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To re-cap: French house sorted (Lot valley), holiday shack sorted (Formentera), London pad sorted (leave that to Georgie), which just leaves somewhere in the UK..., but where? Well, as I mentioned in the deleted posting, my two fave cities are Edinburgh and Bath. Makes sense to have a look there even though I'm not overly keen on cities. Maybe a country pile as well. Or maybe not. Ah well, here goes, in no particular order...

1) Edinburgh, 1.3 million.
I like this because it's one of the few unmodernised (and therefore unruined) properties I could find. Full of olde worlde charm. Would be tempted to keep it just the way it is. Nice and scruffy. Added bonus of being near Murrayfield.

2) Edinburgh, Lansdowne Crescent, 1.4 million.
Been done up but doesn't seem too ruined. Original features retained. Good position and lovely view. Not too big and not too small. Quite like it.

3) Edinburgh, 950k.
I like the price. Five beds and a double garage. Seems silly not to include it.

4) Edinburgh, 6 miles south of, 1 million.
Near enough to the city to be convenient and far enough away to be 'countryfied'. Best of both worlds. Well worth a look.

5) Bath, Lansdown Crescent, 2.8 million.
Fabulous. Love it.

6) Bath, Cavendish Crescent, 1.8 million.
Poor man's version of Lansdown Crescent but still fabulous.

7) Bath, semi-detached, 1.5 million.
As far as semis go, this has to be one of the best. But maybe security's an issue when not in residence. Have to think of these things.

8) Bath, Russell Street, 600k.
A gem. Same family has lived there for the last forty years. Perhaps needs updating but, once again, I'd be tempted to keep it just the way it is. And at just 600k it's incredible value for money - especially compared with London prices (more of that later!).

9) Devon, Cullompton, 3 million.
Fantastic! In fact, so fantastic it's already under offer. Rats. Unmodernised and nicely frayed around the edges. And Georgie would love that walled garden. Highly reassuring to know that such places still exist. But they're disappearing fast due to an explosion of unsympathetic developers.

10) Devon, somewhere in the hills outside Torquay, 1.2 million.
Wonderful. I love it. Simply splendid. Surprised someone hasn't snapped it up already.

11) London, Southfields, 500k.
Have included this 'cos I was gobsmacked when I saw it. Er, I mean the price. It's practically next door to the first house I/we owned and in roughly the same condition - but ours cost 21k not 500k! Spotted this one for sale last Friday. Come Monday it was under offer. Amazing. Just compare value for money with listing no.8 (above). No comparison. Georgie, of course, is really depressed. "If only we'd hung onto it..."

So, having listed that lot, which one would I go for?

Er..., umm...

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Brief summary: having already covered spending on family, bikes, cars, French houses and Formentera holiday home in a previous posting, I then began fantasizing about buying UK properties. However, I've ditched all that (deleted previous posting) and had a re-think...

New thinking: split our responsibilities - put Georgie in charge of finding London gaff while I run around searching for a country pile.

Being a Libran (and a female one at that!), Georgie would undoubtedly have enormous problems in trying to decide what to go for. So, being the helpful gent that I am, I'd make a few suggestions despite knowing full well that her response would always be "completely unsuitable, you must be joking" etc. For example, while I quite fancy the following house (East Sheen - 4 million), she'd no doubt opine that it was far too big, and, if left there on her own, she wouldn't really feel safe (lot of weirdos out there - even in the leafy suburbs of posh East Sheen - us blokes have to remember to see things from a girly perspective)...

Being far more realistic and practical than moi, she'd probably choose instead something like this 2.45 million quid (how much?!!) Putney gaff in St. John's Avenue because it's easily managed, fairly cosy, surrounded by friendly neighbours, on her existing UK home patch, near her friends etc.,...

So..., my country pile. Given this a lot of thought. Shown a few choices earlier (now deleted - completely impractical) but have finally reached the conclusion that it's just plain bonkers to go for anything bigger than one really needs despite all that money burning a hole in one's pocket or handbag.

Yes, it's tempting to look into splendid Jacobean mansions such as this one near Yeovil (4 million)... http://search.knightfrank.com/she080182 ...but, if you really stop and think about it, you'd probably end up living in just one room with a telly up one end and a bed up the other. Daft. You'd be rattling around like a couple of marbles in a tin (or just one if Georgie was 'up in town'). And think of all the problems of running a place like that. The novelty would, I'm sure, soon wear off.

As I mentioned earlier (in the deleted post!), I've noticed that the further up the price range one looks, the harder it becomes to find houses that haven't been 'done up'. Trouble is, this usually means that original features etc. have been replaced by ghastly modern stuff. I suppose most people go for all that garbage but, personally, I find it depressing.

However (and contrary to what I just mentioned about size), I quite like this magnificent old house near Ivybridge (1.8 million) in South Devon, mainly because it hasn't yet been modernised (i.e. ruined) and therefore still retains its original features:
http://search.knightfrank.com/exe090075
Although it possesses the somewhat 'frayed round the edges' character for which I've been searching, it is, unfortunately, far too big. Also, it's too far away from London to be properly convenient. So I decided to look for something closer.

After a couple of days searching, nothing fitted the bill. Absolutely nothing. A few gaffs came close but they lacked that certain something which is impossible to define - it's that certain feeling you get (well, I do anyway) when you first set eyes on a house.

I was on the point of giving up the hunt when, as is often the case, I suddenly spotted a place that set bells ringing. It may not be everyone's idea of a lottery winner's dream home but, as far as I'm concerned, it's perfect.

Funnily enough, we first noticed this place a few years back when we used to take the dogs walking along the river. I remember mentioning to Georgie that I thought it'd be a cracking place to live despite its condition and the fact that it's sort of overlooked. Needs a bit of work (an understatement if ever there was one!) and a lot of imagination but the end result could be stunning. And, being in Frensham, it's very convenient for London. Price? - a mere 750k, plus a million or two to renovate. No problem.

So, there you have it. Mission completed. It's taken a long time but I got there in the end. Total new purchases: four bikes, three cars, four houses. Total spent? Who cares!

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Like many others, I've been daydreaming about what I'd do with all that dosh. Been a source of unbridled joy during the miserable weather of the last few days (brightened up today though). According to Hunter Davies (author of a book about lottery winners) who appeared on telly last night, most lottery winners' lives aren't changed that much by a lottery win. They merely pay off their debts, have a bit of a holiday, maybe bung a few quid to close family members, perhaps buy a better car and then move up the property ladder a couple of rungs. Apparently they rarely leave their home town, preferring instead to remain with familiar friends and surroundings.

