We have managed to reduce our routine visits to the vet to just three times a year - two cats each time.

Last week it was the turn of Toby and Chloe and we knew that if anyone caught a glimpse of a catbasket they would all disappear under the bed or behind the computer. So I prepared the willow basket and a new cat carrier that the vet had given us last time in the garage and then went to find the victims.

Toby was curled up  on an armchair so it was easy to pick him up but when he saw the basket he became amazingly active and it was a bit of a fight to get him in. Chloe, bless her, was more trusting and quite curious about this new bag so she didn't protest too much when I zipped her in.

Toby made  loud cries all the way there but Chloe didn't make a sound. Maybe she was too scared. Toby was sick within a few minutes and also did a poo. We had to open the sunroof and the windows - just a bit.

In the waiting room I managed to clean Toby's basket (he's usually carsick so we were prepared) and the receptionist took the 'Carnets de Santé'. The vet invited us in and proceeded to examine her patients before administering the jabs. I remember her when she started, five years ago, and was a bit inexperienced but now she handles the cats with calm assurance and sticks the needle in without making them flinch.

She gave them both a clean bill of health, made sure they didn't have any 'habitants' (such as fleas) and then we went to the desk for her to add up the bill. She didn't have a large bag of cat biscuits in stock but promised to bring them to us this week. it was then we discovered she has lived in our village for the last three years.

The only time I've seen her is at the surgery when we were both waiting for the physio. It was the season for 'bronchiolite' in young children and her seven month old daughter was booked in for her first session of torture.

Yes - torture! From what I gather they squeeze the child's chest to make her cough and it must feel like choking or being asphyxiated. The poor little things cry with terror and as the treatment is on a daily basis most of them start screaming as soon as mum parks the car outside the surgery. I'm sure they don't do that to children in England.

Anyway, to return to the visit to the vet, we bought six phials of 'Advocate' which treats fleas, worms, ticks and earmites (I like to use this twice a year but it's more expensive than Frontline which only repels fleas and ticks) paid in advance for the biscuits and came out with our precious bundles of fur 221 euros worse off.  Veterinery charges are increasing but I think they still compare favourably with costs in Britain. All the same, it's definitely worth it to protect them from most diseases, including rabies.

Reading about the Fourniret trial has certainly had me searching through the dictionary this week.

The monster regards himself as something special and he refuses to speak except  'á huis clos'  - in camera. He holds up silly notices instead of talking and has written long letters implying that he's longing to tell the families all they want to know but they won't  hear a word in public.

They have even had to drag him forcibly into court because he tried to avoid attending.

However, the first important witness for the prosecution, Marie, who managed to escape and therefore bring about his arrest was able to look him in the eye and describe how she won the day.

He had persuaded her to get nto his van, then tied her hands together and pushed her into the back. She managed to free her hands and undo the sliding door. Just as she was wondering if she dare risk injury by jumping out, he pulled up for a 'Stop' sign. She took her chance and escaped - ever fearful that he would  ' me répérer' ( this could mean see her or catch her) and was picked up by a lady in a car behind.

Fourniret had done  a U turn and she recognised her attacker. The lady took down the registration number and Founiret was arrested. The judge was able to say that this young girl, aged 13 at the time, was clever enough to outwit Fourniret.

The following day saw an analysis of the letters between Monique Olivier and Fourniret while he was in prison for sex offences in 1987. She began by calling him 'mon petit taulard' - my little convict - but later used stronger words such as 'fauve' - wild animal - and tiger.

He called her his 'carpe'.

They made a pact that he would kill her previous husband if she would procure him a virgin. He felt frustrated because he hadn't had 'ce que lui revenait' (what was coming to him?*)when his wife revealed on their wedding night that she had already slept with someone else.

And so the unholy partnership began.

Monique Olivier tried to tell the court that she was just a pawn in Fourniret's game but once it was disclosed that she played an important role in the murder and rape of Isabelle - she had picked up the girl and then he had stopped them along the road brandshing a petrol can. They pretended not to know each other and he got in the back of the car. He silenced the girl by putting a scarf round her neck and she made her take 'something to calm her down.' Then they drove back to their house and carried the unconscious victim inside.

