I don't know what it is about my son. He's a very good driver but he manages to attract accidents.

There was the time in Belgium when he went into the back of a car driven by a Japanese man who swerved in front of him to avoid another car which had skidded on the icey roads. Not Jay's fault but it caused a few paperwork problems with the insurance.

Then the old car was vandalised - not once but twice - in Amsterdam and the present car was broken into in London.

Today he was driving down our road when a car was backed out of its garage and hit him. The damage is not that bad. At least the car is drivable but it will probably need a new rear door and maybe wing as well.

Anyway, Jay came home to get me to go along as translator to fill in the accident report. The chap smelled a bit of alcohol but he was quite calm and kind of apologised. We filled in the details and ticked the boxes but had to cross one out - thanks to the chap's mistake.

Once home I realised that he had not filled in the complete registration number so we jumped in our car and went to see if he was still there - but he had gone.

He had also written down his wife's name as the driver.

Jay had to go into town so I walked to the local garage and had a word with Sylvain to warn him what was coming and pay for last week's service. We joked about one person's misfortune being lucky for others.

He said I'd have to get the full car number before sending in the form so I walked round to the house and found the man's wife in the garden. She was very pleasant and we chatted for quite a long time. Apparently she was very cross with him because it was her car and she should have been taking her daughter to a class this afternoon. However, he wanted to get the insurance and garage business dealt with immediately and had gone into town.

She said she would send him round to see us as soon as he got back. That would make it too late for us to catch the post so I rang in to report the accident.

I'm getting the hang of insurance claims (having had plenty of practice) and so was prepared for her to say our local garage was not 'agrée'. I insisted instead of giving in meekly this time and she backed down. She has arranged an appointment with the assessor on Wednesday morning.

We took the car to show Sylvain the damage and he rubbed his hands gleefully. Could be an expensive job then - but at least it's the other insurance that must pay so we should keep our No Claims Bonus. Fingers crossed.

It was Yaxlich who wrote about some of the search words that  led people to his blog and sometimes, out of interest, I look at the google results that bring visitors to click on my site (and then, more often than not,  go away immediately.)

Surprisingly, the words that crop up most regularly are 'yellow basilicon', followed closely by 'normacol'.

As far as I know, yellow basilicon is no longer available but during my childhood my gran and mum used it regularly to draw out offending splinters or even bits of glass. Splap on a good helping, cover with a plaster and leave overnight. It worked like magic.

You could still get it when my children were little and there was always a jar in my medicine cupboard. It's hard to say when it disappeared off the chemists' shelves - or why, for that matter - but I haven't seen any for years. Apparently other people miss it too.

'Normacol' searchers rarely stay to read about Whale's exploits. No doubt they just want straightforward medical data but I do wonder  why anyone would search for 'tetanus jab in bum'.

Today is Jay's birthday.

Unfortunately for him it has been a rather low-key affair, starting with a visit to the dermatologist. He scraped the offending verruca until it bled and then administered not one but two injections into the raw looking place. It made me go cold just watching. Jay managed not to flinch – too much.

We then met up with CC in town for a coffee but they both disappeared soon after because Bear was coming to meet me for lunch.

Jay had decided to celebrate his birthday properly next week when CC has finished her course of ABSOLUTELY NO ALCOHOL antibiotics but he was looking forward to opening his presents en famille accompanied by coffee and macaroons when I got back.

But Bear wanted to go shopping after lunch. First we went to a large D.I.Y. Store where he poked around not really knowing what he was after for ages.

He then decided to go elsewhere – namely the supermarket.

My heart sank. Bear loves browsing round Carrefour (or Cora or Auchan or any hypermarket) and so I knew this would not be a quick shop. Sure enough he fiddled about among the electrical and hardware aisles before deciding that what he wanted wasn't there but we'd “look for something for tea.”

He made a beeline for the cake counter and chose eclairs – just a pack of two for himself. He didn't like the last lot of ham I bought so we went to the meat counter for him to make his choice. Next in the trolley was catlitter and boxes of Whiskas on special offer and we eventually made it to the checkout. If I had told him I'd like to get back for Jay he would either have thrown a wobbly or employed delaying tactics (or maybe both) so I followed him patiently until he had finished.