Well, being a proper Toady, I'd do things differently. I've given it a lot of thought, as I said, over the last few days. For a start, unlike the winners who appeared on last night's news spraying champagne in front of the nation, I'd keep my win secret (apart from Georgie, Don and, possibly, sis). Top secret. No publicity whatsoever. Then I'd tell any official lottery financial advisers who came my way (I presume they're on you like a plague of locusts), to get lost. Then, as soon as I possibly could, I'd whisk most (about 25m?) of the filthy lucre out of the UK, well away from British bankers, convert it into euros and plonk it straight into some Swiss bank account. At this point I wouldn't be surprised if some faceless governmental representative intervened in an attempt to stop the money going out of the country - he'd probably threaten to leak the story to the press and I'd probably have to take legal advice. The whole thing could suddenly become a nightmare.

If, and it's a big 'IF', I managed to keep things quiet, like other winners, I'd dish out dosh to members of my tribe according to a combination of their needs and how much I liked them (I'd try to be as fair as possible) on the strict understanding that they were sworn to absolute secrecy. Stopping people blabbering would of course be tricky, but it's entirely necessary to avoid any jealousy or feuding - I imagine this is one of many instances where money can cause problems instead of solving them.

See how complicated a big lottery win can become if you really think about it?

Now to the fun part. Here Toady would have to okay a few things first with his other half (what's mine is hers) before letting rip with a spending spree to end all spending sprees. If permitted by Captain Sensible, here's exactly what I'd do...

Cars and bikes first (surprise, surprise)...

Get new dogwagon. This would be a Mercedes 300 TE. Production stopped about twenty years ago but it remains the greatest estate car of all time. Bit thirsty though, but no problem for us millionaires. Spotted a good 'un (see photo below) - left hand drive (lhd), 80,000 miles, recently imported to the UK from Germany and up for grabs at about three grand. I'd snap it up, get a Merc specialist to make it better than new, have it delivered and get someone to arrange its registration in France. And while I'm at it, I'd look out for a good Citroen 'traction' light fifteen. Always fancied one.

Next, do up my VW mk.2 Golf GTi 16v (best car ever) and VW camper which I'd keep for sentimental reasons. And I'd probably keep the existing Citroen ZX dogwagon too 'cos I'd hate to get the Merc muddy, which rather defeats the purpose of buying it in the first place. Then I'd buy a proper car. Nothing fancy like a new Ferrari or Rolls Royce; just a simple, second-hand Porsche 911 SC (again, best car ever - had one a few years back). Spotted a good 'un on eBay (see below): white, lhd, recently imported from California (rust-free and without that vulgar, aerodynamic 'tray' on the back), low mileage and just 14k smackers. Bargain. Perfect as an everyday runaround in France. If I had the money now, I'd buy it anyway, but I ain't, so I can't; rats. Then, for use in the UK (more about that later), I'd buy another second-hand 911 Porker. Yes, second-hand (old habits die hard and new Porkers are oh so terribly 'bling'). This rather fine specimen (the green one) is a bit more modern than the SC and it's only(!) about 26 grand.

Right, now bikes. Given this a whole heap of thought. For a start, I'd keep my old banger of a BMW at battle stations in France 'cos I like it and it's comfy for Georgie. Rather surprisingly, I wouldn't fill my garages (the garages I haven't yet mentioned) with an array of Japanese and Italian exotica, mainly because, in next to no time, I'd either lose my driving licence or life. Or both. Anyway, Fireblades and Ducatis: been there, done that. In line with my somewhat tight-fisted approach to cars, I'd buy just three bikes - the latest KTM 990 Adventure (for fun), the latest Harley Davidson Fatboy (for cruising) and a classic 1977 500cc Velocette 'Thruxton' (for drooling over and polishing). And I might buy a Vincent (to discover what all the fuss is about) and an MZ (to remind me of the good old days when I was permanently skint). I know I'd be tempted to spend millions on bikes but I'd just have to learn that it's better to appreciate what one has rather than lust after every new superbike that gets launched. That's gonna be difficult.

Now, houses...

I'd finish off doing up my/our current French abode. Nothing too fancy - original character to be retained. And I'd also get 'the barn' and dilapidated cottage renovated. But I wouldn't sell 'em. Nor would I live in them, although I can imagine using 'the barn' as my main arty-farty painting studio, so maybe I would live there at certain times - I still have that dream of idyllic bliss, splendid isolation, far from the madding crowd. So what to do with the current abode? Well, after careful consideration, I think it would be a great idea to retain ownership but pass the everyday running of the house over to a 'committee' of younger tribe members for use as a holiday home. That way, they could all learn the joys of living in the French backwoods, have cheap holidays, learn more about each other (many of them have never even met) and thereby create more of a family feel, even though they may not be related. If this plan failed miserably, then maybe it might be better to give the house to the local community for use in cases of homelessness or other social disasters (I'm sure the mayor would sort that out).

Right, that done, I'd find a 'main' French home (yes, I'm well happy living in France). But where? Well, I've always fancied the Dordogne region but it's now a bit too British and touristy for my liking. However, I'm still a big fan of the adjacent Lot region so I started searching there. Discovered this fab pile right on the river's edge. Would suit me perfectly; retains original charm and features, loads of space for cars and bikes, acres of land for dogs, etc., and, at just 2.3 million euros (about 2m quid), not too pricey. Would, of course, have to get 'er indoors' permission - if she didn't fancy it, I'd look for somewhere else (needless to say, this applies to all my prospective house purchases).

Next, a holiday home. Forget the Bahamas or the Maldives etc. - stay in hotels instead. No, what's really required is a little place a bit closer to home (i.e. France), so it's easily accessible. Maybe somewhere in the south of France. Hmm, maybe not. Too poncy. So where then?

Well, I have many happy memories of hols in the Greek Islands and Ibiza (before it went trendy) with Georgie, so they're possibilities. A Greek island that's always intrigued me is the tiny isle of Ithaca. Never been there but almost made it when we stayed in Kephalonia. Maybe worth a look. Trouble is, Greece isn't exactly down the road. As I said, we need somewhere closer to home. Maybe Ibiza. But perhaps not - the place has been ruined and, like the south of France, it's far too trendy. However..., there's a tiny island just off Ibiza called Formentera. Been there a few times and simply adored the place. Not too difficult to get to. Drive to Barcelona or Marseille, park up, hop on a boat to Ibiza, then a tiny boat to Formentera, hire a bike or scooter and then simply enjoy the simple delights of a little island that hasn't yet been ruined (at least I don't think it has). Spotted this little hideaway for around 600k euros (approx.). Yup, that'll do.

Right, next requirement is a London gaff (bet yer boots Georgie will insist on one) and maybe a little (or massive) place in the country to escape to when I get one of my attacks of London claustrophobia.

