Youtube should be congratulated for hosting not only the best and most inetresting, but also the worst and most appalling. Still, everyone deserves a go, and none more than the music to forget at www.youtube.com/pollydoc

Tuesday. Lavage, not of the colon but of the village washing. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc Monday was always and will always be washday. In the Neanderthal period, cavemen or rather cavewomen emerged from holes in the hillside and washed their fig leaves and hairy mammoth overcoats in the convenient streams that tinkled merrily past the cave entrances (probably with tinkle from higher caves). Today, nothing has changed. Even Gordon the Brun emerges from Number 10 and dunks his smalls in the gutter outside to wash them. (If only!) Here in the idyllic village tucked away in the countryside of the Var and close to St. Topaz, Monday is called “Lundi”, the day of the moon. Certainly half the inhabitants of the village go in moon cycles ranging from new bizarre to half bizarre and finally full bizarre. Our new naturist Mr. Bates takes Monday as “mooning” day with the option of tidying up the front garden where he is, should we say, more exposed than at the back. His delightful house was originally the village railway station, and sports two platforms as should any self-respecting station. Between the platforms his predecessor constructed a swimming pool, cunningly using the signal as a diving platform with a difference. (The difference between the large signal complete with red and green glass.) The recordings of the Flying Scotsman screaming through York railway station can be played via loudspeakers sited in the ticket office windows and can be used to great effect especially when Monsieur Bate puts on a station-master's hat and blows a whistle. I am still trying to persuade the Mayor to re-open the old railway line up to Freinvite which would give the owner of the old station a heart attack! Anyway, yesterday was washday. Today is ironing or “rapisage” as the French call it. (The Germans call it something that resembles “bugelling”) With reference to the higher passage about grabbing ther railway station, it is worth noting that the French have no qualms about grabbing land and moving folk.....viz the TGV and the current passion for throwing wooden huts and camping sites of the beaches and informing the rich and famous that their house at the water's edge must have a pleasant public walk between the garden and the high-water mark. All those who thought they had exclusive use of any approach to the sea are now quaking in their high-water marks and having nightmares of the rest of us tramping past the end of their gardens. Whoopeee! Can't wait. Couldn't happen to nicer people.

Sunday. Bells are ringion, God's obviously arrived. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc Good morning and God bless all who read this. Sunday is a day when one contemplates things good. Certainly in St. Jacques things that are good are very much in evidence. Ample supplies of booze in the Restaurant St. Jacques for instance and the absence of pollution from the new airport runway. (Our only plane failed to get it's engine started yesterday) Also in evidence is the new ramp for the handicapped that has sprouted outside the Town Hall. Bravo for the Mayor and his “Equipe” for this adherence to Brusselian demands, but a little more care could have been put into its placement. There was actually no step or other impedance at the Town Hall entrance, and one feels that the enormous uphill ramp then downhill slalom into the closed door is at best an amusing experience for those in chairs and at worst a dice with death. Due to a dreadful miscalculation and the rapidity of cement setting, the outside end of the ramp is too close to the Town Hall lamp. The bicycle parking slots also ensure that wheels of bicycles protrude into the carriageway of the ramp and the attractive park bench (donated by the late naturist Monsieur Hazard and his voluptuous wife Sergine) is anchored almost in front of the ramp. Thus it takes five strong men ten minutes to lift a wheelchair over the obstacles and place it on the ramp and the same on an exit. Marcel Mondieu's best efforts. The other pleasant offering is a water fountain for dogs. I say no more. Gerard the goat uses the fountain by the statue of “The Unknown Deserter” and the rest of us use the Bar St. Jacques. Tomorrow is wash day. In keeping with going green, the original village wash-house has been restored and the original water supply from the source somewhere under the bowels of the ruined castle has been re-connected providing appropriately-coloured water. The Mayor fervently hopes that all will “use the facilities” which is a phrase I have heard elsewhere.

