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 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.

It wasn't intentional but we upset another lot of people at the vet's yesterday.

Holly was obviously suffering from another bout of cystitis and Toby had been sick several times a day for nearly a week so we popped them in the catbaskets and set off for Nouzonville.

The surgery starts at 5p.m. but we have found from past experience that it's better to wait beforehand to ensure being first than to wait even longer in the queue. Doors open at 4p.m. and we were there at 4.15.

The receptionist came to ask about the problems and took their 'cartes de santé'. By this time poor Toby had performed both ends and there was a pretty awful smell coming from his basket.

At 4.30 a chap came in carrying a small dog. His polite 'Bonjour' was not echoed by the scowl on his face. He had obviously hoped to be first as well.

At ten to five the door opened and we were invited into the surgery. Dr. Helene S examined Holly first, confirmed my diagnosis and gave her two injections - one antibiotic, the other anti spasmodic - and two lots of tablets to continue the treatment.

Then it was Toby's turn. She examined him, asked questions then gave him an antivomiting injection. This is followed up with two medecines - one anti sickness and another, ten minutes later, to 'line his stomach'. She then suggested a bloodtest.

"We'll have the results on 20 minutes if you'd like to wait in the salle d'attente, or perhaps do a bit of shopping. You can leave the cats with us."

We emerged from her surgery at ten past five to a find a packed waiting room: not a spare chair anywhere and people standing in the entrance holding onto their dogs.

Normally there are two vets on duty but the chap who had come in after us was still there. The other vet wasn't there.

We made a quick exit and went to the supermarket opposite.

After putting our shopping in the car we went back in at half past five just as the man with his little dog was coming out.

We were invited back in for the results which showed that Toby had no kidney or liver problems so if his vomiting persisted they would have to test for feline leucaemia. However, she thought the treatment would do the trick.

She then sat down at her desk and laboriously wrote out the treatment for both cats and notes for her own records. She explained carefully how and when to give the tablets and medecines and finally added up the bill - on a scrap of paper.

As I handed over the cheque I said

"There are lots of people here tonight. Are you on your own?"

"Yes, it is busier than usual. There are days like that but he (the boss) will be in sometime."

She then opened the door for us and preceded us through the roomful of dogs, cats and people to hold the front door while we went through with our precious cargo.

I bet those people are still swearing about us.

You get used to waiting, especially at the chemist and on the hard chairs in the packed salle d'attente at the opthalmologist's but when we went to book our holiday at the train station we caused a long and unpopular tailback.

It was a mistake to hope that during the lunchbreak was a good time. There were already five people in front of us and only one position open - manned by a young girl who was learning the ropes.

A more senior lady was esconced at the next desk with the 'postion fermé' light on. At the desk for 'departs immediats' another lady came and went but wasn't going to open up.

Eventually our turn came and I warned the young girl that we might be a long time as we wanted to book a holiday with hotels as well.

She asked if anyone in the queue was getting a train in the next hour. There were no takers so she turned to us with a slightly uneasy smile.

I passed over my list of dates, places and times and mentally crossed my fingers. At the first hotel she hit a problem as she couldn't tell me whether the price she quoted was for one or two nights or one or two people.

The supervisor leaned over and made a few suggestions. The poor girl tried to carry on but soon got into difficulties again. Bear started asking me what was going on but before I could explain the senior lady smiled and answered him in English.

At last, she came and stood behind the computer and joined in properly. By this time the growing queue was getting restless so she went to the door and called the other girl to come and open her position.

I dared to turn round to face the hostile stares from the impatient would-be travellers and was surprised to find that the queue now did two U turns round the booking hall. No wonder I had felt unpleasant vibes aimed at my back.

The girl at the other desk was more efficient and so things started to move but there were still mutterings and complaints. The supervisor, Stephanie (we had learnt her name by now) was adept at answering queries from  this other girl, teaching her 'student', explaining to us in English and fielding complaints and insults all at the same time without losing her cool - or her smile.

"The Carolomaciens (inhabitants of Charleville) don't like waiting", she said to us in English, "and they love insulting 'fonctionaires'".

An hour later we thanked Stephanie and her assistant for their help and patience and left the booking hall clutching a thick wad of tickets and vouchers and trying to avoid the daggers coming our way from the eyes of our fellow(?) travellers.

On the way home we stopped at the chemists for two prescriptions. That 'only' took forty minutes - and there was quite a queue waiting by the time we left.

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.