Hah! This is fun!

P.S. Georgie's just told me that Simon Cowell earns this sum (45 million) annually. Whaaat?!! Find that hard to believe.

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My enthusiasm for MZs began way back in the '70s when I first rented a bike shed to garage my trials bike. In the next shed along, a little old man kept his beloved 250cc MZ Supa 5 and on Saturdays, when we'd both be tinkering with our bikes, I'd often pop in to see how he was doing. Surrounded by old Castrol posters and faded black and white biking photos from a bygone age, he'd pour me a cuppa from his Thermos as he started nattering about 'the good old days' of the TT races. Kept me enthralled for hours. When I first asked him why he had a crappy old MZ, he laughed and said "because it's all I can afford!". Then he explained that he'd also bought it because he admired the way a tiny little East German factory took on, and beat, the 'big boys' at the TT. And it was all down to some chap called Walter Kaaden. Who? So he told me the MZ story. There's a lot you can learn from an old man in a shed. Sadly, the old boy died about a year later. But his stories, enthusiasm, and love of MZs never left me. As I said, I've been an MZ fan ever since. Had five so far.

A book has recently been published ('Stealing Speed' by Mat Oxley) which goes into greater detail about the story I first heard from that little old man. Extracts have appeared in one of my classic bike magazines and, for some months now, I've been meaning to order the book. Finally did so this afternoon. Really looking forward to a riveting read.

Even for non-bikers, it's a fascinating tale and a ripping yarn...

Where to begin? Well, perhaps the moon landing is as good a place as any. When Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, it was the ultimate step in NASA's space programme of the '60s. Head of NASA at that time was Werner von Braun, a German rocket scientist who fled to America after the second world war. I presume the Yanks gave him an offer he couldn't refuse: come to America and give us your rocket science 'know how' or be hanged (von Braun designed and developed the V1 and V2 'doodlebug' rocket bombs that caused so much devastation towards the end of the war). There's no doubt that von Braun's contribution propelled the USA ahead in the space race, but people forget that they also benefitted from Sir Frank Whittle's jet engine secrets conned out of the UK (along with millions of pounds, land, and heaven knows what else) as payment for the US assistance in WW2. Hah! The Yanks would never have got their moon-landing plans off the ground if left to themselves. I mean, look at their cars and bikes - rubbish.

I digress.

During the war, Walter Kaaden was a junior member of von Braun's 'V' Series rocket team. Working alongside von Braun, Kaaden gained valuable knowledge of jet engine gas flow, resonance, air pressure harmonics and all sorts of other stuff that I don't understand. After the war, he chose not to join von Braun in America, settling instead for a simple life as a carpenter in Zschopau, East Germany. His means of transport was a humble little 100cc DKW motorcycle. In order to make it go faster, he experimented with different exhaust systems that he knocked up out of old bits of tin, utilising knowledge gained from his wartime experience. His test track was the road that went by the DKW factory where his speed and the banshee wailing of his screaming exhaust soon attracted the attention of the factory bosses. Impressed with his bike's performance, Kaaden was invited to join the DKW workforce. To cut a long story short, Kaaden soon became head of DKW's race team, DKW later became MZ (Mottorwerke Zschopau) and Kaaden was tasked by the communists to make MZ a world-beater on the racetracks. Some challenge! Especially with very limited resources.

Until Kaaden came along, the two-stroke engine was regarded in race circles as being uncompetitive. Four strokes were faster, more efficient, more powerful and more reliable. But Kaaden reckoned he could beat them. Working day and night in a scruffy little garage, he soon perfected his theories of exhaust gas expansion chambers and disc valve carburetion, thereby creating the same effect as supercharging. Miraculously, in a very short space of time, he almost doubled the power of his racing engine. Kaaden was now ready to challenge the might of Honda, MV and various other grand prix factories.

(MZ team - Kaaden far right)

While developing the MZ racer, Kaaden had groomed a young East German mechanic named Ernst Degner as his assistant. He was also to be Kaaden's no.1 rider. When Degner entered the grand prix circus, he gradually started to win races which surprised everyone except Kaaden. He saw life in Europe. He saw his competitors' fancy cars and tasted their champagne lifestyle. He thought about defecting but, with a young wife and baby back home, he always had to return behind the Iron Curtain when racing was over.

(Kaaden and Degner)

In 1961, Degner was just one race away from becoming 125cc world champion. The next race was the Swedish round and Kaaden was ready to celebrate. But it was not to be. Degner's bike had apparently broken down somewhere on the far side of the track. After the race, unbeknown to Kaaden, Degner defected. The rumour is that he was whisked away with his wife and kid by the Japanese in a pre-arranged plan, taking Kaaden's secrets and a few vital engine parts with him. Kaaden was devastated. The communist government immediately shut down Kaaden's operation and he became a forgotten man.

However, his legacy continued. Armed with Kaaden's secrets, Suzuki won their first world title: the 50cc world championship. The rider? Ernst Degner. Then Yamaha and Kawasaki began utilising Kaaden's two-stroke theories. Pretty soon Japanese two-strokes dominated racing. Take a look at Barry Sheene's world championship winning Suzuki and you'll see it bears a remarkable similarity to Kaaden's MZs.

The guy was a genius. A true genius.

Walter Kaaden died of cancer, aged 76, in 1996. He lived to see the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of communism. Just before he died, he was tracked down and interviewed by Jan Leeks (author of 'MZ - Birth of the Modern Two-Stroke Racer). Kaaden said he was amazed anyone remembered him or his deeds and achievements at all.

Walter, you'll never be forgotten. You changed the world.

But that's not the end of the story.

Ernst Degner retired from racing after an accident on the Suzuka racetrack when he fell off his bike and it burst into flames. Degner's burnt body was pulled from the inferno and he somehow survived, but he suffered horrific burns. He moved back to Germany. In 1983, while in the Canary Islands (on holiday?), he apparently committed suicide by overdosing on the medicine to ease the pain of his burns OR by slitting his throat OR by shooting himself (seems to be some confusion from the reports I've read - hopefully 'Stealing Speed' will provide clarification, when it arrives!). Inevitably, there's speculation that it wasn't suicide but murder. KGB/Stasi hitman? A revenge killing? Possibly. We'll never know.

(The humble MZ - a proper biker's bike)

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My dream machine is/was the Vincent Rapide - the 1000cc 'V' twin motorcycle that's arguably the best (whatever that means) bike of all time. Started looking for one semi-seriously a few years back. Prices were then around 12 grand - twice the price of a new Jap superbike. Astronomical. Then toyed with the idea again when we sold up and moved to France. By which time prices had risen to around 20 grand. Looked at one just outside Bromley, a minter. Tried to convince Georgie it'd be a wise investment, all the time knowing that all I really wanted to do was thrash it through country lanes on full chat. After all, that's what the damned things were built for; not museums or stashing away in heated garages. Almost bought it, but didn't. So near and yet so far.

