I hope just to tell the story of moving from provincial England to very rural France. I'm not going to be doing too much navel gazing, just giving you a narrative on what happens and hopefully make you laugh at our antics/stupididty every now and then. If this inspires anyone to move over there, that would make me very happy (Just after I'd eaten my hat).

Saturday 4 August 2012

Veggie Wars!

There's no point, really there isn't, why try to get stuff done, even important stuff like putting your screaming with exhaustion child to bed when you have more pertinent things to do like feed Local Service another glass of wine or entertain the local stone mason (Who proudly declares he built our leaking roof every time he comes round) and his (admittedly charming) 8 year old granddaughter for 40 minutes a piece come 7 o'clock on any given evening.

Along with the visitors come a large amount of locally grown, fresh picked fruit and vegetables delivered without expectation of anything in return (Indeed the whole village knows we don't have a veg plot and I sense a little bit of pity for this in the offerings!).

It would be the height of churlishness to complain but we are starting to creak under the weight of the offerings.  The other night Local Service turned up with a small crate of Haricot Beans (Yellow variety!) when, not halfway through his congratulatory glass of Rose, Proud Roof Man arrives with a carrier bag of the same (Green Variety!).  Much politically correct complimenting and critical eyeballing of each other’s beans ensues over the next two thirds of the rose bottle.  Local Service pointed out, next day, that yellow variety are far superior.

In the last 3 days, they have both stepped up their game and we have had a handful of hazelnuts, six courgettes, three cucumbers, two lettuces, a marrow, a red cabbage, another carrier bag of beans and a bucket of tomatoes.  In return Competitive wife is going to start stepping up cupcake production to industrial levels.

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