Christmas Tree

She's up and we're feeling fine and festive.

Autumn in Paris

Paris je t'aime. I've spent seven years looking for you, dancing on stage for the children of the village dressed as a giant ostrich no less, trying to find a French friend to share a bottle of wine with on a Friday night, mingling with chasseurs guffawing about their measly winter catch, making polite conversation with a Frenchman who thought to explain rugby to me he would just shout louder. Yes, the French love affair has, at times been trying. I wondered whether I could ever feel at home ...that was until I found you gay Paris.

A late Autumn break seemed the perfect time to head to to the city while our restaurant closed for a few weeks rest after a long and busy summer. I've stayed once or twice in Paris for a friend's hen weekend, for my own hen weekend and in between train and eurostar plenty of times too. This time it was different, I had more time to soak up this fabulous place and fall in love with it like a first date.


From our apartment in republique we could see Sacre Coeur, tour montparnasse and beyond, all in a misty wet wintery way but so romantic all the same. A gorgeous man in the cafe next door gave us a free apero and told us about his collection of 2000 shoes! We did the tourist thing and hopped on a tour bus around the sights of this structured but free feeling city. I treated myself to a camel beret and drank kir at teatime with the other thirty somethings on their way home from work. On and off the metro we floated, to the Louvre, Tour Eiffel and on to a tear jerking service in Notre Dame, eating and drinking all the way.


The brasserie Lipp was an amazing find, full of buzz and excitement, waiters frantically toing and froing in floor length pinnies - archetypical of a Parisian bistro. Joking with bags of ooh la la about men who prefer a plump, full breast and those who like a skinny leg - chicken of course but hilarious all the same. I'm all for a bit of cheeky humour and this place filled my veins with France, frenchness and everything I love about this warm and tender place. After dark we headed to the lights of St Germain to young people and bars open til the small hours. We took it all in, I pined over pink lace up brogues in the shop windows and we sadly considered what a shame we can't afford to live here.



Back on the train home and as we edged closer to the countryside a group of local fonctionnaires hopped aboard after clocking off from a day shuffling more papers. They make me feel depressed and remind me about the negative, small minded side of France. Their attitudes are as old fashioned as their moonboots and they glare at us like we are second class citizens. It didn't matter because we know what it is that makes us feel homesick from time to time, the massive differences between us and them. We were pleased to be home all the same to fresh air and our loving mutt. We dreamt merrily of Paris and it's open attitude and felt happy to know we're not etrangers everywhere after all.

Foraging for figs, pears and blackberries

We all love a trip out in the wilds in the Autumn to gather free food. The French regularly hunt for mushrooms, cepes and fruits to adorn their winter tables and there's so much more than your average blackberry in the hedgerows down our way.

My kitchen table has a lovely little pile of sweet pears I plan to transform into a pear and pecan salad over the weekend and the blackberries I've picked up on my usual dog walking route have made a fine addition to my morning yoghurt ( as ever trying to become thin a la Sienna Miller ). I planted strawberries and raspberries at home this year but didn't exactly get a bountiful crop, small but sweet maybe.

All this colourful fruit around takes me back to being small and watching jam tarts, apple and blackberry pies and fruit fools being turned out week after week to our dining table on finest chintz willow. We used to keep pigs in the dining room at one point ready for butchering so the crockery and table were quite a step up!


This year I've received loving baskets of plums from workpals as well as apples and the first bunch of grapes from our vine in four years. I've compote'd, if that's a word, stewed, baked and gobbled up all of these with great gusto and am wondering what I'll do when they're all finished.

Perhaps the biggest surprise of all would be the most beautiful fruit of the countryside; finest french figs. I've got used to seeing these buxom fruits dangling from the side of the road over the years but the sight of them never ceases to please me. Big flat leaves with green and riper purple fruits dotted in between.