I keep looking though. As I said, I'm addicted. Prices are now up to about 30 grand. Or more. Way out of reach. Spotted a good 'un on eBay last week. Bidding ended this afternoon. Last night it was up to about 24 grand. Hit 25 this morning. Thought it'd go for about 30. Made 32,100 at the last minute. Worth every penny.

Feast yer mince pies on this eBay beauty (with reluctant vendor who's selling to fund retirement home) while I cry inta me Rosie Lee...

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Me and my big mouth. While watching the last France/Scotland Six Nations rugby match on telly round at neighbour Christian's way back in February, I casually mentioned that it'd be rather a wizard wheeze for us to visit Murrayfield for next year's Scotland/France game. Only really said it as a bit of a joke, never once thinking Christian would take the idea seriously. But a couple of weeks ago he mentioned that the game was scheduled for 7th February, thereby suggesting that he was quite keen on going. In order to put him off a bit, I told him tickets were gold dust but I'd look into it. Then, down at the market last week, Isabelle asked if she should find out about getting Christian a passport, just in case I managed to get match tickets. The whole thing had snowballed. Too late to say I wasn't really serious about going. Time for action.

Kicked off by looking for tickets on the internet. Visited a few dubious ticket agency sites where they were asking silly money with no real guarantee of delivery. No way, Jose (where are the damned accents?!). Then accidentally stumbled into the official Scottish Rugby site where I was amazed to find one could book face value ticket vouchers on a first come, first served, basis (I'm a mere novice in this ticket game - I thought tickets were only available to rugby club members). Immediately booked two 70 quid tickets.

Then went to the RyanAir site to book a couple of seats on the Limoges-Edinburgh flight. Disaster! Fully booked a week either side of match day! So checked various alternatives. Snapped up a RyanAir Limoges-Stansted flight, followed by an EasyJet Stansted-Edinburgh flight a few hours later which would get us into Edinburgh at around 6pm Friday (match on Sunday). For the return journey, I booked a Monday afternoon Edinburgh-Stansted flight and a Wednesday morning Stansted-Limoges flight, thus giving us a day in London, staying at Georgie and Don's in Putney.

So, with match and flight tickets booked, I needed to find somewhere for us to stay. Checked out various Edinburgh hotels and b&bs. Seemed all the cheapos were already full (not that there were any cheapos - they all whack their prices up during match week), so I was now faced with the likelihood of booking a room at some posh hotel at a cost of anything up to 250 quid each a night. That could be 750 quid each! No way, Jose; Jock, rather. After much feverish internet surfing, I eventually tracked down a cheapish guest house on the edge of town and booked their last room: a twin sharing. My relief at finding somewhere was only matched by the terrible thought of sharing with Christian. We'd be on top of each other for days on end - enough to drive both of us crazy. Nothing for it but to continue searching for two single rooms. Must be some somewhere at a non-extortionate rate. Eventually turned up trumps at a little hotel in the middle of town: two rooms at 50 quid each a night, including breakfast. Bargain. Immediately booked 'em and cancelled t'other one. Job done. It had only taken a couple of days! Only?!

Told Christian the good news last week. Looked a bit stunned, though excited as well. After all, he's never flown, never been abroad (apart from once when he had to briefly drive his lorry into Germany), never been to an international rugby match, can't speak English, worried about 'English' food, extremely worried about catching swine 'flu and, above all, he's incredibly concerned about not being able to get any of that foul drink Ricard.

Should be an interesting trip.

(Just found this 1990 clip. Great match. Great win. I was there!)

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Been taking advantage of this meteorological clemency by giving the washing machine a bashing. Washed dozens (well, it seems like it) of sheets and duvet covers plus piles of my festering rags and hung them out to dry. Couple of hours in the sun and they're ready to be stashed away. Brilliant! Ironing? What's that?!

The bright sunshine really brings out the autumn colours. Greens are turning to yellows and browns and sometimes bright oranges and reds. The back track to the granite cross has been completely transformed. Managed to grab a couple of hours yesterday and today (in-between washing duties - not to mention blasted tax form filling-in and posting), so ambled up there with easel and canvas to do a bit of painting. If the weather holds up I'll get up there again tomorrow (well, later today to be exact) to change a few things and add the finishing touches. Amazing how many people stopped and chatted: a family walking their Westie, the mayor farmer, another farmer and the Poussanges gang of holiday kids (they're back in town, er, hamlet). All very complimentary. But it ain't that good. I'm just an amateur artist from the Winston Churchill school of relaxing paint sploshing. I'll keep trying though.

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Raided a few shops and drew a blank. Maybe the French don't use 'leccy blankets. Then tried a couple of biggish supermarkets. No luck. Then tried a 'leccy shop on the edge of town. Re-emerged in semi-triumph clutching a hot water bottle. Having thus solved the problem of keeping Helen alive at night, we didn't really need to continue our search. But continue we did. We had one shot left: a tiny shop in the middle of Aubusson. Bingo! Spotted one in the window. A double sized one for sixty quid. Bit pricey but needs must. Went inside and asked if they had a single. Lady disappeared out the back and came back with exactly what we'd been searching for. Mission accomplished.

Later that evening, assisted by the French-English dictionary, Georgie read the 'use of blanket' instructions. Apparently it seemed to be an overblanket. Far as I was concerned, this made no difference. Just stick it under the bottom sheet and underblanket as normal. However, the girls seemed somewhat concerned that this might result in Helen being roasted alive due to body pressure compressing wiring - all too technical pour moi. In the end Helen decided to just sling it under the duvet but above the bottom sheet for half an hour before beddy-bos. Worked a treat, with the aid of the hot water bottle. Does anyone know the ins and out of 'leccy overblankets versus underblankets? Maybe it's not designed for beds after all. Maybe it's intended for old people to sling over their knees when watching telly. Must admit I'm a complete novice in such matters.

Anyway, I digress (as usual).

