Seul Man

Be careful what you wish for – I don’t know which patronising children’s story that is the moral of and I’ve always rather discarded it as utter nonsense, but now I know different.
I was always going to miss Natalie and the boys this week, there’s nothing new there, regular readers will be aware that, with monotonous regularity, I’ll write a blog that basically says ‘woe is me, I miss my wife and kids blah blah blah.’ Only this time I’m at home and it’s they who are in England, which means that, yes I miss them enormously, but because I’m at home I can get on with stuff other than wind up hotel receptionists or browse TK Maxx for hours on end. And anyway, it’s only for three days so like any good fusspot left to their own devices I’d written a list and was rather looking forward to it all, especially the meals, I could cook what I wanted to eat for a change.
The drive back up from Limoges airport was without incident, a lovely sunny evening, the cold wintry sun lighting up the beautiful Limousin countryside and I gently pootled along knowing, from experience, exactly where the speed cameras are located. I knew something was up though as soon as I got out of the car at the gate, the sheer amount of noise coming from the animals was like they were all being attacked at once.
First I noticed that Chewbacca, the least sociable of the goats, had broken into the orchard where the hens also live. This meant the hens were making that low ‘I don’t like this’ long clucking sound, exactly like the slow-motion parts of an Inspector Clouseau-Cato fight in The Pink Panther films. This however didn’t bother Chewbacca in the slightest who was happily raiding their coop for any leftovers. Popcorn, a friendly but skittish goat, was attempted to mount Bambi, the small goat newcomer in a highly forceful manner. I’ve no issue with goat gayness in the slightest, live and let live and all that but no is no and Bambi didn’t look like he had acquiesced at all. On seeing me Popcorn dismounted and started running around bleating at the top of his voice the goat equivalent of ‘Run, it’s the Rozzers’ which also disturbed Chewbacca who started doing the same.
It was not the gentle start to my few days alone that I had envisaged. I eventually managed to lure Chewbacca out of the orchard and back into his paddock all the while trying not to snag my suit on a tree or tread in anything untoward.
That evening I dined heartily on Pancetta wrapped Chicken breast with Tarragon Cream sauce and Lemon Cous-Cous.
I woke early the next morning and began goat proofing, or should I say, re-goat-proofing, the orchard fence. I hammered in dozens of tent pegs so that Chewbacca couldn’t force his way under the wire meshing. It took hours in the freezing cold wind and by lunchtime I could hardly move my fingers but I stood for a while thawing out in front of a roaring log fire and felt relatively pleased with my work. I sat down to lunch and almost as soon as I had, the doorbell rang. Nobody turns up at your door during mealtimes in France, it’s sacrilege. It’s just about the most ill-mannered, anti-French thing you can do. It’s a mealtime! You don’t disturb French people during food!
I sneaked a look out of the upstairs window to see who this heretic might be and recognised him immediately, The Pudding Man. He’d been badgering me since Christmas about getting him a Christmas Pudding from England for a party, I had told him that I would try and I had to, but with no success. Natalie had told him this already but clearly he wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘Sod him’, I thought, ‘It’s lunchtime, he can bloody wait!’ He got back into his car and drove off and I went back to my lunch.
Then the phone rang. Again, for the same reason as you don’t knock on anyone’s door during repast you don’t ring them up either. I ignored it and allowed the answer machine to kick in.
“Monsieur? Monsieur?’ Said a voice, either unsure of answer machines or aware that I was there and just hiding. It was the bloody Pudding Man again! He could only have driven about 100 metres down the road before ringing! Again, I just ignored it.
Part of the routine I’ve now set myself at home is an afternoon nap. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, he’s getting old etc. But actually it’s for the good of everyone. If I can rest at some point after lunch I will be less cantankerous by the evening, I might also be able to stay up later and enjoy some quality time with Natalie after the boys have gone to bed and not, as has become the case, get tucked in by my eldest son. I think it’s a good idea and I was determined to try the routine out this week.
Fat chance.
I had maybe twenty minutes sleep before the doorbell rang again and this time in my sleepy fog I went to answer it. It was The Pudding Man, again! Anyone would think I was supplying him with a necessary heroin fix! I looked at him and didn’t bother to hide my displeasure. I admonished him for disturbing me during my lunch and now my nap, but the irony of an Englishman telling off a Frenchman for not being French enough was lost on him and all he could say was, ‘Do you like my car?’ It was a Mini Cooper. ‘Very English!’ He added smiling.
I explained that I couldn’t get a Christmas Pudding and his face fell. I don’t think he actually believed me and he looked a little hurt, ‘Come back in November.’ I said and I expect he will too.
That night I dined heartily on Sautéed Chorizo and Noix de Saint-Jacques with a Lamb’s Lettuce salad.
I hadn’t planned to get up as early as I did but something told me things weren’t quite right. I went downstairs almost collapsing at the stench coming from the cat litter tray, and saw that once again the Steve McQueen of the goat world was in the orchard and harassing foul.
It was freezing and blowing a gale outside and I was in my dressing gown, pyjamas and initially my Oxblood Tasselled Loafers as I couldn’t grab anything else. I ventured into the orchard and immediately slipped on a pile of chicken poo so went back to the house and put on my Wellington Boots. This time Chewbacca seemed to know my every move though and would not, would not, go back under the fence. It took ages, my swearing volume going up at the same rate as my body temperature fell. At one point I even stopped and looked around for a lasso and then tutted at the lack of lasso type equipment on offer. I mean, what was I thinking? I’ve never lassoed anything in my life! Like I would know where to start. I eventually cornered Chewbacca and he slid back under the fence he had crawled under and as he did so, all in one move, he took one last bite at the longer orchard grass, it was the goat equivalent of Indiana Jones just rescuing his hat in time.
Finally I thought, and turned around in time just to see Gigi the Chiweenie, who seems to be regressing obedience-wise, scurrying across the terrace with one of my discarded loafers in her mouth.
“Nooooooo!” I wailed, “You little shiiiiiiiiiiiit!” And went chasing after her.
That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is merely a precis of the week thus far. Next time the animals can go to England instead and we’ll all stay here. Tonight I shall be dining heartily on Orchard Stuffed Curried Goat in a Puppy Jus, and then having an early night.

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