My pockets are full after my walk, so much so there's no room for the dog lead. So pleased am I with my foraging that my figs have been the staple of my morning porridge and then again for lunch some days with locally cured ham and creamy goats cheese. So pleasing, so pretty and so free! I am no spiritual guru but unloading my pockets onto the kitchen table with these lovely finds makes me feel both happy, naughty and lucky all in one.

Unfortunately the biggest, juiciest ones are always out of reach...

Living the outdoor life

I love last minute plans, they always turn out to be the best fun. Last night, some friends dropped in on their way home from Archachon after a week camping on the coast. Full of excitement and tales of their week away, nursing the burnt bits and shaking the sand from their flip flops with a car packed to the rafters.

A seafood platter later, copious muscadet and a belly full of laughter and we were done. We sat outside until the lights went out in the village listening to the faint hum of musique drifting across from Club Marpen where the last of the summer volunteers restoring the old priory celebrated their final night together. Another summer almost over, already. We huddled around and soaked up the gentle sound of summer, a blanket of stars above us and candlelight to guide us to our beds.
This, for me is summer at it's finest.

Farewell amigos

So it's a sad au revoir to our friends the Newtons who are heading home for their next adventure. This is Hannah bananas, words can't really describe what she means to us all here, but just to say thank you so much for being a wonderful new best friend, I hope it's for keeps.

This is Tim and Betty, we'll miss this double act and her chocolate chops. I'll even miss her screaming Grandma at me as I walk the dog up the lane, thanks Betty I am going to investigate botox.



And these are their fabulous twins Millie and Felix. Quite extraordinary.


This year with them has been as much about us finding our feet as theirs; they came to France to make some big life decisions and we ended up doing the same in the process. Hannah is brave and brought together many different people at her various soirees, childrens parties and cocktail fuelled fancy dress. She's made cakes so fabulous they should be framed and created death defying games for grown ups and kids alike, all the time grinning from ear to ear with that infectious big smile of hers. They've become an extension to everybody's families and we'll miss hearing the children singing from their bedroom windows, the baby shouting, the nappies by the bins and the staggering to and fro under the stars from each others houses, it's been quite unique.

This year, we've talked...a lot mostly about all manner of things, but we've also got blind drunk, danced, laughed, cried, drained the charity shops, collected vintage kitchenalia, cooked, grown veg, foraged, sunbathed, flossed, waxed and generally morphed into one happy bunch when we're together.

We laugh and wonder what will become of little Betty, an adventurer, explorer? She has enjoyed a few great espapes during her time here. Or whether we'll be reading all about Millie the star of the big screen in hello magazine or seeing snaps of Felix as he patents another of his amazing inventions. We'll miss seeing Tim in his full cycling get up and Hannah's big red specs.

We hope all your dreams come true Newts, you're a talented bunch and we love you a lot.

Au revoir xxx

Made in Britain

And only in England do you see such sights. I had to double take to check this wasn't the real white van driver as I came sauntering round the corner with my creamy cappucino. Don't get me wrong I adore France but there's something about Britain that just makes me smile.



This trip led me to Borough Market among other places; to dogs driving vans, Neal's Yard Dairy inviting me to taste a rainbow of British cheeses and the best coffee this side of Italy at Monmouths. Wandering around this rich and amazing place I felt sad I never saw how wonderful Britain was before now. Thriving with business, we love making money and making light of the serious stuff around us. Yes, us Brits have a lust for life that no one else quite tops. From the Fat Delicatessan in Balham where we sipped Prosecco and nibbled juicy olives with fig cake to bacon butties at the side of the road, anything goes.



Part of my travels led me West to the patchwork quilt of my childhood made up of soft local diallects, rolling hills, quaint pubs and a traditional English wedding with fairy cakes and spotted bunting. And, oh what giggles in the West Country, a land where people laugh their socks off, hells angels let you stroke their beards down the pub and an afternoon turns into an evening over a cider.