For Georgie's birthday we took things easy. Very relaxing day just pottering. Had planned on booking a table for dinner at the 'Lion d'Or' restaurant in Aubusson (highly recommended by Monsieur Petit the local insurance agent who is a gastronomic expert, despite being spotted doing a six hour shift barbecuing sausages in blisteringly hot conditions at Felletin's recent antiques market day - a nightmare experience that not only turned him into a shadow of his former self but also put him off sausages for life), but, that night, they were having a special six course nosh-up costing 35 euros which would probably last five or six hours and result in a doubling of Georgie's body weight. Also, garlic snails were on the menu. Personally, I love 'em but Georgie doesn't. So, instead, we decided to just stroll the streets of Aubusson and see what happened. Ended up grabbing the last table at the very pleasant gallette (pancake) restaurant up one of the back alleys. Had a marvellous meal and a splendid time (see photo on exiting said restaurant). Driving back through Aubusson and Felletin at about 11pm on a Saturday night, we were quite amazed at how few lights were on. Everyone goes to bed at about nine. Either that or they have very heavy curtains.

For Helen's birthday we had a day trip to Lac Vassiviere. Took a Thermos and the dogs. Lovely day; bright, warm sunshine. In the middle of the lake, there's an island with a chateau, a caff and a modern art gallery (well worth a visit). The girls visited the gallery while I walked the dogs outside. Apparently the exhibition featured works by some architect. Not exactly my tasse de the (pronounced 'tay' but I don't know where the accents are). Then we all sauntered around the woods checking out various modern art thingies. Jock insisted on wee-ing on most of 'em. An excellent judge. Perhaps the most interesting exhibit was an Andy Goldsworthy curved rock wall structure (circa mid-'80s?) at the water's edge. Well it would have been at the water's edge had the water level not dropped twenty feet, thereby leaving the wall thirty yards inland. Rain sorely needed. Would have taken some stupendous photos but..., left camera at home.

Next day, Limoges airport. As I said at the start, that was a week ago. Seems longer.

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Had a second reminder that Christmas is on its merry way out on this evening's dogwalk, down in the bottom field of the lightning tree circuit. Along one edge there are a few holly bushes. More like trees really. And some of them are covered in berries. Never seen anything like it. Quite spectacular. Especially when lit by the low evening sun.

Hmm, now I come to think of it, Christmas is only about ten weeks away. Where does the time go?

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Sundays are my days of rest. This, of course, implies that all the other days are days of work. Hmm..., well, they probably would be had I not cultivated a natural tendency towards laziness ever since my first day at school. Laziness was the one subject I really excelled at - I have numerous school reports to prove it. Always amazed me how teachers, right through school and college, never appreciated just how hard I worked at being lazy. Sometimes, quite often actually, I'd finish a lesson feeling totally exhausted by the amount of effort I'd put into doing absolutely nothing. And did I ever get the credit I deserved? No. Never. Not even once.

Er, where was I? Ah yes, Sundays. Or, more specifically, last Sunday. Or, to be exact, yesterday.

So there I was, exhausted from a week of doing nothing, taking it easy by surfing the internet for dilapidated country cottages and magnificent old British bangers (bikes not sausages), dressed in the dog-chewed rag that used to be a dressing gown, quietly going about my business without the interruption of uninvited guests from the outside world, either in person or via TV or radio, when I had a brainwave. Instead of wearing myself out doing nothing, I'd relax by actually doing something. But what? Eventually decided to continue painting the boudoir. Started this mammoth project over a year ago. Did three walls then ran out of steam. Now was the time to pick up where I left off. Picked up a paintbrush, opened the paint tin, gave what was left of the paint a good old stir (paint and water content had, of course, separated), then went downstairs and made a cuppa to recover from these exertions, noticed the kitchen stove needed another log, noticed the indoor log stash was bereft of logs thus requiring replenishment by a trip outside to the logpile with wheelbarrow, which in turn required a change of clothing from ripped dressing gown raggery to something more appropriate but equally raggery, went back upstairs, got changed, chained Sprock to bannister post, opened front door, went outside, loaded barrow, returned with logs, forcibly removed Sprock from doorstep (grass was a bit wet and he hates getting his feet damp - strange for a hunting terrier), returned to barrow, Sprock returned to doorstep, once again forcibly removed him, returned to barrow, Sprock returned to doorstep, repeated this exercise a few times, eventually charged straight at the disobedient little git with the barrowful of logs, dog ran for cover, logs flew out of barrow when wheel hit step, I ended face down in the few logs that remained in the barrow, reversed, cleared fallen logs from doorstep, carried remaining logs from barrow to indoors, put one in the stove, returned barrow to shed, locked shed, returned to chateau, kicked Sprock off the doorstep, went back upstairs, put lid back on paint pot, returned to kitchen, sat down, had fag and cuppa, totally fattygayed. Decided to continue (er, I mean commence) painting tomorrow, which is today. I'll make a start soon. Maybe.

With the exertions of not painting behind moi, I then recovered from the ordeal by relaxing on the settee. Thought about switching on the radio or telly but decided not to as this would put me in touch with the outside world. Far better to simply sit there watching the dust sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the front windows with occasional glances to the many big cobwebs decorating the ceiling beams. Besides, couldn't be arsed to lean across and grope under last night's dishes on the coffee table in a knackering attempt to find the twiddler (or 'remote' as I believe it's referred to in more civilised environs). After all, this is surely what Sundays are all about.

After a while (could have been five minutes, could have been half an hour - I lose all track of time when my mind's wandering), I decided to get back in touch with the outside world by phoning my sister's tribe and then Georgie. This may be considered a simple exercise by those of a less reclusive nature than myself but to an old hermit comme moi who rarely says anything more than "bonjour" or "sit" or "come here y'wee bastards" or "no, you greedy mutts, you've just had a chew; do you know how much these damned things cost?", the prospect of engaging in conversation with anyone, especially loved ones across the channel who always expect a full rundown of how things are going out here and who are always disappointed my usual grunted retort of "okay, bit cloudy", is, to put it bluntly, somewhat daunting.

Anyway, phone calls done, I then returned to the sanctuary of the sunlit settee, found the twiddler, put on the telly in search of a good old black and white Sunday afternoon film, couldn't find one, homed in on the snooker final instead and immediately fell asleep. Woke up at about five, attacked the dirty dishes, grabbed the camera, slung mutts in dogwagon and headed up the lightning tree for a dogwalk. Am acutely aware of boring readers (should that be plural?) senseless with flowery descriptions of dogwalks, so I'll keep this one simple... parked in field, walked dogs around adjacent field, took photos of splendid evening sky, went home.

Perhaps worth mentioning that while I was up there, enjoying the solitude that can only be found in an area as remote as the famously uninhabited Creuse region of France, the local farmer (well, actually his dad) appeared in the distance driving his rusty old Renault van down the dusty old track. As he passed me he stopped and we had a quick chat. As usual, I stated the bleedin' obvious: "I'm dogwalking and taking photos, lovely evening," and, as usual, he responded with some expression I didn't understand. Whatever it was, I answered "yes", thereby taking a 50/50 chance that he wouldn't think me barking bonkers. However, his bemused facial expression suggested "no" was the answer he expected. Maybe he'd asked if I minded his intrusion while he quickly checked his cattle. Or maybe not.