Back home CC made coffee and we got together with the Whale in the study to watch the present unwrapping.while nibbling the macaroons. Bear stayed in the living room watching TV. I'm not sure whether or not he realised it was Jay's birthday but as there's a strong case of mutual indifference between the two of them it was better that way.

I was sad there was no birthday meal. Jay prepared his own salad and took it up to his room to watch his new DVD. CC and I made a vegetable stew which Whale reluctantly shared and Bear had a ham sandwich and his eclairs in front of the telly.

The real celebration is scheduled for next Tuesday.

It happens from time to time.

I open the door to find a dubious salesman or, occasionally a beggar.

Today it was a swarthy fellow clutching a carpet.

It was the usual sales patter:

"This is worth 200euros but I'm selling it today for 125."

"No thank you. We have a person in a wheelchair. Carpets are not practical. And, besides, I've overspent this month already"

His insistant banter made me crease up with laughter and I was amazed that he reduced the price gradually until he had reached 30 euros.

"But we have cats who will probably pee on it" was my last effort to say no.

In the end I called Bear to come to my assistance.

"Oh, it's a nice colour" he beamed. "Thirty euros? We'll get it if you like it."

The man didn't need to know any English to get the message. We couldn't wriggle out of it now without some unpleasantness.

Bear got out his wallet and drew out quite a few notes. He handed over two twenties and the man made for the door.

"I thought you said THIRTY" protested Bear. "If he doesn't give me my change he can have the carpet back."

Once again the chap got the message, handed over a battered 10 euro note and went off muttering.

"Where are we going to put it?" asked Bear when we brought the carpet through.

"I don't know." I replied. "Maybe we can put it in the living room in the Winter. Bare tiles can be a bit cold."

Some time later my neighbour called in.

"How much did you pay for the carpet?"

"Thirty."

"He offered it to us for twenty" she said.

Ever since the end of August my computer has been having problems staying connected.

The computer people have spent hours trying to sort it out and when they said they had found the cause - 'Windows wasn't managing the connection' - they took it away and started again from scratch.

A few minutes after they had set it all up again here, it went offline.

It has to be said that nine times out of ten it will work if you restart it but that doesn't make it any less annoying when it goes offline in the middle of something important. I've already lost a post that way. (And this one but I copied it before trying to save.)

I have come to the conclusion that there is no point in calling the French 'experts' back, so after searching the net (on Bear's computer) I came up with various pages of technical suggestions from Microsoft.

Two attempts at following instructions made it worse. Thank goodness I managed to reverse my actions.

In the end I emailed the 'microsoft support' and had a prompt reply giving me the helpline number in France. I replied that I needed help in English and that's why I had contacted them.

The reply - again prompt - informed me that American products were not the same as European ones. Oops. I thought I was communicating with England.

Next step was to track down the helpline in the UK. I phoned, pressed all the buttons when prompted and waited.

A lady with a pronounced Indian accent greeted me and I explained the problem.

"We can't help you if you bought the product in France" she insisted and wouldn't accept the fact that talking in French about computer problems would be extremely difficult.

"They will speak English at Microsoft in France" were her parting words.

So, I tried again. Fortunately the alternatives for button pressing were the same as the English helpline but when I'd finished there was a very long wait. Then I glance at my watch. It was ten past twelve. "Bet they're all having lunch" I muttered to myself.

Sure enough, when I tried a little after two o'clock there was a quick response from a friendly French chap. I asked if he spoke English.

"A leetle" he replied and we continued in a mixture of French and English with lots of repetition. But this was only to ascertain whether or not I was entitled to help and, if so, to produce a dossier.

The formalities over, he agreed that my Windows XP was genuine and said they were not used to dealing with English XP but would have a go.

I said I had tried the English helpline but they had refused to help. He was amazed.

"But we are all in Europe now."

Eventually he gave me a dossier number and asked me to hold while he put me through to the technical helpline.

A chap called Christophe answered. He didn't speak English either and there was a problem with the dossier number.

More music - and then a young lady came on the line. It seems I had misheard the number and written down an extra two figures.