All this just two hours from the city but a far cry from the capital with her shops so big your head spins. So alas, it was from fine dining to singing round the piano with old school chums and side splitting school girl jokes about domestic fowl...You'd have to grow up in the middle of nowhere to understand why when asked what eggs we'd like at breakfast in the hotel we'd reply, " Do you have any horse eggs? " and fall about laughing with the staff. Oh yes, a rip roaring load of fun with friends, family and complete strangers.

So, more about those other adventures later but for now this is a confession, a crush, a spilling the beans on my passionate affair with my homeland. What a diverse and wonderful place you are old blighty, just had to get that off my chest.

A wise man

We've just spent a week with my father in law and he's a lovely man with an amazing history. He's been a monk in a previous life and is a clever wordsmith although not many people know that about him. My poetry isn't a patch on his but here's one about the day we first met...

Waterloo
There’s a man I met in the underground
He bought me a cake and we sat down
We talked at once of nothing and all
He told me his life and I poured the tea

I listened and I saw the boy in his eyes
Talking, singing and laughing
Of sadness, happiness and in between
I wondered about where he'd been

From small beginnings
To decades of travel
His eyes reliving his history
The memories so fresh in his head

While he talked of art and life
I noticed his shiny shoes
And fiddled with the flowers on the table
As I wondered about where he’d been

The sage has lived and loved
A cat of nine lives
Each wave bringing new change
Washing new life over him

From the green hills of Ireland
Back home to London town
Quietly confident
His eyes do his smiling

These days he sits by moonlight
While the rest of the world slumbers
Shaping his words into prose
His years his bible, a mantra

And who could forget that wise face
Put pen to the gifts he knows
His face telling a thousand stories
Like sunlight on the ocean

Entranced, I listened on
He glanced at his watch and stood up
Until the next time he said
And I watched as his hat disappeared onto the train

Earwigging

Weeks have passed already since I excitedly packed up and set sail for a girls weekend in Jersey. I am totally in love with these islands nestled between my new and old homes and try to get there at any given opportunity. Sometimes I find that actually getting out the house and on my way is the hardest part of a holiday; this, as usual was the case but I made it to the port on time. But, this posting isn't about my trip to the isles, that's another story. This, is quite simply a story about ear wigging.

I hadn't realised how much I miss ear wigging until now. I work amongst French people so spend a lot of the time partially deaf, missing out on those little subtle moments in conversation that end in rip roaring laughter, tears or just pure fascination and disbelief. I often don't tune in unless I'm fully concentrating on what's being said and it's kind of isolating and culture starving for a socialite. Anyway, here are a couple of earwiggings from my travels so I thought I'd share them with you.

Acte 1
Waiting to board the boat, I found myself listening to a very well spoken young lady chatting away to two Indian women about Jersey; it's positives and negatives, the over building, the wealth, the lack of green space.
" I was bawn in Jarsay you see, it's dreadfully sad how much it's changed over the years " Said young lady only looked about eighteen so I wondered how much she'd really seen change.

" Such a shame, buildings going up all over the place, ghastly things and no greenery left like before ". To my mind Jersey is full of green spaces.

" Yes, that's right, too many foreigner everywhere, they taking all the job and can't speak very well English " Replied the Indian lady she was talking to.

The trio had moved on to the subject of foreigners. This is where it got a little strange, the girl and two said Indian ladies began complaining profusely about the problem of immigration, the new breed of immigrants in the UK taking all the jobs, not understanding what they say, not showing any respect etc.

What a peculier sign of the times and also a strange chat to have with a total stranger. I couldn't help but wonder how a French person would react if I had sparked up this conversation with them. You are certainly very at home in Britain, do you ever get to call France your home?


Acte 2
As I settled in to upper deck C on the ferry I sipped my ice cold beer ( the first of the holiday treats! ) and thought I'd shut my eyes for a minute or two. A teenaged lad slumped himself down opposite me and a lady and her son opposite him. Almost immediately they fell into conversation with each other.

