"Can I borrow your foot?"

This has become a Whale-ism.

Every time he needs to transfer from bed to wheelchair someone has to put their weight on the walking frame as a counterbalance. This is because he has problems bending at the knees and he maintains the floor is slippery.

It's true his right leg has become stiffer of late but I'm not so sure about the floor.

Anyway, whereas Whale used to be fairly independent about getting in and out of bed or wheelchair there is now the shout

"Can I borrow your foot?"    umpteen times a day.

It's not that it's a strenuous task but his timing can be a bit inconvenient. Of course, he's not to know what I'm doing all the time but when I've just sat down with a cup of coffee to read  my favourite blogs or I'm enjoying a TV programme with a cat curled up on my lap I can't help inwardly sighing.

But when he can see I'm in the middle of cooking or washing up (his bedroom adjoins the kitchen area) then it does get a bit exhasperating.

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 . . . . . .

John-G started it and then Keith upstaged him.

"What's in your dresser?"

Well. I can't even begin to compete on contents - the top half contains (very ordinary) crockery and the bottom half is a drinks cabinet (some good brandy and a nice calvados though) - but the dresser itself has an interesting story.

When I came over to househunt five years ago two very dear friends took me in and helped organise just about everything.

We had barely a week to furnish and prepare the house before Jay brought Whale over. Marie  and Michel took me to the attic above the workshop - an immense barn of a place, filled with all sorts of furniture and farm equipment in various states of repair.

"Some of this furniture belongs to a relative who is in a home" explained Marie. She thinks it has all been sold so you are welcome to borrow anything you need.

There was a large kitchen table and six chairs that would be most useful but the beds were rusty and, frankly, past it.

Then she showed me the 'buffet'. It was all in pieces and covered in dust and cobwebs but  I fell in love with it.

"It's in the style Henri Quatre," explained Marie, "and it's not very popular because it's too fussy and ornate and people don't like polishing it."

"I love it." was my response.

So Marie supplied me with rags, brushes and old fashioned liquid polish and left me to provide the elbow grease necessary to restore the bits and pieces to something resembling their former glory.

Eventually, with the help of a couple of younger chaps, the parts were put together in the living room of our rented house. The lower doors didn't close easily but it didn't matter. I was thrilled with it.

When we found our present house I asked if we would be allowed to bring the dresser with us.

"Of course," was the reply.

It was dismantled and reassembled in the dining area where it only just fitted - barely a couple of centimetres to spare.

You have to feel 'in the mood' and then polishing it is a very satisfying experience. I admit, I don't do it all that often but it looks better than it did when I first saw it.

Way back in October we started on the bedroom makeover and soon discovered that it was going to be a long drawn out process.

Little did I suspect that it would also lead to Bear falling out of a makeshift bed, spending nearly a week in hospital, coming out with an infected hand and fractured shoulder, being indisposed for Christmas and beyond and then going down with bronchitis.

But, although we still have various medical appointments to attend he is, at last, beginning to feel better. In fact, yesterday he drove into town and we did some shopping to finish off the bedroom.

Before, there was pink wallpaper and a frieze - mostly in good condition but with very noticeable 'cat-scratch' areas. Bear's attempts to protect them with plastic looked terrible so the wallpaper had to go.

The 'meringue' colour paint looks fresh and clean but somewhat bare so we needed more pictures than the ones we already had. I chose some cat pictures from the 2006 and 2007 calendars and we bought  frames at 6 euros each from ' Mille Choses'.

Now the bedroom is about as finished as it's going to be for the time being. New curtains and bedlinen are out of the question but we did have to have a new wardrobe because the old one fell apart.

So what do you think?

It was not one of my best ideas to try to learn to play the soprano saxophone but three years ago Bear bought the one that used to belong to a friend of ours.

He was a semi-professional jazz player who had always concentrated on clarinet and alto sax but, although in his seventies, he decided to branch out and buy himself a bass clarinet, a vibraphone, a state of the art keyboard and, finally a soprano sax. He used to come into school on a voluntary basis and give clarinet and sax lessons to the children, and, also help out with band practices and concerts. He was a lovely man. It was terrible when he was found to have cancer and he died just over three years ago.