The judge dismissed Olivier's claims that she was an unwilling bystander and remarked "What is the significance of the fact that your son was born 9 months and two days after the murder of  Isabelle?

Isabelle's parents had some words for Fourniret:

Vous etes un homme petit, petit. Pas par la taille (.......) Vous etes laid a l'interieur.

You are an insignificant little man. Not in height (........) You are ugly (rotten) on the inside.

How right they are.

* If anyone bilingual can translate my guess as to the meaning of revenir in this sense I'd be grateful. My dictionary gave lots of meanings that didn't really seem relevant -including 'faire revenir la viande' - to brown meat.

And for something more light-hearted try my other blog here.

Pascal rang on Friday evening to say he'd be round on Saturday.

Wow, we might get a full day's work done!

His 8 o'clock arrival was more like 25 past and he has come to expect a coffee laced with whisky before embarking on his labours.

By lunchtime he was saying he hoped to finish by the evening.

But - during the afternoon there were sounds of swearing.  He came to find me, looking a bit sheepish.

"You have got more of those pink tiles in the attic haven't you?"

Now the pink tiles were left over from a previous job (by the original owner) and Pascal had calculated that there were enough to do the top part of the walls. As it was no longer possible to buy more I had chosen blue for the lower half and 'shelves'  with a pink and blue freize in between - also left overs found in the attic.

I distinctly remember suggesting to Pascal that if there was a danger of running out of pink tiles, maybe he could do a second row of freize and finish with blue again at the top.

"No, I've counted them. There will be enough." he said, dismissively.

Now it was a different story. He was three short. And he had used up all the frieze to decorate the shelves.

We searched the attic in vain for matching pink tiles.

"I thought you had counted them." I ventured.

Yes, but he hadn't taken into account the fact that the understairs cupboard  new loo is not symmetrical and therefore the left side is longer than the right side.

"Well, we'll just have to finish off with blue". I said.

Pascal was all for ripping off the top row from the other side as well but as that would involve lots of cutting minute fragments to fit I couldn't bear the thought of all that extra time and mess (and money).

"Non!" I protested. "We'll live with it. People won't notice."

Pascal gave an exhasperated shrug and muttered something about "Vous anglais...."

At least, by 5.30 the tiling was finished and he graciously gave me the opportunity to clean all the mess off the walls and floor while he washed his tools in the garage.

(Bear is, at this moment, trying to unblock the sink which is solid with a kind of concrete resulting from that little operation).

Pascal then spent quite a long time repairing the flush mechanism when he put the toilet back. (I'm convinced it stopped working as a result of his constant removing it to the garage).

It was then time for an 'apero' of beer and whisky before he wandered off home.

"I'll be back to do the grouting." were his parting words.

Pity he didn't say when that might be.

A few days ago we were walking round town, minding our own business when a young lady approached us, stuck a microphone on my face and asked,

"Do you live locally? Have you heard about the Fourniret trial?"

I told her we lived near and, yes, we knew about the trial. The local paper has been full of it. Two notorious serial murderers moved to the prison  to be tried in Mezieres from tomorrow: the resultant disruption to parking has already been well broadcast and they estimate the total cost could be over a billion euros.

She held the microphone closer to my face.

"Can you tell me what you think about it then?"

I wanted to let rip with my feelings about a lifelong rapist and murderer whose first conviction dates back to when he was 25 (he's now in his 60's) and how he could be allowed to get away with it for so long - and how, if he's proved guilty, they should lock him up in a deep dark cellar and throw away the key. . . . . .

But my French deserted me and I could only babble about how terrible it must be for the victim's parents to have to sit through this all over again, listening to such a monster going over his crimes.

Hopefully, it was not a live programme and no-one will actually hear what I said.

But, tomorrow, Michel Founiret starts his trial for the kidnap, rape and murder of about seven of his victims.

His wife, Monique Olivier, in an attempt to make things easier for herself, has accused him of twelve murders but, since she was a party to 'befriending' and enticing some of the victims into their trap, she is also on trial.

Fourniret himself has already 'helped' the police by explaining where certain remains were hidden but, so far, he has been a difficult, slippery and crafty customer.

In some of his previous convictions he actually had suspended sentences (!!!) but, if French justice is to retain any credibility I should think they will have to keep him behind bars for the rest of his life.

