Gemma had always been adamant that she didn’t want children, so when she and Chris announced their pregnancy, you could have knocked me down with a feather!

Elliott Bowie (as in David Bowie – because Nick was a big fan) Christopher was born by caesarian on November 27th, a very healthy 3.49kg (7lb 11oz) and 52cm long, hardly surprising as Chris is 6’4″.

Everything was going well for the first few days, until Gemma developed pre-eclampsia, something I didn’t realise could happen after birth. We had a very scary few days when she was back in the hospital; Australia has never seemed so far away, there was nothing I could do except keep in touch by WhatsApp.

However, after an interminable few days of being unable to settle to anything, sleep or eat, we heard that her blood pressure had stabilised and she was going home.

Since then things have gone well; she’s taken to motherhood like the proverbial (if somewhat exhausted) duck to water. Chris’s parents are there at the moment, supposedly on holiday, but actually stepping in to help look after Elliott as much as they can, greatly appreciated by Gemma, who’s making the most of the free time they afford her by catching up on some much needed sleep.

Kieran and his children, along with Alex and her girls, are going to visit in February; they’re all so excited, though I think for the kids the prospect of meeting their new cousin is secondary to seeing kangaroos and koalas.

So I’ll be the last to meet the newest addition to the family; it’ll be too hot for me in February, so I’ll wait till they come to Europe in the summer. At least we have WhatsApp now, I can’t imagine how it felt for past generations, who knew that, once someone emigrated, they were unlikely ever to see them again.

The French moan about the state of their health service, rather like the English do, but in my experience, with less justification.

Last year, during a visit to the doctor for something unrelated, I mentioned that I had a very annoying post nasal drip and that it was having an effect on my voice. The doc diagnosed reflux and gave me tablets, which gave me reflux! I stopped taking them and went back to the doc, who looked surprised and said he’d send me to see a specialist.

The doc knows I love singing, but when he wrote “singer” in big capitals on the letter for the specialist, I felt it was rather overstating things; my mother and grandmother had beautiful voices and my daughter Alex has an amazing voice, but it skipped a generation in me, leaving me with what can best be described as a very ordinary, rather weedy voice.

However, when I took my letter to the specialist, he wanted to know what I sing – was it rock? he asked, with an ironic twinkle in his eye. He nearly fell off his chair when I said that yes, actually, it was indeed rock and the rest of the appointment was spent discussing music. When I left, with a prescription and a promise that, when I’d finished the treatment, he’d send me to see someone who’d help with my voice, I had the distinct feeling that I hadn’t actually been listened to. Oh well, I’d take the medicine and see what happened.

The medicine worked to a degree, but had some very undesirable side effects, so I stopped it and went back, determined to make him listen this time. It turned out that what I’d been taking wasn’t suitable, but he’d send me to see an orthophoniste. I phoned one, who asked a few questions and said I needed to call someone else, who was a specialist in the field, but I’d have to wait for an appointment as she’s very busy. I was surprised when my first appointment came through in just 3 weeks.

If you google orthophoniste, it translates as speech therapist, but Nadia is so much more than that; she seems to work with people who’ve had strokes and children too, but also has this specialty. I think she enjoyed our sessions as much as I did, as she taught me to locate and control my diaphragm, in order to breathe properly, how to use my larynx and what happens to it when you move from chest voice to head voice, as well as a lot more. She showed me exercises to do daily, some using a drinking straw in a bottle of water, others not, and was amazed when it took me weeks to be able to do what I can only describe as a rolled french r. How, she wanted to know, do English children make the sound of a lion?  Occasionally I had to video myself during rehearsals, so she could point out mistakes and give me tips for improving my performance.

We laughed a lot during my appointments, not least when she started talking about “haletement”, a bit like panting; I heard ” allaitement”, which means breastfeeding, (sounds the same), causing me some confusion, unsurprisingly.

I’ll never have a voice like Alex’s, but it’s improved enormously, both in strength and in the range of notes I can hit now.

So after 30 sessions (courtesy of the health service),  she’s discharged me, with instructions to continue doing my exercises every day. I’ll miss my visits to see her.

When Graham’s parents told me that, in spite of having their own family staying over Christmas, there would be space for me too, I jumped at the chance.

The train journey from Stansted was fairly fraught, with delays due to signalling issues and a diversion caused by an accident, but eventually I arrived in Harrogate.

