, like this evening, I skip the high lane and turn around at the farm. Takes a bit longer but you get more of the forest, which the dogs prefer.

Took the camera this time. Usually I forget. Took a few snaps which I'll attempt to include on this posting just to show how lucky I am to live in such a lovely area (how many snaps are allowed on this site?). Photos are okay but you can't beat the real thing. Stunning countryside. Made me wonder why I wanted to move. Then I remembered...

...When I drove back to the house, there was Adriane sitting on the church wall, awaiting my arrival. Damn, buggery, blast. How many times do I have to tell him that I want to be left alone?! Luckily, he just wanted to say 'hello'. But then he offered to do the evening garden watering duties (in such instances it's very hard to say "no, bugger off" when I'm sure he means well) while I prepared the dogs' dinner. Having watered the garden, plus the dogs when I wasn't looking, he then left without being told to (maybe my nagging's getting through at last), leaving me to enjoy my solitude with a roll-up and a large scotch and dry, whilst watching the view across the valley slowly drop below the sun's rays.

Then I went indoors, opened a tin of sausages and lentils (three tins for the price of two!), watched some telly, nodded off in my chair, woke up at about 3a.m., gave the dogs a moonlit stroll to the granite cross and back, then got stuck into this computer as I wasn't in the least bit tired, had a few teas, fiddled around and now it's 6a.m. and the night sky's turned from black to blue.

Looks like another sunny day's dawning on sleepy old Poussanges.

My bruvva-in-law rang up last night and asked to see a photo of the finished roof. I said that it ain't finished yet as there's still the inside to do. He said that it didn't matter, just show the outside. So, here it is, arriere et derriere...

And just in case anyone thinks I've been doing bugger all while the builders have been slaving away on the roof, here's proof that I've been hard at work. May not be much to look at but I can tell you that it's no picnic carrying tons of old roof wood to a bonfire over a five week period, burning it (along with all sorts of builders' stuff including horrible polythene sheeting) and then painstakingly picking about 3,173,447 old nails out of the ashes. Try it sometime. Ruins your hands, you get cramp in your knees and elbows and you end up absolutely filthy.

Now the builders have temporarily departed, I'm left with a garden area to the side of the house which is smothered in sand, concrete, bits of old wood and broken tiles, nails and the odd discarded plastic water bottle. Unfortunately there wasn't time for them to complete the erection of my granite obelisk before the hired crane-lorry had to be returned. So I'm now left with 'alf an 'ole and an 'orrendously 'eavy 'orizontal 'umdinger of a rock in a garden that's beginning to closely resemble Stonehenge.

Took my camera along on this morning's dogwalk just to show one of the trillions of flowering broom bushes that currently add glorious colour to the landscape. The locals think of them as damned weeds but I love 'em. So much so that I've uprooted a few young 'uns and planted them at the garden's edge in order to look forward to a bit more privacy. Could take a few years for my cunning plan to reach eventual fruition, by which time I'll hopefully have moved on to 'the' barn. Dream on...

On the dogwalk I spotted this marvellous stag beetle. Unfortunately it was lying on its back and not feeling very well. Mind you, nor would you if you'd lost your entire abdomen region. I presume this had been pecked away by some peckish crow. Or maybe a blackbird. Anyway, having been a stag beetle fanatic since I used to run around in shorts, I can only marvel at what this superb specimen must have been like before that crow arrived. A truly stunning example of one of nature's wonders. Just look at those horns! Brilliant.

A footnote... Talking of running around in shorts, as you can see, I've obviously introduced an air of glamour, a touch of dress sense and some much needed sartorial elegance to the sleepy backwater that is unfashionable Poussanges...

Well, the roof 's half done.
They've finished the outside; gutters, drainpipes and all. Now there's just the inside to do.
"When will that be?"
"Dunno, mate."
"Next week? Next month? Maybe later?"
"Dunno, mate. The inside's done by another team."
"Before winter?"
"Oui. Should be." (Laughs.)
So je presume I'll just have to sit and wait. But at least I won't have to get the buckets out when it rains.
(Just been told by Monsieur Breuil that it should be around Sepember. And if I want a quote for basic re-wiring in the house and installing electricity in the loft, he'll get Monsieur Sparkie Durault to give me a ring - obviously it makes sense to get the wiring in before the plaster boards etc. go up. More damned expense but I suppose it adds value.)

