Last Sunday. An all-day faaarming 'do' up at Poussanges Mairie. Kicked off at 11am with a mass in the church. Heard 'em singing while we laid low in the garden and kitchen. Then three historic horse-drawn contraptions turned up on the church lawn: one carriage and two straw baling thingies. When the mass was over, everyone moved up to the Mairie; most by Shanks's pony and some by carriage. A lunch had been arranged, followed by boules, drinking, nattering, more boules, more drinking, more nattering and maybe a polka or two accompanied by some moustachioed garlic-muncher squeezing hell out of an accordian. Am a little embarrassed at not having made the effort to attend this highpoint of the social calendar, but I had a very good excuse: my twin chickadees are not very good at getting up on a Sunday - especially a holiday Sunday. So there. Anyway, we were fattygayed from the previous day's exertions in weeding, lawn chopping and arranging flowery things on the house window sills. After all, can't have la maison next to the eglise looking like a cochon-sty, can nous? 'Twould bring shame to Scotland et Putne ('e' acute).