" You know Provence?" The teenager said.
" Oh yes, I do, we have a very, very large property you know in the South of France. Do you live there? "
" Nah, just been visiting me grandad, he lives there in a big, big house."
"Oh, lovely. And, you er, you went there on your own to see him?"
" Yeah."
Then a minutes silence or two.
" My Grandad, he's minted you see. You know them petrol strimmers? "
"Oh yes, dangerous things. "
" Well, he's got one of them." He blinked and shuffled uncomfortably for a bit then said, " You know them remote control lawnmowers? Well, he's got one of them too."
" Oh right. Does he have a pool? "
" Yeah, you?"
At this point it was clear that child or not, the teenaged boy and the lady had locked horns, engaged in battle. If they were bantam cocks their chests would be fluffed up and ready for action. Even the adult in the conversation couldn't help herself.

" Oh yes, you just have to have one where we live, it's very very hot you see. How big is his?"
" It's above ground "
" Oh, right I see. Ours is a proper pool, a very big pool actually in the ground. "

I almost spat my heineken across the table. Outright war, conversation over, contest in full flow. After a while the conversation faded and they went back to silence. The little boy accompanying her who was the teenagers initial interest was now bored again, kicking his own feet and swinging his legs all over the place.

I was shocked how people are so competitive, so cheesed off they turn their anger on to a complete stranger. Instead, I turned my attention to the gift shop, to some nice looking little watches. But, there's no escaping it, in the background, a generation older, three elderly gents behind me began discussing the last Parish Council meeting.

" You know what Bill? "
" What? "
" If I were you I'd have..."

Enough's enough. No more contests, this ear wigging was starting to drive me nuts. Out to the deck to some "foreigners " smoking and taking in the sea air.

I didn't have a clue what they were on about but they were laughing a lot. For today I think perhaps I prefer it this way...

Green fingers and muddy paws

For two days I couldn't lift my arms above my head without groaning like an old tractor but it was worth it. Six barrow loads later and our little courtyard garden has been transformed into a productive site where raspberries, cucumbers, potatoes, strawberries, lettuces, peas, courgettes, herbs, beetroot, chard, sweetpeas, tomatoes and not forgetting the divine sounding purple queen beans will grow..if all goes according to plan.



It's pretty small chez nous and I'm no professional so we 've had to think carefully about what to do. Although keeping it simple is key, I like a space that calls in all our neighbours, particularly the fluffy, winged or feathered kind to help the garden grow and tweet to their heart's delight. The sounds of these visitors is so soothing and for me that's the sign of a great garden; one which you do absolutely nothing in or equally one that is just as perfect with the echos of laughter and clinking of glasses over summer lunch.

I definitely have a touch of that SAD disease in the long winter months; they seem so full of a dourness that I can't shake and those grey days leave me dreaming of hearty stews in front of a roaring fire and praying for sunlight. A little dramatic I know but with the first sniff of spring my winter coat is shed, my green fingers polished and I'm prepared to muddy my paws, feel the earth and leave an annual imprint on our little outdoor space.



This year I got thinking about how amazing it would be to have a garden that makes a difference, gives more than just relaxation back to you? Helps you eat organically, saves on transporting food round the globe and gives hours of blissful solitary fun. I always thought our garden was too small for any of this but then I discovered Nigel Slater and have been romanced by the idea of having all those ingredients just a step or two from the back door. Even better, Alys Fowler and her fabulous city garden. This bright, quirky new gardening queen has an ingenious way of planting the veggies in with the other garden plants to create a delicious and beautiful haven to sit, relax and eat from all year round. Sprinkle on plenty of vintage glamour and you'd be crazy not to try some of her home grown heaven even in the smallest space. My little sister's even going to try some balcony pots at her new London pad. I love it and think it's such a fun way to grow things.