Communication, or lack of it rather: that's the problem when two hermit recluses bump into each other. Especially on a Sunday's eve in the middle of nowhere. Ho hum. C'est la vie.

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Been looking for suitable properties on the internet. Nothing grand or flashy. As is my wont, I've kept things cheap by limiting my budget to 150k. Surprisingly, there are quite a few gaffs that would do me nicely. For example, I've just spotted this humdinger (damn, won't load up - Google: rightmove west harrowbarrow). Auction's quite soon. Better go and fill in that Loto entry.

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Occasionally I suddenly remember a fave old singer or track that I don't have on CD and immediately hit YouTube for a quick ear'oling. But, in the unlikely event that the song's there, it just ain't the same as playing the real thing with a proper deck and speakers. This afternoon, while having my teatime cuppa, I attempted to track down a couple of my old fave artistes hidden away in the depths of YouTube. Found 'em but unfortunately each had only a few songs listed. Luckily they included some belters which I'm including here in order to continue my crusade to convert the world to the joys of country music at its finest (er, one track's more soul than country but no matter, both warblers deserve far greater recognition). If one of these four brilliant tracks doesn't knock you out, I dunno what will.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_R6UH3k4ksg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMIol4BnAWw

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Did a leisurely lap of the top field at the lightning tree which Jock seemed to enjoy then returned home and dished out their grub. Half expected Jock to ignore it but he ate about half before having a well-earned kip while Sprock and I sat outside in the last of the evening sun. Been ridiculously sunny (and hot!) for about a fortnight now. Don't know how much longer this will last but we'll enjoy it while we can (sunny again ce matin). Anyway, I digress. While I was out there swigging my aperitif, neighbour Alain turned up to feed his big, old, blind, hunting dog (lives in a kennel in the shadow of the church wall - the dog that is, not Alain) and we had one of our quick chats (they're always quick because Alain doesn't speak English and I hardly speak a word of French). Told him about Jock's mauling. He asked if I recognised the hunting dogs' owner (Alain knows all the hunters around here; come to think of it, he knows everyone). Said I didn't but his hunting partner was wearing glasses and seemed vaguely familiar. "Aha!" said Alain (or words to that effect), "they're the two local gendarmes (policemen)!"

Soon as Alain said that, I remembered the two cops visited me a couple of years ago after a house up the road had been burgled (a rare event round these parts). Asked if I'd seen anything suspicious or if a stranger had knocked on my door selling spuds a few days before the break-in. Told 'em the spud man had indeed visited. They concluded that he must have been some foreign (they meant not local) itinerant, probably a gypsy, who wasn't a spud seller at all but who used that as an excuse to see if any houses were unoccupied holiday homes that could later be raided. Anyway, I digress again.

The fact that they're cops would explain their concern about Jock's condition when they visited minutes after the mauling. In France it's illegal to not have a dangerous dog on a lead in public. Technically (as the vet explained), I could go to the cops and report the attack. But..., well, get the picture? And, being a foreigner in redneck country, there would probably be 'repercussions'! I could, of course, visit the cop in question and I'm sure he'd be happy to re-imburse the vet's fee, but I think it'll be better to just keep things quiet. If and when he discovers I've been to the vet and paid the bill (these things get around) he'll know he owes me a favour. One never knows when that may come in handy!

Anyway, Jock progress report: He's been snoozing, which is good. Haven't been able to have a close look at the wound but have managed a close-up photo. Looks a bit nasty. No way will he allow me to put iodine on it so am hoping it'll heal naturally. Looks like he's been licking it a bit which, I think, is good but I could be wrong. Far as I know this is what animals do in the wild; saliva is apparently medicinal. I'll keep an eye on progress. If there's any deterioration it's straight down the vet's.

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Back home, I checked Jock's injuries. Bit of a cut on his neck but couldn't see any damage to the rear. Washed the bite mark and dressed with Tea Tree oil. About ten minutes later the two hunters knocked on the door. Very apologetic. Asked if Jock was okay. Told 'em he seemed alright; small cut but quite shaken. They then said if he turned poorly I was to contact the mayor because they were good friends of his (I took it this implied they'd re-imburse for the vet's bill if a visit there was necessary, but I could have been wrong). Told 'em I didn't think a trip to the vet would be needed but I'd see how it goes.

That afternoon Jock spent most of the time sat behind the kitchen stove, quiet and shocked. Refused to come for the regular evening walk. Thought about not doing one but Sprock insisted. Left Jock at home. Returned half an hour later. Jock appeared from the indoor shed room so at least he was walking. Wouldn't eat though. Lit the kitchen fire for him in the evening, in case he felt chilled. Thought it best he kipped there overnight but he climbed the stairs and sat in his cage by my bed. For some reason he wouldn't lie down. Just sat there. Brought him up a bowl of water. Still he just sat there. Sat with him, stroking. Couldn't sleep. I eventually nodded off at about four. Woke at seven. Jock still sitting there in his cage.

Spent most of Tuesday just keeping an eye on Jock. In the afternoon I noticed him licking his inner back leg. Tried to have a closer look but he wouldn't co-operate. Eventually saw a bite mark just to the right of his willy. Damn. Hadn't noticed it on my first inspection. Impossible to get anywhere near it due to Jock's growling. Clearly painful. However, that evening he insisted on coming for a dogwalk. Took things easy, just a simple stroll. Didn't seem to be limping so I guess there's no broken bones. And he even had a bit of supper (with sliced sausage as a treat). Sat in his cage again all night. Again, I hardly slept.

Checked him again this morning. From the little I can see, it seems quite red, dark red, on his tum. Obviously still very painful. Rang the vet at about eleven. Appointment this afternoon at two. That's in an hour's time. Jock's under my desk. Hasn't been downstairs at all today. Am trying to work out how to get him to the car. Dog collar and lead and simply drag him down the stairs. Can't lift him. Hurts. Am not looking forward to this trip one bit.

P.S. - 4.30pm. Just returned from vet. No great problem. No holed skin, just bruising. Two antibiotic jabs, one haircut around bruising and one application of iodine. Sounds simple but took two of us to hold the little blighter down. Issued with a bottle of iodine and instructions to apply twice a day. Oh yeah? Something tells moi that Jock may not be entirely over-the-moon with that idea. Anyway, am now not so worried as I was ce matin. Bill? 70 euros. Used to be the equivalent of 40 quid but is now around 67. Still, never mind, sausages tonight lads.