The following evening I was invited to sing at an open mic night at the St. Robert’s club; I met Jan and Liz there, as well as a couple of guys I used to know way back in the sixties. Steve used to play in a professional band back then; I was just a child, so never heard them perform, but I do remember the Dormobile van they travelled around in, that they papered the outside of in psychedelic wallpaper! It was a lovely evening; everyone sat in a circle, each person played one song, followed by the person to their left, we went round four times.  Someone had a guitar like mine, which she kindly lent me when it was my turn and at the end I received some very complimentary comments on my voice. The work I’m doing with Nadia must be doing some good (more later).

I hadn’t met the rest of Jean and Doug’s family before; their son and his wife, who live in Canada, were staying with them for two weeks, while their daughter and her family stayed in an hotel in Harrogate for a few days before heading north to visit her husband’s parents.

Jean and Doug’s house was bursting at the seams on Christmas day, with thirteen people, but it was good fun; we played lots of games and ate very well in a very convivial atmosphere.

We went for a couple of walks in the Dales and were lucky with the weather; it was cold, but dry. I managed to catch up with plenty of friends between family gatherings, spent a day in York with Immy, met Belle’s boyfriend and joined the whole family for a dinner at the Orchid restaurant.

I was dreading the train journey back to Stansted; I needed to take the first train in the morning from Harrogate to Leeds, followed by another three. If any of them were to be delayed, I’d miss my flight and on the basis of my northward journey, that seemed quite likely. But Jan was going to visit her daughter near London the same day as I was leaving, so she offered me a lift to the airport. I was so grateful!

Once home, I slept, but the next morning there was no time even to unpack; I was invited to Mart’s, my ex neighbour in Caupenne, for new year’s eve. I hurriedly emptied and repacked my small bag, shopped for my contribution to the meal and set off again. We had a great new year’s eve and the following morning I headed home in time to make lunch for Kieran, Arthur and Emily.

I think I’m going to do very little for the rest of the week, I need a holiday to recover from the last two very enjoyable, but exhausting weeks.

Graham, my son in law, needed a break, he hadn’t had a holiday since last year, so he flew over from Harrogate to see Kieran and I. The plan was to spend Kieran’s days off with him and the kids and the rest with me, which worked well.

Graham’s first job was to sharpen all my knives; he can’t abide knives that aren’t razor sharp and knows that it’s something I never do. So he arrived with a full sharpening kit – they’re great to use now.

He’d agreed to take some photos and short videos of the band, which can be made into slideshows to go with recordings on YouTube, once we’ve recorded a few songs, so Jean Michel took leave so that we could practice on the Monday, when Kieran would be at work . Graham enjoys driving, whereas I prefer to be driven, so I’m always happy to hand over the car keys when he visits; I don’t think he enjoyed this drive very much though, as the sky never really got light and the rain hammered down all day. The drive there was bad enough, in what passed for daylight, but the journey home, in the dark, was horrendous, especially on the tiny roads near Jean Marc’s, where if you meet an oncoming car (or, heaven forbid, a lorry or tractor), both vehicles have to pull onto the grass verge. With no road markings, it’s impossible, in the dark, to know how wide the verge is or how soon it will drop precipitously into a deep ditch. But we got home safely, Graham downloaded the photos and videos and sent them out; all the band were delighted, though Adrian moaned that Graham made him look like a grumpy old git – I refrained from the obvious response.

The weather for the rest of the week was glorious; we had a trip to see the Bassins des Lumières in Bordeaux ; the expos were “from Vermeer to Van Gogh” and Mondrian – both superb.

When the kids weren’t at school on the Wednesday we all went to the Pyrenees for a walk. It was cold and clear in the morning; the children found sticks and thoroughly enjoyed smashing the ice on all the puddles on the way up the hill. At the top there was a river where we skimmed stones and Emily went for a paddle – in her shoes. Luckily Kieran had anticipated this, so had spare shoes and socks for her. She and Arthur rolled up their trousers and spent a happy half hour paddling – the water was bitterly cold, but they didn’t seem to notice

Evenings were spent playing Upwords or with Kieran and the kids at his local pizzeria and soon it was time for Graham to go home. I think he and Kieran both enjoyed the break and it did them both good.

It was time. I’d put it off far too long already. It would have to be a Monday as the swimming pool is open on Tuesday and Wednesday.

I’d remove and replace the somewhat revolting, discoloured silicone sealant in the shower; and while I was at it, the sealant in the kitchen was in a similar state, so I’d do that too.

So I scraped and scrubbed, bleached and blow-dried (What? You’ve never blow-dried a shower? You’ve never lived!) I treated the more stubborn bits with WD40, then wiped it all down with alcohol, to remove any traces of grease.

