February is the time for the AGM and 'St. Agathe' meal for the 'Club des Anciens'.

As usual the meeting started nearly forty minutes late, was brief and chaotic. The one thing we noticed in the accounts was that the club spends serious money on booze. Nearly 300 euros for champagne was third on the list and then there were three more amounts to a local drinks depot for similar sums.

We were all 'a table' by midday for champagne and nibbles and then the President sprang a surprise.

'As it is St. Agathe's day the men will be serving the meal and clearing the dishes' she announced. This was greeted with gallic noises of dismay from the men and shrieks of delight from the women. Mme Coutin then proceeded to pick two men from each table (of about twenty people) to be the waiters. I felt sorry for Daniel, who was sitting opposite us. He doesn't actually retire till next month and this was his very first meal with the club. I tried to cheer him up by saying he was chosen because he was the youngest but I'm not sure that was enough to mollify him.

It was interesting to see that some of the chaps were quite domesticated whereas others looked a bit lost but they all mucked in with a will and we got through the meal in record time. Coffee was served by half past four. Soon after that people started to get their coats.

Then the man opposite us mentioned that the local team (Sedan) were playing at five and the match was being televised.

Today we had arranged to have lunch in town with Yvette (our friend whose husband has multiple sclerosis). Bear and I had appointments with the chiropodist before lunch and Jay had one at 1.30. Yvette had to go to the hospital at 11a.m. and so we had agreed to meet at La Fontaine just after 12.

However, the phone went at nine and it was Yvette to say that the ambulance was not coming to collect her husband (who normally goes to a care centre on Mondays and Thursdays to give her a break) because of the WEATHER. What weather? Had they been watching the British forecast by mistake? It had snowed very lightly here early this morning but by eight o'clock it had turned to rain. She was helpless but angry. This was the second time she had had to cancel her appointment at the hospital and she had been looking forward to having lunch with us.

She said this was so typically French: any excuse not to work - even some teachers were on strike today. The chiropodist also expressed his views while we were there. According to him the French start demonstrating just before presidential elections for fear of losing their rights. If the socialist, Segolene Royale gets in they should be safe, but he reckons that the majority of French lean more towards the right and so people are getting worried.

As we left town we noticed groups gathering in front of the town hall with banners. They were quiet and orderly but there was a police presence so maybe they expected it to escalate into a noisy protest.

We'll see if it makes the local paper tomorrow.

Update: It did make the front page but the headline suggested there was a poor turnout - about 500 people demonstrated against school closures, minimun salary and loss of public workers' rights.

'What do you think of this?' asked the Bear, handing me one of the advertising booklets that get jammed into our letter box every week. It was an advert for a combined DVD and video recorder for 99euros. Too good to be true, was my first reaction and then my heart sank as I realised it would mean fiddling about with the scart connections and possibly buggering up the entire satellite reception again.

Closer examination of the pamphlet revealed that the source of the advert was a store with an extremely badly thought out method of selling to its customers.

Nevertheless, we set off to find a bargain but, due to Bear's lack of attention, ended up at the supermarket instead of the store in question. 'Oh well, we're here now so let's stock up on water and anything else we need.' he said.

Forty minutes later, with the boot already full with water, cat litter, binbags, washing powder etc. etc. we arrived at the intended destination. We had trouble finding the right department and then had to root out a saleslady and show her what we were looking for. She checked it out on the computer and said they were in stock. I asked her if it really did record DVDs and she assured me it did, so we started the painful process of buying it.

First she filled in information on her computer and printed off a bill. Then we queued up at the cash desk at the other end of the store to pay. After that we took the receipt to the 'warehouse department' and waited in line to proffer our piece of paper to the indifferent young lady behind the counter. She nonchantly stamped it, gave us the second copy and told us to go to the 'waiting area' where our goods would be brought.

The said waiting area is equipped with vending machines, tall round tables to lean on while you drink and a few plastic chairs. After a while the doors opened with a hiss and a chap wheeled a trolley through, laden with flatpacked parcels for a young woman. He went through the paperwork with her and then disappeared to the carpark for a good five minutes. When he returned he wandered around a bit and got himself a coffee.

The people in the waiting area were getting pretty fed up by now and one woman complained. After another wait, the door hissed open again and he brought out her stuff and ours on the same trolley. We signed and dated the paperwork and took the parcel BUT, wait - in large letters, in English it was marked DVD PLAYER and VIDEO RECORDER.

Back we went to the warehouse lady and explained the problem. At first she tried to make out that it was nothing to do with her. The advert said it records so it must do. The box must be wrong. Eventually she phoned the saleslady and it appeared that there's an error in the description. We had to go back to find her, leaving the appliance in the 'warehouse'.

It was a few minutes to twelve by now so we went back via the 'no entry' doors (we'd been in the waiting area long enough to notice how the staff pressed a button at the side to make them open) and tracked down the offending lady. She said she had been on holiday and so didn't know about the error and tried to persuade us to buy a real recording machine for three times the price but we insisted on a refund.

That required a long phonecall to 'the office' - thank heavens they hadn't all gone for lunch - more fiddling on the computer and another piece of paper to take to the cash desk. This time there was no queue but the cashier didn't look too pleased at being late for her break. She put my  card in a machine which spat out another scrap of paper and pointed out that it was clearly marked CREDIT. We wished each other a hypocritical 'Bon appetit' and Bear and I made for the car, empty handed.

'I'm never coming here again', he muttered. I just hope he remembers this experience the next time he thinks he's found a bargain.