The people of Charleville can't be too happy about this high profile case unfolding on their doorstep but they'll have to put up with it for the next few months.

It is mentioned on the BBC website here.

After the recent municipal elections it's a case of out with the old and in with the new.

On March 9th three lists* were put to the village electorate. The results came out very close with the 'maire sortant' (outgoing mayor) just a little bit ahead.

People from the two opposing lists who gained the most votes then combined forces to produce an opposing team of fifteen names to go forward to the vote on March 16th - and they won by a small majority.

It's amazing how many runours went flying round the village during these elections. I don't consider myself to be in the thick of things, and there's a language problem as well, but I heard whispers of  mistresses, ladies of easy virtue, fraud, family feuds and vengeance.

Some people received poison pen letters and some pretty nasty circulars went around saying negative things about the outgoing mayor.

So, you could say feelings were running high.

The winning list voted for the mayor and four deputies last Friday and we now have a lady maire with two men and two women as her adjoints.

Some people are pleased to see the back of the old regime while others are very worried about what the new council will get up to.

Only time will tell.

* Every town and village in France voted for a new Maire this month. The candidates put forward a list of names to serve as counsellors. In Charleville there were 45 people on each list but in our village there were only 15. In communes of less than 1500 inhabitants it is permitted to cross out names on the list you are voting for and substitute others. It then seems that everyone's individual votes are counted. Those who get enough votes can go through to the second round as part of a list of 15 - but the second round is usually between just two lists.

This post also appears on the new blog - here.

There was small piece in the local paper:_ the library in our village was going to open soon and the librarian was holding a meeting at 16h 00 for anyone interested in offering to help.

It must be nearly a year since they announced that the former school was going to become a 'bibliothèque'. I was beginning to wonder if the idea would ever become reality, so the chance to see what was going on appealed to my curiousity.

Knowing that meetings don't usually start on time I left the house at two minutes to four and arrived just after (it's in the next road). Even so I was the first one there. I walked in and had a choice of three doors,  none of which bore a label. Just as I was wondering which door to try first the one on the right was opened by the librarian.

"I thought I heard someone," she said, "Come in."

By this time a second lady had arrived and by ten past there were six of us.

There were mixed reactions to the progress. The room was small but freshly decorated and there was a colourful children's corner with pictures, mini armchairs and a low settee. But there was a serious lack of books.

The bright new shelves were shining with white emptiness. One or two of the ladies expressed their amazement at the shortage.

"Oh, but there are more in here," said Isabelle (the librarian) leading us into the small room on the left where a table held a few piles of books.

"These are the ones that need covering and classifying" she said.

We went back into the main room and gathered round the table. There were now nine ladies, (seven of whom were retired teachers) and one man, the chairman, who is one of the mayor's deputies and also the retired head of the local school.

During the course of this meeting  we learned that the library does not 'belong' to our village but is sponsored by a group of surrounding 'communes'. But no-one was sure which villages were included - or even how many!

When was it due to open? Well, maybe in February - or March - but, hopefully before the local elections on March 9th.

Opening hours? Not sure yet: the librarian is paid to work 35 hours a week but she is also expected to tour the other villages. So that's where the volunteers come in - to man the premises in her absence.

The door opened again and in came Madame S - another retired teacher well known for her appreciation of a tipple. She sat down breathing fumes over us. I'm not sure what she had been drinking but I wouldn't have risked lighting a match near her.

"Sorry I'm late. Last minute phonecall - you know how it is."

She beamed in my direction - "Ahh, the little English lady. How nice of you to come." -  shook hands with everyone, someone produced another chair and she joined the circle.

Other problems came to light,  like the fact that the software for keeping track of the books and borrowers would not be available till September so all the information would have to be entered on one system and then re-entered on the new system in the Autumn. No wonder she wants to keep the stock down for the time being!

Meanwhile the library will be run with  cards. The lady next to me, who came from a nearby village, was most put out about this ( there's too much room for error) but it seemed there was no option.

I asked if there would be scope for a section of books in English and other languages.

"Yes, of course. We already have some," Isabelle said and went to fetch an example from the children's section. It was Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit.