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I've always been far too embarrassed to show the world my digital-age, nerve centre hidden away in a dusty old corner of the slobbing around room 'cos, to put it bluntly, it's such a bleedin' tip. But there again, thinking about it, I like working in a tip. Always have. And to be honest, as far as tips go, this has to be one of the best, especially on a day like today with the windows wide open and sunlight streaming in. It may not suit everyone (an understatement if ever there was one!) but it'll certainly do me.

A wee guided tour of the slobbing around room ('lounge' sounds far too formal for a pit such as this)... Desk in corner facing east. To the west is the telly-watching settee (I slob on the right, Sprock lays on the left - but always nicks my spot when I go downstairs to make a cuppa - and Jock generally lays under the coffee table). To the north you'll no doubt notice the lack of progress with planned new bathroom. Face south and you'll see the magnificent view (actually you won't 'cos you'll be blinded by sunlight).

So there you go; first the kitchen and now the (sort of) lounge: the two main living rooms of a bohemian hermit recluse. If nothing else they'll hopefully make you feel better about your interior decor, fitments and general standards of domesticity. And if you're a burglar, as you can see, forget it.

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Awful: the smelly little rebel who flatly refuses to accept that Westies are cute little fluffy things that were only invented to sell more calendars.

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I knew it'd take days (or weeks - maybe years!) to make the place vaguely presentable. So, as she'd be arriving on Wednesday, I decided to begin work last Sunday. Typically though, I left it 'til Wednesday morning before getting stuck in. Worked like a maniac for a couple of hours then got sidetracked by doing some washing. Halfway through hanging rags on line (taking advantage of rare sunshine), chumette arrived. Luckily she's been before so wasn't surprised by distinct lack of preparatory work. Stayed for the full three days (tough cookie). Drove off this morning for Limoges airport and home after risking a shower before departing (really tough cookie).

Very relaxing three days. Extremely lucky with the weather. Glorious sunshine throughout. She's a country lassie with dogs so was happy (I think) to be dragged along on every dogwalk. Did the granite cross route in the mornings followed by the lightning tree, bottom stream and Magnat reservoir runs in the evenings. First time I've been to the reservoir for months. Amazed at how the water level has dropped over summer. Sandy beach areas now exposed. Rain needed soon. In-between dogwalks I dragged her 'round Aubusson on Thursday and Felletin market on Friday. Strange: most times I show visitors the delightful sights of these two fine old towns, it always seems to rain. Not this time though. As I said, extremely lucky with the weather.

Back home, my hardy guest passed some of the time relaxing with a book beneath a sunshade while I, somewhat rudely, took afternoon naps. However, I compensated for my obvious inadequacy in the perfect host department by magnificent displays of cordon bleu cookery skills. First evening, I opened a pack of frozen paella (you may mock but it was a major breakthrough when I recently discovered how to heat this stuff, thus making it almost edible). Second, pork chops, fried eggs and fresh mushrooms picked from the garden (guest displayed noticeable lack of confidence in my opinion that said funghi wasn't poisonous - fear of death eventually evaporated after vast quantities of vin rouge). Guest appeared to be pleasantly surprised by still being alive the following morning. Third evening, I did my piece de resistance: chicken curry with rice and beans. Brilliant. Well, probably not brilliant but, again, lashings of vin rouge clouded judgment.

Perhaps the highlight of her stay was our visit to my 'rebel caff' in Felletin after Friday's market. This is a little-known (and I hope it stays that way) hostelry which is also a 'tabac' (fag shop), run by a couple of marvellous and typically French rebels who allow customers to smoke at certain times (usually when there are no minors around) in defiance of that daft no-smoking law (yes, I know this is a contentious issue but, as I've said before, I honestly believe smoking should be permitted in tabac caffs but not ordinary caffs or other places - as Sarkozy promised before being elected, changing his mind immediately after). Er..., just remembered she's a non-smoker so maybe she didn't think it as much a highlight as moi.

As I said, guest departed this morning. Gave her directions for the airport by traversing the streets of central Limoges. These are somewhat complicated so she probably ended up lost in some dark, dead-end backstreet and consequently missed her flight.

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Last of the swallows has just flown south, kitchen stove's lit, evenings are drawing in, must be autumn.

Sat outside yesterday soiree after a quick dogwalk supping my usual medicinal scotch aperitif and noticed the sun setting directly in line with the chateau. Ambled to the calendar and checked the date: 21st September. Autumn solstice (or whatever it's called) - the day when the sun rises and sets halfway down the horizons. From here on in until March, that jolly old soleil will remain out front, no longer disappearing round the back. Yup, autumn's here.

Leaves are beginning to change colour and a few have fallen already. Shall soon have to put my green paints away and dig out yellow, orange and red. Noticed quite a bit of red around lately. Not just leaves but also berries (and a strange pinky-red flowery thing I spotted in a hedge). Rose hips and holly. Some of the holly trees are covered with berries. Never seen so many. At the moment they're orange but they'll soon change to bright red. Apples too. There's a tree out the back laden with pommes rouge. Seems only weeks ago it was covered with blossom. My, how tempus fugits. Soon be Christmas.

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Firstly, I had to find the bills (took ages - I'd put them in a safe place), then clear a space on the kitchen table (not as easy as it sounds - it meant doing stacks of washing up, sponging the table and relocating various books and magazines to piles upstairs), then find my pen (don't like Biros so I use a fountain pen - again took ages to find and, needless to say, when eventually located, it had run out of ink), then find that elusive bottle of ink (eventually found it lurking in the back of a desk drawer - could have sworn it was in the drawer of the lounge table; well, when I say 'lounge' I really mean 'indoor shed'), then read and re-read payment instructions to make sure payment would be made automatically without the need to send cheques (written in French - always tres confusant), then triple check that I was about to sign and date the correct box (always nerve wracking - one mistake could prove fatal), then, with a sigh, remove myself from my kitchen chair, assume the vertical and amble over to the van Gogh kitchen calendar to figure out the date (I never have the foggiest idea what the date is), then tear off the three individual paying-in slips from the bills (the first two were perforated but the third one wasn't, thereby resulting in a paper tear and a need to find some Sellotape and a pair of scissors - again, took ages), then carefully put the three slips in the envelopes provided (making sure the addresses were visible through the envelope windows - an old-timer comme moi can easily put a slip in a window envelope facing the wrong way so the window's blank), then find three stamps of the correct value (don't know what that value is but I presume it to be the red ones I eventually found hiding in a dark and dusty corner of my wallet - if they're of insufficient value they won't get delivered, payment won't be made and I'll be doomed), then, finally, place the envelopes in a prominent postion so I'd remember to post them (put them on top of the coffee jar). As I said, exhausting and shattering.