What's more, it really pays off, the more we've put in, the more visitors we have and it's wierd but it makes you feel so happy to see a couple of birdies watching out for each other, letting one another eat while the other keeps guard, so symbolic somehow. For me, this is the single most magnificent way to unwind and dream of the future so deciding what goes where is crucial as with each year things look brighter and more beautiful than before. So far, the potatoes in the bag are coming through, the tomatoes are sprouting and it'll not be long before my sweetpeas are weaving a magnificent purple web up the bamboo stakes set in place for them. For me this is heaven on a plate.



www.telegraph.co.uk/gardening/gardeningadvice/7422221/Alys-Fowler-new-kid-on-the-block

Five a Day habit...

I'm lucky that my Mother passed my sister and I good skin. That does sound a bit vain I know but I have thin rubbishy traveller hair so that sort of makes up for it. Shamefully enough, at 59 her's is in much better nick than mine. Her generation washed their faces before bed, left a party graciously before midnight and never got drunk. I don't need to tell you how far removed this is from my youth, the reason for my writing this says it all. As it happens, the skin isn't looking too bad with a little help from my friends at Clarins Flash Balm, quite fresh for spring in fact.

However, the weight is a sadder story. I've taken onboard my comments in January and partied hard while everyone else detoxed and it has to be said it was fun, but, many hangovers later I've decided to shape up for summer. Trouble is I've tried Pig to Twig, French women don't get fat, Weightwatchers, Stuffing your face diet, Not Caring Diet and frankly with each one the pounds are piling on. So, in short, I'm confused, totally gaga for losing weight but getting no closer to the goal.

I shall watch Sophie Dahl with interest tonight and see how she pulls it off. In the meantime, a smaller plate a la Liz Hurley, running three times a week and anything to eat in moderation and as long as it's bright and beautiful. I'm going for five a day starting at breakfast, a daily body scrubbing in the shower and cutting down on the bread and pasta. All this washed down with water, water and more water, milk thistle and a washed face before bed. Will it work? No idea, I'll keep you posted.

Double edged denim

Think Shaky, think snaky, skinny, straight or flared. The old blue faithfuls are bigger news than ever before and my fashionista friends tell me that denim wears a new face in 2010 - any which way as long as it's true blue. So, how best to customise one's trendy look for the new decade when carrying a few extra pounds and not having many pounds to be spending?

Answer: Raid Dad's painting shirts? Take out his old chambray fave and make it retro? If you're Kate Moss then yes, Katie Anderson, then no.

Real answer: A much better, safer bet is to visit a good online store and buy a newer, more fashionably shaped version. Or even a little waistcoat at a push.

I've always loved denim anyway, that chic Italian feel of shirt, sunnies and jeans however, the skinny, drainpipy, grungy look is overtaking in the fast lane. All the mags are telling us to customise, rip, cut up, run a cheese grater over...really? Yes, really... applique badges and patches, adorn beads, chains and heavy metal accessories. All this to follow the latest rip roaring Shakin Stevens green door fashion? But, here in the real world, it would probably be much more acceptable to add a pretty brooch, a fabulous pair of platform heels to straights. Maybe, if you dare, take a large pair of scissors and lop the bottom off your shirt. Unless you're incredibly stylish then the cheese grater effect is going to look cheap. I'll settle for applying some skin tight skinny jeans, an expensive slick of lippy and da da! Not sure it's a look that will be lusted after from the catwalks in Milan but it looks alright and I rather like working my vintage chi chi.

Mothers Day

This year for mothers day I decided to treat my Ma to a summer glamour kit; a delicious blood red lipstick by Chanel and a fresh faced bronzer. She's a classic lady so teamed with a crisp white shirt, smart jeans and slip ons, she'll enjoy this for her chic mornings at the French marche.

We had some bad news this week about a friend of ours and it made me stop in my tracks. It seems so wierd we'll never see her again. I couldn't stop thinking about the son she's left behind, how lost he must feel and how thankful I am for the lunch and laughter we had on Sunday... and mum thrashing me at cards. Poetry really isn't my strong point but I got a bit emotional and sketched this out for mothers day.

For the hands that helped me.