We were asked to write our names, addresses and phone numbers, together with times we would be free to help, on a sheet of paper.

Then came the big question: - what was the library to be called?

Well, it couldn't be called by the name of our village because it belonged to the group. My vociferous neighbour was adamant about this.

Someone came up with 'La Bibliothèque Intercommunale des Plaines et Forets de l'ouest Ardennes.' (what a mouthful!) The librarian pointed out that it wouldn't tell people where to return lost books. The meeting deteriorated into three different discussions.

By now it was 5.30. Two ladies had already departed. I felt it was time I left them to it as well. I wonder how much longer they went on and whether they decided on a reasonable name - or whether they came to any conclusions at all . . . . . .

This Spring there will be elections for the maire and his chosen councillors and so, although electioneering has not officially started, tonight's gathering held particular significance for our Mayor.

It started at six o'clock with the presentation of prizes for the Christmas tree competition. They awarded the first prize to someone I don't know at all and then the other 45 entrants received a certificate with a photo of the mairie adorned in Christmas lights together with a flower - a kind of lily in a pot. In the 'business section' only one shop took part - the chemist. So our pharmacist won the prize. It was contained in an envelope so I suspect it was a voucher. Not sure if I dare ask her which shop she can spend it in - or how much it's worth!

The meeting was scheduled to begin at seven and as you can be pretty sure that everything will start late we had plenty of time to walk back home, have a bowl of onion soup and then go back.

As we approached the village hall there was loud music - bagpipes and drums. The Celtic Group from a nearby village were providing the entertainment. They perform Breton, Scottish and Irish tunes but the four drums are a bit overpowering even for the half dozen or so bagpipes and the bombards can hardly be heard at all above the din. Most people were obviously a bit put out by the volume as they couldn't gossip. Some children had their hands over their ears but one little girl near us was dancing like a Dervish - having a great time.

At ten past seven the band trouped out and one of the adjoints took the microphone. He had a problem calling for silence as everyone was determined to make up for lost time in chatting to their neighbours. After four attenpts to call the meeting to order the noise died down enough for him to introduce the maire.

Monsieur T took his place and the room fell (practically) silent. There were still children playing catch among the audience so I found it difficult to follow all he said. He referred to the unpopular roadworks without any note of apology except to say it was unfortunate that they had hit a few problems and so were lasting longer than expected.

He spoke about more 'travaux' in Rue du Moulin and the fact that they have started work on repairing the church which has been closed for ages after some stones fell down in the entrance.

He said something about new arrangements for waste which will include a means of composting but I'm going to have to ask someone exactly what he said about that.

Then there was the group photo. I always try my best to hide at the back but this time the maire and his wife came into the group at the last minute. He came and stood behind me (he's very tall) while his wife put her arm round my shoulder and propelled me to the front.

After that the band came back in and it was time for the Vin d'amitié -  champagne of course - helped down by copious supplies of  sandwiches and galettes.

As this was Bear's first appearance for nearly three months various people came up to say hello and ask after his health. However, there were not as many familiar faces as usual so we didn't stay too long.

On the way back Bear remarked,

"Could you imagine this sort of thing happening in England?"

I think not.

January 6th, for us, means Twelfth Night  - time to take down the decorations and put Christmas behind us for another year. My mother and grandmother were very superstitious about this and would get very upset if one small piece of tinsel was left behind.

In France, there is a much nicer custom for Epiphany: the visit of the Three Kings is celebrated with a Galette des Rois. What started as a religious festival has become more of an excuse to indulge in eating nowadays. The favourite recipe is flakey pastry filled with a marzipan type mixture - frangipane (invented by an Italian noble, the Marquis of Frangipani in the 14th century) but there is also a plain version (without frangipane) and there are even recipes with apple or other fruit filling. In the south it can be a brioche filled with frangipane.

Anyway, from what I've seen in French households, the idea is for the youngest child to hide under the table while the cake is cut. He or she then decides who is to receive each slice.

Why? Because there is a token hidden in the galette and the one who finds it gets the crown. Originally the tokens were based on the nativity but nowadays they can be of anything.

Pascal phoned us yesterday to ask if we'd like to go round for Galette des Rois. I dare not say yes because Bear is still not well so I invited them to come to ours instead.