Mission accomplished, I then recovered from the ordeal by relaxing in front of the telly with a cuppa in readiness for ogling the Italian grand prix. Saw the start and first couple of laps then must have dozed off (cars just ain't as exciting as bikes). Woke up on the last lap with the commentator screaming "Hamilton's spun! His race is over!". Calm down man, calm down. Switched the telly off, went outside and took a few rags off the line (forgot to mention I'd done some washing before tackling the bills - no wonder I was fattygayed). By then it was about fiveish (French time) and the dogs were telling me it was time for walkies. Shoved them in the car and set off for the lightning tree walk. Couple of minutes later, turned around and returned home, picked up the three forgotten envelopes and set off again. Passed a couple of hunters in luminous pink caps with rifles over their shoulders by the roadside in the lightning tree area so decided to go further afield. Headed for 'the high hill' near Pierrefitte - it's that little triangular patch of green on the distant horizon in front of the house.

Arrived at Pierrefitte, parked up and listened for sounds of gunfire or barking dogs. All was quiet so unloaded the dogs and set off for the hill. Half an hour later we were at the top and enjoying the view. Well, to be more accurate, I was enjoying the view (on a clear day you can even see our house) while the dogs were totally ignoring it, busying themselves by digging for field mice. Well, to be more accurate, Sprocket was doing the digging while Jock just sniffed around, covered in newly-dug earth. Amazing how little appreciation they have for gloriously sunny views. After a few minutes they got a bit bored so we headed back down and drove home. Stopped off on the way to check out a view that I'm thinking about painting. Looked really good with white cattle against green. Spotted some pretty wild flowers. Haven't a clue what they are but Georgie'll know (perennial sweet peas apparently). Eventually arrived home as the church bells clanged seven. Was just about to get out of the car when I noticed three envelopes on the dashboard. Drat. Set off again and posted 'em. Mind like a sieve.

P.S. Forgot..., it's 'memory like a sieve'.

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Biology lesson... They start off tiny - about the size of a flea - and look like a cross between a miniscule spider and a very small ant. They hang around on vegetation such as blades of grass or weeds, waiting to jump onto a passing animal, or human (I've had a couple!). Then they bite into flesh and start sucking blood. At this stage they miraculously, fascinatingly and quite disgustingly develop a shiny, grey, ever-expanding blood sac which extends to about twenty or thirty times their original size. From personal observation, the average drinking session lasts about one to four days. Then they drop off. Dunno what they do then. Probably just laze around in the sun, totally immobilised. The crows and hedgehogs must love 'em.

I digress...

Sprock's very good 'cos he allows you to pull 'em off without complaining but he always insists on a quick sniff afterwards. Jock, on the other hand, hates anyone going near his ticks and will squirm, wriggle and yelp in furious protest until you give up. I'm no quitter so I often grab the little blighter by the scruff of the neck with one hand and then attempt tick removal with t'other; not an easy task - great risk of getting bitten or horribly scratched, I have the scars to prove it.

To complicate matters, ticks usually seem to embed themselves in Jock's forehead. If he kept still, removal would be fairly straightforward, but there's always the risk of removing just the tick's blood sac, leaving the head left embedded in his skull. Goes without saying that fingers then get smothered with blood. Yucky. Sometimes the only thing to do is to wait for the tick to drop off when the little vampire's had its fill. Trouble is, one never knows the drop off point. Inadvertently trodden on a few wandering around the house.

Of course, prevention is the best solution. This is achieved by giving the dogs regular, monthly, anti-tick medication - a quick squirt from a capsule of liquid directly onto the skin between shoulder blades. Trouble is, it's expensive and I'm not a great fan of drugs or chemicals. Doesn't seem natural. Doubt if many of the other dogs around here are protected in this way. Georgie vehemently disagrees though and insists I dish out the medicine. Keep forgetting. I'll give 'em a dose after this posting.

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Yes, my/our kitchen. The engine room of the chateau. Or, more specifically, the cuisine fireplace. Looks fine from the front (debatable), but viewed from the right hand side one may notice a slight imperfection - namely, a bloody great hole. This unwanted ventilation orifice (it's actually an exhaust pipe hole for a wood burning stove which should be where the mini cooker presently stands instead of where it currently resides in the middle of the fireplace, but the recent installation of massively expensive re-wiring and the wrong positioning of the fuse box means we have little - none in fact - room for manoeuooverrre) only became apparent a couple of weeks ago when the biscuit tin lid covering it (installed by a previous inhabitant) mysteriously fell to earth under the influence of gravity. Been meaning to return said lid back to its original position for quite some time but lethargy, DIY incompetence and the lulling into a false sense of security by recent meteorological clemency (i.e. no need for a fire) dictated otherwise.

Winter's a'comin', wood's ready for the fire, time to knuckle down and cover that hole so the chateau doesn't fill with smoke the moment the fire's lit. So today I spent most of my time searching for that elusive silicon adhesive gun thingy to stick the biscuit tin lid back into position. Couldn't find it anywhere. Turned the place upside down. Twice. Nay, trois fois. By late apres-midi I was ready to stuff an old rag in there instead. But, as is always the way, I eventually found it at the eleventh hour, hiding under a rolled carpet atop an old box of LPs. Joy unconfined.

Then went to the top of the stove to pick up the biscuit tin lid. Wasn't there. Drat. Searched everywhere again. No success. During this fourth or fifth search de la maison I eventually found a metal 'chimney plug' - an item which proper tradesmen would use instead of a stupid biscuit tin lid.

Decided to do the job properly. This meant, means rather, chipping out the old hole, re-creating a new hole with sand and cement that exactly matches the plug diameter, allowing it to set and then inserting said 'metal plug'. East peasy. But, alas, not for an incompetent DIY joker comme moi. I'll start tomorrow. Maybe.

P.S. - For anyone still recovering from the shock of witnessing my/our somewhat less than des. res. cuisine standards, please bear in mind two things: 1) I/we am/are contemplating a basic form of modernisation at some time in the future, and 2) I'm a self-confessed lazy bohemian who firmly believes that kitchen cookers were invented primarily for the boiling of motorcycle chains in tins of molybdenum grease.

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The tree itself is not much to look at. However, when lit by the evening sun its branches turn bright orangey-red and contrast brilliantly against a clear blue sky. It was this dramatic transformation that I set out to capture. Took some time but I think I've finally done it. If not, I've certainly done it to the best of my limited abilities. Finished it yesterday evening (would have finished earlier but the farmer moved his cattle into the field when the painting was only half finished and they've only recently been moved on to pastures new).

Now, what's next...?

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P.S. Am adding this monstrosity http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGESxjqHf7E to show how far the Beatles moved pop music forward in just five years. Well, somebody had to.

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