Back to the technicians and a different chap. Who didn't speak English either.

We went through a few hoops but without success. He remained charming and patient throughout but it was painfully obvious that some computer terms are totally different in French and English.

At last, he gave up and said they did have one chap who spoke good English. The bad news was that he was off sick.

The good news is that he is due back tomorrow and should phone me in the morning.

As soon as I got my computer back online I wrote an email to the Microsoft UK support feedback manager to tell him what I thought of their UK helpline.

Wow, the sun came out today and Bear and I were smitten with the urge to do some gardening.

This year has been so wet that the weeds have overtaken everything but, with a bit of help from Yvette's gardener, the bank outside our bedroom has finally been cleared and I have put stepping stones in strategic places so that I can a) climb up  without slithering backwards and b) have somewhere to stand with my feet at a reasonable angle when I'm planting or weeding.

The next bit to be tackled was the border by the terrace. Bear doen't differentiate between flowers and weeds and is always dumping tiles, bits of wood etc on top of the wallflowers and other plants that do look a bit 'flowerless' at this time of year. But while forking up weeds today I discovered that he had planted a stake right through my poor azalea. It seems to be alive still so I hope it survives to flower next year.

It has to be said that I'm a crap gardener but Bear has various ways of making things worse. For example:

Mowing down the raspberry canes when he cuts the grass.

Cutting with the mulching blades when the grass is too wet/too high and not cleaning the mower after use.

Tramping over plants or (see above) dumping rubbish on top of them. Last year he even plonked his sundial on top of my baby rosemary bush!

Last but not least: tramping through the house without changing his shoes - and it's amazing how he does this when I've just washed the floor.

Either we'll have to find a house with a smaller, low maintenance garden or Bear will have to find a flat on his own.

Chimney sweeps are supposed to be lucky in France as well as in England. Is that why they're so hard to come by?

Round here nearly everyone has a wood fire so you would think it would be easy to find a ramoneur when you need one - especially as your house insurance insists on an annual sweep with a certificate to prove it.

But no, it is far from easy to pin down someone to do the business. Every year I ask around, telephone people in the yellow pages who include chimney sweeping in their list of occupations and look for adverts in the local papers but not one chap with a van and brushes can be found.

Then, yesterday, when we were having lunch with Yvette at the local café she happened to say that she had just had her chimney swept. She telephoned her man for me and he appeared on the doorstep, unannounced, at nine o'clock this morning to 'have a look' at the fireplace.

He peered inside to decide what kind of equipment was needed and promised to return at one thirty. He emphasised that he was doing it as a favour because I was a friend of Mme B. He didn't normally have time to tackle sweeping jobs: he was too busy with other work.

Why does no-one want to take advantage of this niche in the market I wonder? In previous years blokes have trouped in, poked around with a brush for less than five minutes, vacuumed the soot, had a beer or a coffee, written the certificate, pocketed the loot and gone away, promising to come again in a year. But they don't turn up (and I manage to lose the certificate with their contact details. In fact the chap who came the first year didn't have any contact details on his certificate.)

Anyway, this man rang the doorbell at 1.30 on the dot and laid down his bundle of rods and brush. He explained that he used nylon so as not to damage the lining of the chimney. After dismantling parts that I have never seen before he proceeded to twist and poke up the chimney letting the soot fall into a bucket  but unable to prevent a fair bit from falling on the floor.

When he had finished sweeping I offered him a coffee and he accepted. But half an hour later he was still struggling to replace the inside of the fireplace that he had taken out. He told me it was to prevent flames from going up the chimney but it wasn't like any other make of fireplace that he knew. OK, he should have taken care to remember how it had come out so he could put it back but he thought it would be the same as all the others.

Poor man, he tried it upside down, back to front and any which way but it just wouldn't go in. He was covered in soot and sweating profusely. His 'ten minute job' had taken nearly an hour.

At last, he managed to place it so it didn't fall down again. I made him a hot cup of coffee as the first one had got cold. He went to have a wash and replace his tee-shirt with a pullover he had in his van. As I paid him his 50 euros I ventured to ask if he'd come and do it next year after he's done my friend's.