Friday. Ignore the G20, we have local problems. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc Rains for 3 days, then at 10pm, the water goes off. Figure that. This morning, same thing...no water. Now we know that France is always on strike ( en greve), and one has to assume first off that this is a greve. Fortunately, being good scouts, we keep a big plastic bottle full of water down in the cellar, so tooth brushing was fine and coffee was produced. Then the ingenuity for which we British are famed took over. Remembering that in a cupboard was an ancient plastic bag (black) with a shower nozzle attached (boats, use for showers by numbers, solar heating when available), it was duly dug out, and filled with water from the cellar, a portion of which was heated in a genuine British kettle. (not available in foreign parts...take your own!) Upshot was that self and senior management had showers ( of a sort) and went out shopping appearing clean ad presentable as opposed to the great unwashed that peered out of windows expecting miracles and moaning about the depression, deflation and worldwide collapse. As we locked the front door, we heard the gurgling sound of toilets filling as the strike obviously collapsed under the fury of countless housewives berating their grevving husbands. The promised sunshine has not arrived, the meteo states the whole of France will be grey and miserable next week also, which makes me feel that despite ocean warming, coral death, rising sea levels and the rest, that France and the UK are exchanging climates. In my opinion this is entirely due to the channel tunnel, which is allowing the pumping of hot air from France to the UK, it being replaced in France by cold air from Britain which of course descends due to Boyle's Law. (or Charles' law or Avogadro or whoever). Add to this this copious amounts of G20 hot air and it is surprising that Britain is not floating skywards. Gordon the Brun is basking in sunshine, his rictus grin going from large ear to large ear and the usual useless expense has done nothing for the climate, war, poverty, economics or anything else. What a photo-opportunity for politicians who have never done a day's work in their lives. Next election I'm going to vote for the one who actually had a job before he went into politics. (Surely there must be at least 15 of them??) The daily sketch bears no relation to anything apart from the fact that the local goats held their own summit at the top of the hill in sympathy with those from countries G22 onwards.

Www.youtube.com/pollydoc It is that time of the biannual cycle when the French equivalent of the MOT has to be obtained. Here it is called the “Controle Technique” and is a heck of a sight more rigorous than local Fred's garage in the UK. The car is driven in your man, then connected to an impressive array of machine with winking lights. Exhaust fumes are measured to detect how much alcohol you consume when you drive, then the car is put onto rollers and a detailed measurement made of the efficacy of the brakes. This is a joke, as the French never use their brakes, preferring not to slow down at blind corners but to swing out and overtake whatever poor guy is in front. I am seriously considering buying one of those video devices to hang onto your rear-view mirror and record exactly what the lunatics do should they cause me to say hello to a garden wall on my right side. Monsieur Crotte dutifully follows all the requirements. His machine lights wink happily ( he is colour blind and has no idea what they mean), then he raises it on a hydraulic lift and hits the underneath vigorously, measuring how much rust falls into the special collector. This is weighed and if more than 10% of the car, there is a problem. The final check is the rollers. Having gone green, Monsieur Crotte drives your car onto this device and sets the speed at flat out. This he does for five minutes, using cunningly-attached alternators to produce electricity for his garage. He then enters the car and slams on the brakes. He uses the exhaust-sniffing device to measure how much rubber has been burned and charges you accordingly. It's a great system and I fully endorse the efforts to reduce suicide on French roads. In economic news, the local building society has collapsed. “Societe d'acheter les maison et autre choses” collapsed over the weekend. It appeared that the manager was expanding the basement under the road to acquire extra space for cheap and hadn't understand the science of building foundations. It fell into the enlarged cellar. Fortunately, no bailout was required as he had turned the water off on Friday night before he left. The Mayor went by TGV to London to attend the G20 summit. He has placards including “Vive la France”, “Aspiration a Sarkozy” (Sucks to Sarkozy) and “Argent pour tous le monde.” (Money for everybody).