In you I see what's been before,
In me of what's to come,
This little rhyme can't say it all,
So much we've said and done.
Nurtured, fed and dressed for life,
You sent me on my way,
To riches rags and back again,
What now? I'd hear you say
You promised to take care of me,
Catch me should I fall,
I pushed the limits time enough,
You invested me your all,
To thank you seems too small a gest,
So what am I to do?
I'll show you that I'm big enough,
To return this love to you.

"Sit "...for god's sake

This is my substitute baby. I will not disclose her name as you'll think she's daft. Anyone who knows my baby will tell you that she likes to lick - a lot. Over the years, our shoes, faces, walls, settees, friends, glasses, fingers and toes have all been licked, a lot. We have learnt to live with our fluffy friend and she us but there are some things about her that we will never understand. Perhaps I should tell you how I came to be mother to this baby of mine.

A few years ago, my future husband and I decided we needed a pet. We probably should have just had kids but never mind about that. We were told about an English lady who had found some abandoned puppies in the French countryside and so went to take a look, on Christmas Eve. To cut a long story short, we took this poor little "Spaniel" home with us and she loved us for ever more. As time went on, the spaniel began to grow, a lot. In fact, the handsome vet speculated, shook his head and said alors, not a spaniel my friends but a St Bernard. Oh shit, double shit and triple shit we said. But we loved her all the same.

If you've ever seen the film Marley and Me, well we're not far behind. Said pet has dragged us through markets, licked small children's faces in public when my back was turned, ripped off collars, flipped and spun shitzus into the air for lunch and drewled and dribbled all over the place. Oh, and not forgetting the time she greeted me at the door with my vintage peep toe poking through her chops.

That aside she is the perfect pet. We can't train her very well, but that's our fault. When we go to bed at night we have to put chairs on the settees so she doesn't sneak on and when we go out we have to leave a light on. This fluffball leaves furballs everywhere and sleeps with her legs in the air. She rules the roost. All this for the undying love she shows you, even when you've been out for just five minutes, or gone to get the post in. It's like she hasn't seen you for years. The best friend you could ever have and probably the most adoring amber teddy bear eyes you have ever seen. We love her back from the bottom of our hearts. She will probably never read this, but in case you do mutt, we love you...and get off the computer.

Oui... for better or worse

In 2008 we tied the knot.

It took us a few months to get over what we'd done - we said "oui" in front of our family and friends in the local Mairie and God only knows what we agreed to. We managed the ceremony well and flooded out into the summer air to Pimms and canapes under the old school house hangar. The Mayor of our small but close knit commune embarked on a little story about how our eyes met over a game of petanque in the village. Under leafy limetrees we drank cider and clacked boules to our hearts content; no jobs, no home and no stress, just a bicycle each and the memory of careers we'd left behind.

Five years on and we have a home. We're still renovating and bit by bit we're making progress, putting every piece back together of our ramshackled stone house where we plan to live with our family for the next few years at least. We work, a lot; businesses and jobs with the added struggle of living away from home, but we stick together like glue.



The Mayor, Gerard, picked me up the morning of the wedding in his vintage turquoise citroen, it was beautiful and he and my Dad wore tidy suits with cut away collars and shades like the blues brothers or rather les brothers bleus, half French, half English. Mum had a tear in her eye in her polka dot outfit, she looked so lovely. We were touched by the way that our friends and family threw themselves at putting up marquees, not the flashy sort, open plan like the ones that you get a cup of tea in at a village fete. I couldn't sleep the night before with worry that our guests would be washed away with the rain. As it happened, everything went like clockwork, an honest and true reflection of our lives together - not perfect but simple and fun. One of my friends said it was the most real wedding she'd ever been to and that meant the world to me. Her husband was amazing, stirring up a team of men to build beautiful bamboo arches adorned with paper roses, an igloo filled with balloons for the children and a play area created from nothing but four straw bales. I was too afraid and stressed on the day to tell everyone in both languages what it all meant to me and I regret it really...I was blown away with how much love people showed us.