Surprisingly he agreed -  but only time will tell.

This is the third time I've had a cyst removed from my head.

The first time was years ago when I just happened to ask my GP if he knew what they were. He got quite excited and before I knew it he had found a scalpel and was poking and prodding to remove it.

A bit of squeezing and bleeding later he showed me the results of his labours - a sort of white pea.

When more lumps appeared a couple of years after that I asked if he'd like to have another go but he refused and sent me to have it done at the hospital. The practice nurse later told me that he had had a bad experience with someone else when he couldn't stop the bleeding.

So, yesterday it was off to the French dermatologist, who is the person to see for cyst removals.

The worst bit was the local anaesthetic - quite a long drawn out stinging procedure but the effect soon kicked in and he was quick, efficient and quite gentle. (Not at all like the hospital experience when the doctor had pushed and squeezed very hard and left me with a headache.)

The stitching felt as though he was pulling out my hair but, in fact he did a very neat job. He made me stay on the bed for a few minutes and then asked me to sit up, but remain there for a few minutes longer. There was a mirror opposite and I was able to check that he had rearranged my hair so that nothing could be seen.

The bill was 42.69 euros - a rather strange sum - and I'll be interested to find out how much, if any, will be reimboursed as I didn't have a letter from my 'medecin traitant' (GP).

Update on yesterday's computer problems:

The 'expert' spent another couple of hours here this morning and simply couldn't make it work except by chance.It seemed to be OK by midday so she left. Minutes later it went wrong again. Despite claiming that there is a good connection to the wifi, it says Outlook Express is unavailable and it cannot display the webpage on IE because I'm offline. GRRRRR

She is coming to collect it tomorrow. . . . .

Two things are going wrong in our household today.

First it's the Whale. He is always having constipation problems but it has now come to a head (or is that bottom?) as despite four Normacols in five days he hasn't 'been' for over a week.

Yesterday the nurse said "If this one doesn't do the trick you'll have to ring the doctor.", as she administered the fourth huge enema.

It didn't work so I rang the surgery and spoke to the doctor soon after 8 o'clock.

"Try giving three Microlax at once and ask him  to lie still and hold it as long as possible." she advised.

Of course, we didn't have any Microlax (a smaller kind of enema) in the house. It was raining 'like cow's pee' as they say here so once it turned nine I used the car to go to the chemists. I left a message on the nurse's mobile and gave Whale the box.

A few minutes later he called me:

"How do I take these?"

"They're not for swallowing. You stick'em up your bum."

"I can't do that!" he protested.

"No, it's OK. Vero's coming back".

Our Vero is a bit of a gloom merchant and she was adamant  that the doctor was wrong and it wouldn't work, but all the same she padded the bed with binliners and old towels - just in case.

Two hours later, he had eaten a good lunch but there was no sign of any action the other end so I phoned the surgery again.

The doctor came this time, prodded and pushed and finally used her finger. There was nothing in the lower bowel so the blockage must be higher.

She prescribed Colopeg - a drastic laxative used to prepare patients for a coloscopy.

"He must drink a litre as quickly as possible and, if I were you, I'd have a commode at the ready."

So, it was another trip to the chemist and a forage in the loft for the commode.

Now we wait. . . . . .

Problem number two is my computer.  Ever since the 'experts' tried to connect all three computers to wifi we've had problems. They left us yesterday with everything working fine, but within half an hour they all slowed down, and by this morning they had given up completely.

The lady expert came back on her own and fiddled around for ages before phoning the 'helpline'. She was getting more and more irritated and it seemed the chap on the other end had no idea what to do. He probably knew less than she did. It was probably a good half an hour at premium rate for nothing.

Then, suddenly, it seemed it was all systems 'go' again but she didn't know why. She just took advantage of the apparent remedy to have a coffee and disappear - but there was no charge and a promise that she'd come back if it went wrong again.

Sure enough. It went wrong, bigtime, the third time I used it. Not only did it claim to be offline, it now says it can't acquire an IP address.

Lady expert is coming back on Wednesday, bless her.

Meanwhile, I may or may not be out of action blogwise.