Monday....1st day of the week, last day of March...TGIM. After 24 hours of torrential rain, the sun will arrive, the mosquitoes will lay eggs for the next generation of blood suckers. Now is the time to wander round the village house and check the integrity of the mosquito netting in the bedroom windows, as trying to sleep whilst one buzzes round your ears is impossible. Last year, as the organist was laid sick and unable to pump the elderly harmonium in the Church of St. Jacques, I volunteered to play. After all, an organ is similar to an electric piano apart from the absence of loudspeaker, rhythm section and backing tracks. Punching “SOUND 78” (simulated Church organ) on the electronic master-machine at home must be just the same as punching “Diapason 16”. Air is pumped through valves, rushes up pipes as big as ballistic missile silos and emerges from the top after blowing out dust and fills the Church will heavenly music provided one pushes the yellow and faded-black keys at the appropriate time. The first hymn (a French version of “For those in peril on the sea”....”Pour tous le monde avec des problemes sur la mer”. presumably for tourists renting sailboats) went tolerably well. Father Thomas climbed up to the pulpit lashed to the side wall surmounted by baroque bits of wood, a painted statue of some miserable-looking ex-Saint and a gilded eagle, and commenced his sermon. His theme was “We are but one family”. The trouble here is that most families still hold vendettas against the others, and the only reason war has not broken out is the influx of foreigners that has brought the warring families together in a common cause. He got as far as saying “We are gathered together” (Ensemble, nous sommes ensembler ensemble) when I noticed a rather fat mosquito doing a circle of my head. He was obviously eyeing up the juiciest bit to stick his proboscis in so I made a couple of ineffectual swipes the way one does and waited for the annoying high-pitched buzz again. To my delight, the mosquito decided to settle on the E flat note which the French rather quaintly call “Me bemol.” (This partly explains why when I yell out that we are about to sing “Aint misbehavin” in Bflat, the rest of my group starts on in different key......each to his own I guess). However, said mosquito sat on E flat, but not for long. A swift hand swipe despatched him to a red-stained mess stretching from E flat through E, F and G and down as far as D. Sadly, sudden pressure on all those notes caused them all to sound in a discordant cacophony, waking up those asleep, causing the good Father to fall out of the pulpit, three pigeons to fly out of the cupboard where the hymn-sheets are kept and a flock of starlings to batter themselves against the stained-glass windows. I will not be asked again. I contemplated uploaded this organ recording to Youtube, thinking it might be preferable to some of the modern rubbish, but thought better of it. I shall keep uploading what I hope are nice songs I have written and other standards...it keeps me out of mischief. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc P.S. For those of you who actually read this piece in the Daily Telegraph, I have attached a sketch of really what happened on Friday night at the New Orleans evening.

Sunday. Clocks forward, boat race backwards. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc for fabulous music from the studios of St. Jacques. (believe that, you'll believe anything!) In Church today, the quiet droning of the springtime bees matched the quiet droning of our resident Priest/Vicar, the Left Reverend Father Thomas, ex-Anglican Vicar in Welsh Wales, current shepherd to the flock that calls itself “residents of St. Jacques.” Because of the current economic crisis, the good Father is always listened to attentively in case odd useful tips from on high come floating down. The usual tips include the winner in the 4th race at Toulon, the daily bet on how many cars crash over the precipice on the way down from Freinvite and how many important edicts issue forth from the Town Hall. Other economic tips are now including ways of “going green” and “saving energy”, many of which I am sure come from old books the Vicar brought with him from Pontypridd. Shades of 1940 I guess with putting old bits of soap in a wire basket and swooshing it in the washing-up bowl to save on washing-up liquid. Other handy tips include how to make your own toothpaste with bicarbonate of soda, make-up for ladies made out of coal dust and the re-cycling of old boots. The only things re-cycled in St. Jacques are old wine bottles which have been handed down the generations, washed and re-filled with home-brewed wine and corked with home-made corks from the local cork trees. In fact, the Town Hall at the turn of the last century used to be a cork factory, then as the rest of the world figured out how t make corks, the industry declined, the railway was abandoned and the cork factory left derelict until it was decided it would make a very good Town Hall. The G5 summit we had here came to nothing ( as predicted), we didn't have a visit from Angela Merkel. Gordon the Good has never heard of us........the list goes on. Still, we do not presume to come to this blog oh merciful Lord, trusting in our own good commonsense but in the very light from the sky. It's called the sun, and today it is not shining. In fact it is raining like mad...so much for the sunny South of France. Tomorrow is back to John Humphries and another week. Riots are planned for St. Jacques and anarchists (Monsieur Crotte, the garage owner and Didier, the restauranteur) are predicting total collapse of St. Jacques and millions thronging the street. Monsieur Crotte has hung a huge sign outside his garage offering cheap servicing of cars whilst you protest, whilst Didier has a special menu entitled “Fricasse de Provencal Protest”.