That meant a last minute search for the necessary cake (Jay bought one in town) and also a baking session, as Pascal is rather partial to mince pies.

They arrived just after three o'clock bearing chilled champagne . Conversation was a bit slow  - or should I say fast, as it is difficult to follow Pascal at the rate he chatters and I aften have to ask him to repeat what he said. Bear sat sullenly in his armchair and 'switched off' but when the champagne was opened he allowed himself to be persuaded to have some.

The galette was warming through in the oven. Jay, knowing what to expect disappeared upstairs so CC had to allocate the pieces of cake - fortunately not from under the coffee table: we let her stand behind the settee. Pascal and Florence were a bit taken aback when we provided cake forks and soon everyone was resorting to fingers: sticky but so much more satisfying.

So guess who won the crown (with a  monkey token)?

Yes, it was Bear.

I plonked the crown on his head and he grimaced.

"It's very quiet here," said Pascal, "How about some music?"

Bear reacted to this.

"No way. I'm not having that row." he decided.

"What about my CD of Cyril?" I suggested. (Cyril won the French Star Academy last year and has a really good voice.)

"Not if you want to avoid World War Three," muttered CC, so I let it drop.

Despite Bear's silence we opened another bottle of champagne, gave Pascal some whisky and brought out the mince pies. Conversation began to flow and we finished off the afternoon with coffee (Pascal had tea!) until they got up to leave at about 6.30 with a dozen mince pies to take home for the rest of the family.

P.S. In view of Bear's reaction to listening to music I was amazed when during the evening he changed channels and found a Proms concert of not terribly attractive music, especially when played at full volume. I looked up from the book I was trying to read.

"Are you enjoying this?"

"NO, but I'm forcing myself to listen to it."

So I went upstairs and finished my book in CC's room.

One of the first things I used to do when teaching was to mark the holidays on the calendar - in fact we often used to do this at the staff meeting before the beginning of term when we went through the events already planned by the headteacher.

So it wasn't surprising to read in the local paper that most French people tick off the Jours de Feriés (Bank Holidays) so that they can arrange their 'ponts' or long weekends.

If a Jour de Ferié falls on a Thursday or a Tuesday it is possible to take an extra day on the Friday or Monday, either by taking a day off your holiday allowance or arranging a day of RTT -Reduction de Temps de Travail. This doesn't actually mean that you can reduce your working hours; you have to 'pay' for your day off by making up the hours in previous weeks.

In May last year, if you were able to take advantage of all the long weekends possible there were only 17 working days. This year it's not such good news.  Ascension Day falls on the 1st May - La Fete du Travail - so thats one holiday less. However, it is a Thursday so that's an opportunity to take Friday off as well.

More bad news: November 1st - Toussaint - is a Saturday, and there's no question of transfering a Bank Holiday to the following Monday. And then there's an extra working day because of February 29th.

On the other hand, there are six chances to take a three or four day break in 2008: May 1st (Thursday), May 8th (Fete de la Victoire), 14th July (Monday), 15th August (Friday), 11th November (Tuesday), 25th December (Thursday - and the 26th would have to be an RTT or extra day's holiday because Boxing Day is NOT a Bank Holiday here). January 1st will also be a Thursday so it's possible to start 2009 with a four day holiday.

(It's always useful to be aware of these Jours de Feriés if you are travelling to France. We have been caught out in the past, unable to buy any food - not even bread.)

Of course, since retiring, I find the days all merge into one. It's like a week of weekends. But it does make you feel old when you have to think hard about what day it is.

We weren't able to go to the Repas des Anciens a few weeks ago because Bear was in hospital, but today one of the Mayor's deputies turned up with a hamper laden with goodies.

He expressed his wishes for better health, kissed me on both cheeks and went off smiling cheerfully.

So what did the box contain?

Three bottles of wine: red, dry white and sweet white

Foie gras de canard (duck)

Terrine de canard (duck paté)

Terrine de caille (quail paté)

Terrine de Gascogne aux pruneaux (pork paté with prunes)

Gigotine de volaille a la Bordelaise (chicken, mushrooms and bacon cubes in red wine sauce)

Chocolate truffles

Butter biscuits

Two white porcelain mugs

Not bad eh?