His widow, also a good friend of ours decided to sell his instruments on ebay but when she came over to stay with us I jokingly said to Bear,

"Do you fancy buying me a soprano sax for my 60th birthday?"

Either, he wasn't concentrating or he didn't know what it was worth (despite the fact that we had just been talkng about the value of all the instruments) but he said

"Yes, if you like."

I didn't think he was too serious but our friend thought it was a lovely idea and Bear ended up buying me a fantastic present for the first (and probably last) time - ever.

So, I signed up for lessons at the local music school (which usually caters for youngsters up to the age of 12) and made up my mind to work hard and practise conscientiously.

Despite my best efforts, the sound I produced was more like a cow in labour than the beautiful music I knew a soprano sax to be capable of. After a year it was improving but it was nigh on impossible to play anything other than FORTISSIMO and there was nowhere I could practise without disturbing someone.

Then came the problem of arthritis which meant I found it difficult to hold the instrument (resting it on my knee was frowned on by my teacher) and the cararact operations forced me to give up completely for a few months.

When I tried to blow it again it made my eyes feel most uncomfortable.

So, with Bear's agreement, I decided to sell it. At first, I asked my teacher if she knew anyone who might be interested. She took it away with her in July but several months later there was no news. So, in November I asked her to bring it back so I could put it on ebay, (hoping the proceeds might help pay for the end of year festivities.)

However, I didn't get around to advertising it until last Monday. I put it on a free advertising site called 'leboncoin' and had two emails: one from a chap in Spain who wanted to know what it would cost to send with insurance, and the second from someone in Nimes who was interested but had to sell his old one first.

I found out postage costs and emailed the man in Spain but heard no more. On Friday I discovered another free site and put in a second advert. The following morning I received an email asking me to phone a mobile number.

The man concerned asked a few questions about it and said he'd like to come and see it. I heard him talking to his wife.

"Should we go today or tomorrow?"

The response was shocked surprise but when he spoke to me again he said they'd like to come on Sunday.

It would be a three hour drive for them so I suggested they come and have lunch. He accepted and they duly arrived, just a little late, at 12.45.

He tried the sax, liked it and bought it - cash.

Whooppeee - a bonus of more than my month's pension!

"That's a lot quicker than selling on ebay," said Jay.

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.

All we had to go on was the scrappy piece of paper we had been given by the doctor on our last visit to the hospital.

He had written the address and time - 9.30, but not the name of the doctor.

Since Bear still refuses to go in Jay's car we booked a taxi - the new oneman business, recently started up in the village. The driver was playing with a SatNav.

"Is that a Christmas present?" I asked him.

"No, I don't know where to find rue Kennedy." he replied.

Fortunately I was able to explain where it was, as the computer generated voice was rather irritating and I could see Bear bristling.

The driver was quite impressed that I knew and I was rather surprised he didn't. After all, he lives in Charleville!

Anyway, he dropped us off with fifteen minutes to spare and we went inside.

'If you have an appointment go straight into the waiting room. If not see the receptionist.' said the sign.

As there were some doctors on the ground floor and others upstairs we had to go and ask which one we were to see.

Just our luck; he was upstairs.

He called us into his consulting room and started asking questions. It was a bit odd to start with. He was addressing Bear but I was answering. I think he found it quite amusing.

Anyway, he did an ECG and various other tests and decided that everything was fine. But, he did casually mention that if Bear had any severe chest pains I was to phone 15 (emergency doctor) immediately; if it was just a case of an occasional bout of discomfort we were to go back and see him. I don't think Bear understood this so I didn't worry him with a translation. After all, he'd just been given a clean bill of health heartwise, hadn't he? At the end of the consultation I handed over the Carte Vitale and fished out the chequebook.

"Tout est reglé"  (It's all paid) said the doctor. It's funny how sometimes you have to pay upfront and wait a few days for it to be paid back in to your account and then, at other times it goes straight through like this.

We emerged into the grey, rainy day just after ten and made for La Fontaine for a coffee. It's ages since we've been there and we were greeted with kisses and New Year wishes. Bear had hoped to stay in town for lunch but by 11 o'clock he had had enough and I rang for the taxi to take us home.

Needless to say, Bear has hardly moved from his armchair since.

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.