Friday, Friday, keep your nose tidy. Epistle from St. Jacques written by the man wot plays and sings on Youtube. (pollydoc) Gerard is a goat. Actually, he is the chief goat, and he and his extended family live around the village and wander amongst the ruins of the old medieval chateau on the hill behind the village. Most of the houses in the village were built with stones from the old chateau which is why it is a ruined old chateau. Should all the inhabitants take the stones back, I am sure we could rebuild it in its former glory. It has one and a quarter turrets, a dried-up well, a courtyard and pleasant views over the village cemetery for those inclined to the horizontal position in life. The diet of goats varies incredibly but rather surprisingly, the droppings of goats vary little. They resemble sheep droppings and the olny way one can tell them apart is the steepness of the slope down which they have rolled. Too steep and they are goat droppings, slightly less steep and they are quite likely to be sheep. However, in St. Jacques there are no sheep which makes this difference somewhat academic. Gerard is the Father-goat. The rest are either his wives or lovers and his children. They keep to themselves apart from Gerard who prefers human beings to goats and lives down at street level in the village. His local is the Bar St. Jacques where he is quite party to a drop of the hard stuff or even a lager if that's all there is. He does not eat at the Restaurant St. Jacques. (which is the same place but just has tables and chairs as opposed to stools and big stones.) The excess food in the restaurant is eaten by a large black Labrador called either “Hello old boy” or “Get off my foot” depending on your point of view at the time. (These latter phrases are uttered in French....the words being “Merde merde” for the former or “Sacre nom de Dieu” for the latter.) Gerard the goat is highly popular with tourists even though he eats their disposable cameras. The study of Gerard below was commissioned by the Vicar when drunk and executed by the garbage collector, also when drunk. It hangs in the toilet of the St. Jacques, which is by table 23 on the outside. I do not recommend that table. It is reserved for tourists who do not know better. /p>

Thursday March 26th. St. Jacques du Var. God bless us and all who holiday with us. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc for piano rubbish and dreadful vocals direct from hell. Thursday is market day in St. Jacques. This is the day when stalls magically appear on the boules court and the locals arrive with produce of varying quality and quantity. We used to enjoy seeing the wonderful display of vegetables grown by the naturist Sergine and her husband which had obviously enjoyed being fertilised, hoed, pruned and collected by such a wondrous gardening sight. (At least that's what her husband thought.) Since they have left, we now have another disciple of nature but as yet, the garden is not up to full production. He is British, and I say no more. The Brits are pretty good about taking things off in the sun, but not as predictable as the Germans who sprout on the beaches of Pamplemousse with abandon. Whether they produce vegetables or not is another matter, but their acreage certainly covers a lot of sand. The excitement today was that the truck that sells roast chickens arrived emitting the usual mixture of diesel fumes and burnt chickens. The aluminium shutter went up on the side, clouds of smoke rushed out, a few feathers and the odd sqwark. (is that how one spells sqwark??) Basting started but apparently the liquid used was not the normal home-grown olive oil but some home-distilled “Vin d'Orange”. The sky was lit up, most felt drunk with the alcohol fumes, and a strange carpet of blue flame crossed the market. Gerard the goat was most put out as it singed his beard in passing. Fortunately the Sapeurs-Pompiers arrived with sirens wailing and immediately doused the chickens in foam and water. They were sold at half price and tasted very good. In fact some said they were better than normal. The Borborygmi is blowing strongly today, so of course dust is on most restaurant menus. However, the sun has arrived and provided one can keep the sand out of the old eyes, one can enjoy the day. This afternoon I am concocting the “Hurrican Rum” drink beloved of Louisianans for the “Soiree New Orleans” complete with 6-piece jazz band which takes place Friday evening. Organised by the local Lions Club for charity. Anyone hearing singing coming from the direction of the ruined castle can blame me. (Those who have visited the Youtube website might well suggest that the singing is better....I hate you). /p>