The obelisk's half done.
This is a seven foot high lump of granite. Looks a bit like an inverted incisor tooth. Found it lying horizontally under brambles in a corner of the garden. Apparently it's an old marker. Marked the extent of the house's original land area. But as there's a fence there now, it's a bit superfluous to requirements. Then I had a bright idea: with the help of a couple of the builders and the huge digger-type lorry thing, I thought we could move it to the front garden where it could become a rather interesting garden feature. Dug a two feet deep hole and hit rock. Ah well, maybe that's deep enough. Lorry fork-lifted obelisk out of its brambly resting place, transported it around the back of the house and into the front garden area, crane thingy extended towards little hole and obelisk dropped into position. Promptly fell over. "Your hole's gotta be twice that deep mate." So now I've borrowed a small pneumatic drill thingy with the intention of bashing my way through two feet of solid rock. Could take some time. Meanwhile, the builders and the lorry have gone and I'm left with half a hole (my maths master once told me you can't have half a hole - oh yeah, well I've damned well got one!) and a horizontal objet d'art that weighs half a ton. As I said, the obelisk's half done.

The barn's half done.
Well, no; the barn isn't half done. But we're halfway there with buying it.
I purposely haven't mentioned the barn recently as our original purchase plans came to an abrupt end when it transpired that it didn't have a 'CU' (permission to convert) after all. This gave us an ideal opportunity to pull out of the deal if we so wished. But (to cut a long story short) we didn't. So now we're proceeding again even though there isn't a CU. Mad, huh? Still, why change the habit of a lifetime?! However, the local council's said they'll probably grant one once the access lane's been gravelled thus enabling an ambulance to get up there. Can't put it in writing though. So we're taking a bit of a risk. But if there's half a chance of living in splendid isolation with a glorious view (not to mention getting away from damned Adriane), wouldn't you?

(stunning view from isolated barn with dilapidated old house)

The bedroom's half finished.
Well, not exactly. But I've managed to do a couple of walls. These previously had numerous small cracks and holes where some clowns had nailed tongue and grooved wood to the walls in order to 'modernise'. (Strangely, they'd wallpapered over the two walls which are constructed of an eighteenth century equivalent of t&g. Weird.) Used up a couple of tubs of Polyfilla stuff. Plus hours of sanding down. Dust everywhere. Plus clouds of dust and dirt falling through the floorboards from the loft above where the builders have been prancing around and cutting tiles with an angle grinder. Anyway, two walls done. A revolutionary cream colour. Ah, the old rebel spirit still lives!

And I've bought a half price telly.
Well, not exactly half price but pretty damned near.
One of the first things the builders did when they arrived was to dismantle my TV satellite dishes. So, up 'til last week I had no telly. Missed a couple of rounds of Moto GP. Disastrous. Then, for the French round, I had a brainwave: I'd rig up the Eurosport dish to the scaffolding with string and gaffertape. Useless. Ended up holding the damned thing by the window and aiming in the rough direction of the satellite until a picture appeared. And it sort of worked. Trouble was, it got a bit windy so I missed part of the racing due to sticking gaffertape everywhere. Got into a right old mess. Just at the end I had a perfect picture. Then, a couple of days later, Adriane and I rigged up the other dish (the BBC and ITV one). Eventually got a good picture in the evening when we could actually see the satellite we were aiming at. Trouble was, a crap little old telly that doesn't include the bits to the left and right (nowadays 'they' transmit a wider picture), is no way to prepare for the World Cup. So, just out of curiosity, I thought I'd amble up to the local hypermarket to check out telly prices. Crikey, bleedin' expensive! Then visited another. Just as expensive. Then, fate... spotted a cut price Sony. A two year old model apparently. Last of the line. 40% off. So I snapped it up. Now feeling very guilty. Should have put up with the cheap'n'cheerful little old one I suppose. But hey, it's my early 60th birthday present. Wasn't brave enough to tell Georgie until last night. In her own little way she hit the roof.

Which reminds me: it's half done.

P.S. - Half forgot... just been busying myself by planting about half a dozen small broom shoots that I nicked from the backwoods on yesterday evening's dogwalk, plus doing a wee bit of tidying up outside. Lifted a bit of wood from under a front window and suddenly spotted a coiled snake. Not a long one. Only about a foot or so. Dark brown. Probably harmless, but didn't want to take any chances so I chopped it in half with a spade just as it was about to escape under the house. Still wriggling so I whipped its head off with an axe. Still wriggling so I smashed its head with the blunt end of the axe. Don't mess with Chopper Thompson.