St. Jacques du Var

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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).