Wednesday March 25th, but I could be wrong. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc for piano + vocals recorded in St. Jacques. The G20 conference approaches. Needless to say the Mayor of St. Jacques has decided to have his own conference and it will be held this morning on the boules court after the sweepers have removed goat droppings, pigeon droppings, dog droppings and so on. The latter should be strictly kept on leads and walked around the village using the so-called “Dog route”. This is well-signposted with dogs standing on 3 legs and multi-coloured sack dispensers underneath inviting the local population to help themselves to a scented plastic bag with which to daintily pick up the canine deposits. Like all authoritarian utterances, good in theory, bad in practice. The eco-friendly biodegradable scented sacks are irresistible to local housewives who use them for garbage as they are free. The local supermarkets now give no bags at all and one has to enter armed with enormous plastic bags with green handles and lurid adverts for the supermarket in question. God help you if you enter the Giant Casein supermarket carrying a bag advertising The Clerical supermarket. You will spend an hour in a cell beside the vegetable section or freezing between the tall shelves of yoghurt and crème fraiche. Back to the G20. St. Jacques is hosting a G5 summit. The Mayors of St. Topaz, Ramabaloo, Freinvite, Plan de la Retraite and Cogopops are to assemble at 11am and discuss the economic crisis. In deference to the North African multitudes who inhabit Cogopops, the seating arrangements are Al Fresco, the local carpet manufacturer and the delegates will sit on the floor round at fire to make the bedsheet-wearing brigade feel at home. The fire is necessary because it is still b....y cold here. In keeping with tradition, on April 1st, white trousers will start to be worn, see-through white blouses for ladies, flip-flops for tourists, sunglasses, straw hats, digital cameras and ice-creams, all in a bewildering profusion despite the probability of snow, rain, hail and sleet. “I've been to the South of France” may well be uttered at Stansted Airport as Leprachaunair disgorges the happy hordes, but I guarantee the tans are fake. I am sure the G20 and the G5 summit will find that the stimulus packages are fake also. /p>

Monday March 23rd. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc for music from St. Jacques Tomorrow is a guided tour round the old Citadelle at St. Topaz. The story St. Topaz is that somewhere in Italy, someone cut someone's head off and through the decapitated body into a small boat. (For reasons at yet undetermined). The small boat tossed across the waves for several weeks and finally washed up at St. Topaz which was then just a small cluster of fishing huts at the end of a goat track. The body washed up washed instantly recognised as being somebody or other of undoubted importance and from that moment, St. Topaz became known as St. Topaz and the Gulf which originally was called the Gulf of St. Jacques was renamed the Gulf of St. Topaz. As I referred to last week, the Scretary for Homes Jacqui the Bosoms Bardot arrived at the end of the goat track, evicted the fishermen to one side and promptly took off her kit and lay on the sand to get brown. She was laid on the beach ( is that good grammar??......no, sorry, I'll correct it) She lay on the beach and became infamous for so doing, probably the first of a ministerial celebrity cult. As a result, everyone else ran along to St. Topaz and lay on the same beach making it difficult for collectors to make casts of her bosomly imprints in the sand as one pair of imprints pretty much resembles another. In the local news this morning, the housing Minister (one of the deputy Mayors) has been accused of drawing money from the village coffers to maintain a secondary residence in the village which he purports to use as an office. It turns out that the “office” in question is in fact a goat shed at the bottom of the garden. The rules quite clearly state that the office should be used purely as an office and not have overnight accommodation. However, since the goat owned by the Minister spends many evening there and in fact a large amount of straw is available as a bed, the question of overnight accommodation has been pushed to the forefront. The local “Matin de St. Jacques” has splashed this as front page headlines, and other Ministers in the Mayoral office are hurriedly exiting from chicken sheds, cowsheds and the like. The squeeze is definitely on sleeze. /p>