To say things haven't always gone smoothly is an understatement, as most young couples we've had our ups and downs and still do from time to time. Sometimes I can occasionally adopt the role of moaning fishwife and my other half, a busy ambitious restaurateur can sometimes regress to the grumpy teenager his mother tells me he once was. Whenever I think I am going to kill him and bury him under the rosemary bush, along with his big messy newfoundland dog, I think back to the summer of 2008 and remember us dancing under the stars with our friends, cutting our stripy candy pink cake and how happy we were to be so grown up and married.

For all our faults, we've decided this year to say I love you with a homemade card- that's all. I'm looking forward to it far more than any other year. No more puffed up rabbit or kitten cards, single roses or weekends away. This is my love song to us, St Valentin - to all the rows, the parties, the hard work and tears. Please keep the stars shining on us, I think we might have made it. x

Jaded Old January

We all know January is supposed to be the month for making big decisions, giving up your vices, starting a diet and making progress at work. For some people it's as extreme as going it alone, handing in your notice and setting out cap in hand to find out what really makes you happy. Of course, January is the perfect time of year to do this when it's cold and damp outside, the account is overdrawn and your jeans are two sizes too small after your Christmas blow out. This year, I have decided it is going to be different.



I recently read a blog about a man in France who thought it was outrageous to give up drinking cocktails in the new year when everything else is so depressing. I have decided to take a leaf out of his mojito and concentrate on having loads of fun. January 2010 for me is about indulgence. I will be paying off the bills but I'm also going to try to be 100% more fashionable, fun and glamourous. I am thinking about taking a trip to Morocco or Italy; somewhere hot and beautiful with a roll top bath and fluffy slippers. On top of that I vow to be a good, kind person always, bite my tongue and strive to remember the important things in life like laughing, feeding and walking the dog and getting cards to the post box in time.



At home, well the same old, same old of winter is rather routine; 7am the alarm sounds, then it's up to stoke the woodburner in my slippers. A few rounds of piping hot tea later and it's doggy out for a wee then five minutes coupling socks before heading off to the office. January is the same wherever you are and while life is dull sometimes, with Spring round the corner there's much to be done.

I'm making the most of dinners in; as extravagant as possible, with a tablecloth and matching plates. I'm busy placing photos in albums, darning clothes with holes and planning how to become thinner, richer and more successful. What's more, this reflective time is short as in few weeks time the snowdrops will be peeping through the lawn followed by everything else coming into bloom.



So, that's January wrapped up for me and it's not looking too bad at all. I have started my new mantra today with an invite to a birthday party where I intend to eat, drink and be as merry as possible. I'm accessorising an old LBD, stepping out in killer hills and most definitely won't be weighing myself until February.

Vintage Clothing treasure hunt

In Britain these days, charity shops are so fabulously stylish that I'm green with envy I don't get to snoop around them all that often. Every high street has at least two and while France doesn't have anything like that, what they do have harbour some amazing treasures.

Saturday afternoons I occasionally meander into Emmaus, a homeless charity. They do house clearances during the week and people drop off unwanted clothes, crockery and furniture to raise money. It must be said you should expect a lot of crud; filthy rugs, night dresses, knackered bits of farming equipment, people fighting over Jonny Halliday records - but amongst all the junk and tattle I always find a jewel in this scruffy old crown. I love to root around second hand shops and have discovered that while a slick of sludgy coloured paint brings furniture back to life, second hand clothes can look fabulous with a little TLC too.

This week, I am over the moon with my purchases, a charcoal grey shift number for office days which looks great with animal print tights and ankle boots and this cracking tweed blazer which is jolly lovely. What's more they fit and next on my list is a seventies puff sleeved dress or jacket to work the denim trend so if anyone knows of any other charity sales I'd love to hear about them.

For now, let's face it, if I can support a local charity, get a vintage shopping fix and still have a few euros left in my purse for a fresh fish supper

" la vie est bien belle ".