Sunday. Www.youtube.com/pollydoc The Sunday sermon from St. Jacques du Var. As we file slowly and reverently into Church, we are greeted by Father Thomas, distraught by the fact that his beloved Welsh team got thrashed by those dreadful Irish ruffians yesterday. We expected thus a sermon full of fire and brimstone, particularly the latter. “We are gathered together this sad day to reflect on injustices in the world and how we must rise to overcome the travails and tribulations of daily life. Far away in the south seas, a giant volcano has erupted threatening the lives and well-being of many islanders. A tsunami was forecast but fortunately did not arise, sparing these poor folk even further trouble. But let us reflect on a tragedy much nearer to home, that of our Gallic neighbours who were beaten by a team who in all probability do not follow in the same footsteps as we who are humble do. Let us pray for forgiveness for their sin of winning and remember that it is the fight and not the winning that counts. Today the sun is shining, a sign that all is not lost. It is Mothering Sunday, so we remember all the Mothers who have ever been born and we reflect on the fact that the population of the world increases by 6 million every month, and around half of those are Mothers of the future. In these days of potential hyperinflation, we should start buying Mothering Sunday cards for them today and store them safely like the wise virgins. In Parish news, the siren on top of the Town Hall is to be relocated to the top of the Church. This is because the bells are to be refurbished as their support beams have been eaten away by termites and are in danger of dropping in the bell tower. From next Sunday onwards, Mass will be celebrated by the turning on of the siren. The fire brigade has been alerted not to respond to this and we look foreard to increasing the congregation as the siren sounds. We now sing “We plough the fields and scatter the good seed in the land.”, in French of course.” After this, we all filed out into the sunshine, reflecting on sirens, Welsh rugby, tsunamis and as usual not having a clue as to what the good Father meant. Boules tournament this afternoon and a “Spot the tourist” competition outside the public loos. /p>

Thursday was market day. That meant the usual weekly trundle down to the market at St. Jacques complete with cobbled straw shopping basket, mobile phone ( in case the stockbroker calls), dark sunglasses so nobody recognises that you are actually buying stuff in the local market, 5 Euros for coffee in the Bar St. Jacques and so on. The usual array of Provencal (Prov) tablecloths, Prov-napkins, Prov-cushions, Prov-chair covers and anything else that can be covered with gaudy-coloured printed cloth was for sale. Also honey (good from local producers), vegetables (that have done the rounds of all the other markets), chickens on a rotating spit built into the side of an old Citroen van that one day will surely catch fire and burn us all with shrapnel of bits of oily burning chicken; and finally fish. The latter vary from excellent and fresh to “I crawled here”. Olive oil can be purchased in expensive pretty bottles or decanted from the side of a van. One hopes it is not mixed with any other supplies of oil found in vans. All in all, the market is fun, a weekly occurrence frequented by the first glimmerings of tourists in shorts with blue legs (from the cool weather), and the now obligatory digital silver camera dangling from a wrist or three. I used to comment that there must be a million miles of unwanted and unwatched videtape lying in people's attics, gradually going brittle and rotting. This has now changed. As people change their computers with the same regularity that they change their socks, there must be hard drives chock full of crisp digital photos that nobody wished ever to see again. Maybe I can advertise on e-by-gum-bay to accept free gratis and for nothing old computer hard drives. I would guarantee to respect privacy and pornography and not sell photographs that folk would not wish to be seen outside their private back gardens. It would be good for a laugh and under the Freedom of Information Act, I could be persuaded to release little dribbles rather like the Government does. Talking of little dribbles, the local new naturist has announced that he fully intends to take off where the previous naturist left off and organise jolly volleyball parties in the garden once the summer comes. His house was of course the old railway station of St Jacques, and utilised the space between the platforms for a swimming pool. As yet he has not emulated his illustrious predecessor and jumped from the signal gantry into the pool accompanied by the recording of an express train, but no doubt that will follow. I intend this afternoon to play some jazz and upload it to Youtube where listeners will be able to hum along with the tune as opposed to listening to what I have written and not recognising it. One enthusiastic reader of this blog wishes to act as my agent. I think he should remain a secret agent. /p>

St. Jacques goes GREEN. The Town Hall at St. Jacques under the renowned direction of the current Mayor Marcel Mondieu has issued a directive (Number 09/03/1659231 with knobs on) that from henceforth, St. Jacques will go green. Anything public is to be painted green, unless it contains water, then it will be painted black to absorb infra-red radiation from the sun to heat the water. This means that the horse and dog drinking trough will approach 80 degrees Celsius, hot enough to boil those bits of a brass monkey that fall off in winter. Gerard the goat approves to an extent as he and his extended family of castle-dwelling goats may be able to bathe in luxurious hotwater before galloping off in the direction of the ruined castle to make goat's cheese and eat bits of scrap paper that the tourists leave in the castle. The sale of filament light bulbs has been banned. (There were never any for sale anyway) and the entire Town Hall is now dimly illuminated by these curiously-curly fluorescent lights that make everyone green. Still, green is IN. Recycling is the vogue now, and bins are reproducing from the obstetrical departments of wherever bins reproduce and proudly display their contents by colour coding. Green:- Compostable stuff. (old food, hedge trimmings and grandma) Black:- Auto-parts, oil from cars rusting in gardens Red:- Nuclear waste. Yellow:- Dangerous chemicals including the local “Vin d'Orange”, the local wine etc. White:- Clean paper, newspaper, unused toilet paper and wrapping paper. Pink:- Cardboard Purple:- Plastic wrapping but not bubble-wrap. As regards the latter, the Mayor has an idea that carbon dioxide could be captured by a special carbon-dioxide catching plant on the Town Hall roof, powered of course by solar power, wind power and wave power, the captured carbon dioxide being injected into the bubbles of bubble-wrap and the entire end-product being floated off into space by a hot-air balloon of which he himself is the inventor. Bio-hazard suits are available for rent in the Traffic Department and a large store of potable water is being safely kept under the ground floor of the entire Town Hall. Mos of us think that the Mayor has no idea what is meant by “potable” water, and that tap water placed in barrels that roll comes under the heading of “portable” and not “potable.” Still, to live in the idyllic village of St. Jacques is to happily enjoy reality far better than any TV show. (apart from when the local 2 litre Bugatti roars past my house) May I remind one and all that music written in St. Jacques and played in St. Jacques is available free, gratis and for nothing at YOUTUBE. Just type in pollydoc as here. The tunes are addtionalised (that's American for more are added) weekly..or could it be weakly? /p>

St. Jacques du Var. Financial capital of the world. (apologies to CNBC) The richest man in the area ( the rich man from Monte Carlo) has not been seen for a long time. He apparently is in danger of losing his Lordship because he won't pay taxes in the UK. (I don't think he pays them here either as he's “domiciled” in Monte Carlo.) with a bit of luck he invested all his cash with Bernie Madoff. Still, not my problem as I haven't any money anyway. The Russians have disappeared somewhat as Lollygarchs evapourate and become mere mortals like the rest of us. The waiters in restaurants aren't getting any tips as folk say that a tip is included...therefore..... People who rent off apartments are wondering why their telephones don't ring.... Shops are closing...... The British aren't coming........ The French come for the day and bring sandwiches..... The Dutch are few and far between. They must be staying at home in Holland and looking at last year's pictures whilst eating in the garden. It is reported that Italy is to impose a tax on empty seats in any airplane that flies commercially. Madame Vootoo has been hospitalised with back trouble, reason being the piles of gold she had hidden under the mattress. So we must all tighten our belts and investigate ways to reduce expenses. No more 3 star Michelin restaurants, bistros are definitely in. The local shop, even though it's more expensive, works out cheaper if one includes the wear and tear on the 15 year old car, the cost of “Essence” and etc. I'm hoping the vine outside my house can produce tons of grapes this year so we can make our own Chateau St. Jacques. Any sparrow that so much as lands on a grape will get 12 volts of current up his feathers and hurriedly seek some local field for his ill-gotten dessert. Bulk buying is in. 100 toilet rolls ahead of hyper-inflation. 80 sachets of vacuum-packed ground coffee to be stored down in the cave. Booby-trap to the cave steps will help, although actually the cave steps are virtually lethal in their own right even if sober. We will wear black clothes on the terrace to absorb sunlight, then run inside every 5 minutes to radiate the heat by infra-red thus reducing the need for electric or oil heating. No more purchase of CD's. Just visit YOUTUBE and type in pollydoc. Mostly my own music, thus cheap and definitely cheerful. Tarrah. /p>

The daily news from St. Jacques du Var. (Hear music direct from the author on Youtube. Just type in pollydoc ) The news this Monday in St. Jacques du Var is that people get breast cancer if they work nights, and the Danish Government is forking out cash for the sufferers. Consternation reigns in St. Jacques, especially in the Bar St. Jacques where most of the male inhabitants of the village stay late into the night and are now examining their rudimentary bosoms seriously. Our new Police force ( the previous male transvestite Chief of Police and his hirsute lady Deputy eloped to Cap d'Agde, the well-known naturist colony) is investigating the installation of CCTV cameras with high quality recorders. These will be placed at strategic possible crime scenes such as outside the Post Office. The “hole in the wall cash machine” (which has never worked since 2003, the date of its installation) and the public toilets, beloved of Gerard the goat who beds down there in the winter. Last night we had a concert in the Church with a young Violincellist. Pretty well attended given that most music here is played on tuning-challenged accordions. On the 27th of the month we have a “new Orleans” bash organised by the local Lions Club. 6-piece jazz band when sober, no doubt reducing to a 2-piece by 11pm. Rum punches on entry, fist punches undoubtedly on exit, but it should be fun. The Mayor cannot come, more's the pity. For those coming on holiday, the weather is now warming, the £ is 0.91 Euros, so whichever way you look at it, it costs more. Gordon Brown is droning on in the news and exhibiting his normal method of gill breathing rather like a fish out of water. To quote the song...”Nobody knows you when you're down and out.” Sorry I can't write more this morning, but Monday is vacuuming day and changing the sheets day, and the “Homme de menage” is moi. /p>

By gosh, it's good to be back! Previously, senior management muttered on about inordinate amounts of time spent tapping away amusing nobody. Then came the recent day that a second computer was purchased specifically for senior management and there has been a delightful silence, so with a degree of trepidation, the St. Jacques du Var blog is re-entering the atmosphere and one hopes it will not burn up. As regards the village, well what can one say? It is still here, with undoubted minor changes. To wit ( and not to woo) Madame Vootoo from the paper shop retired and has been replaced by a stern man with moustache and bal head from La Rochelle. He allows no credit, and has changed the post cards outside the shop from idyllic pastel views of lavender fields to bare-breasted damsels cavorting on the beaches of St. Topaz. I am very happy, the villagers are not and so now buy their papers from Cogopops down de road. Monsieur Hazard sadly passed away from cancer and not from too much naturist sun exposure. His wife sold up the old railway station with pool and it was bought by an Englishman who is a thongist. (That's a naturist who is frightened and wears the modern lycra version of a fig leaf.) My music took off much to my amazement, and I spent many evenings bashing the piano at the Polo Club. So far they haven't invited me this year which could mean one of several things. Firstly, the economic crisis could preclude cash for live music. ( I'll play for free plus drinks!) Secondly, the music could have been awful. I'll leave you dear reader to judge that by scooting along to YouTube and tapping in " pollydoc " (Polly was my nickname at school being the shortened version of Pollard, and doc was simply because I spent my adult years putting people to sleep with anaesthetics....and before you say anything, I hope that my music wakes them up these days!) Have a great weekend and "I'll be back" as the Governor of California once famously said.