Then I left it to dry while I went for a walk around the lake to ease my back and knees; which hadn’t enjoyed being scrunched up in such a tiny space for so long.

Halfway round, a young woman with a large camera approached me. She explained that she was taking photos of a triathlete on his bike and as there are loads of fallen leaves, they’d covered part of the path with leaves for him to ride through, the idea being that, as he did so, the leaves would fly up in the air. However, the leaves hadn’t moved at all. Would I be prepared to throw some leaves around as he rode past, to give the effect they were hoping for? Of course, I’d be happy to help. She found another woman, who joined in with her daughter and we did two runs. The photographer seemed happy with the photos she got and explained that they’re for a feature in a free local magazine. I’ll have to look out for it. She agreed to send me a copy and took a photo of me with Florian, the cyclist too.

Back at the ranch, the excitement over, I applied masking tape and the new sealant to the shower. I’d have to leave it for 48 hours to dry thoroughly, hence the swimming pool opening hours being convenient, I could swim and shower there for the next two days

I was on a roll, so I removed the old sealant in the kitchen; some bits were silicone, others acrylic mastic and yet other parts were done in something that resembled used chewing gum – gooey and sticky, it was horrendous to remove!

I had very little masking tape left, so bought another roll the following morning and now the job’s done. I’m pleased with the result, it’s so much better than before.

I’m part of an “international women’s club”, based in the Landes and the Pays Basque; mostly I just attend the book club, run in English, which means that once a month I can express myself properly, without effort and understand everything that’s said – a real treat! A lot of the other activities, such as lunches, cooking demonstrations, apéros, mah jong and bridge don’t really appeal to me.  Occasionally, however, they hold other events, such as Wednesday’s trip to Bordeaux. A cousin of one of the ladies has lived in Bordeaux all his life and is the president of the Bordeaux automobile club; he was our guide for the day and organised lunch for us at the club’s headquarters.

Anne Marie gave me a lift as far as Hossegor, from where we had a coach to Bordeaux, setting off under a glorious blue sky. Unfortunately the fog rolled in not far from Bordeaux, but that did nothing to dampen our spirits.

Vincent led us on a walk around the heart of the historic city, pointing out the important buildings and explaining a bit of their history. It was my first visit; I’d heard that it’s impressive, but I wasn’t prepared for the magnificence of the architecture, which I found imposing and rather majestic. I’ll definitely be going back.

Lunch was excellent, an imaginative menu, beautifully served in the automobile club’s restaurant, by waiters in old fashioned uniform. When I declined the dessert, because I can’t eat sugar, they brought me a plate of fresh pineapple instead – no fuss.

Once lunch was over, we had a short, “digestive” walk; there are some very interesting looking shops that I’d love to go back to explore. A bonus was the lack of traffic; I don’t know if cars aren’t allowed in the centre, or just discouraged, but there were very few. However, there is an excellent, modern tram system.

It was soon time to get back on the bus for the journey out of the centre to the Bassin des Lumières, which, for me, was the highlight of the day. Built by the Nazis during WW2, as a “service station” for submarines, this ugly, square, concrete block, on the banks of the Garonne river has been transformed into an amazing art centre. The whole is divided into three sections, each one with a huge, water-filled parking space for a submarine, surrounded by wide concrete walkways. The only light comes from the images projected onto the walls, and in some places, floors. These images are closely based on the work of various artists and move, sometimes fading from one image to the next, sometimes seeming to fall into the water. Of course, they’re all reflected in the water too and are accompanied by specially chosen music.

I went for the first time last year, to see a Dali and Gaudi exhibition and was blown away by it! This time, we thought we were seeing Mondrian and Van Gogh, but discovered on our arrival that Wednesday afternoons, at the moment, are for children (schools close on Wednesdays), so it was “le Petit Prince”, which was truly magical. I’m going back to see Van Gogh/Mondrian in a few weeks with Graham, my son in law, when he comes over, so I wasn’t at all disappointed.

It was late by the time the coach dropped us in Hossegor ; I was pleased not to be doing the drive home. A quick bite to eat, then bed; I was tired, but it had been a wonderful day.

When I moved into my apartment, it was obvious that the big head on the shower was clogged with limescale, the water coming through was little more than a trickle; I’d have to do something about it……… sometime. However, the small shower head worked perfectly, so I used that and ignored the other. Then the support for the small head broke; I had no choice but to shower under the trickle.

You get used to anything, don’t you? Well, I do.  So nothing got done; I didn’t want to ask Kieran, he’s got enough on his plate; and Cedric seems to have become really expensive.

Then Graham decided to come for a visit later this month; I couldn’t expect anyone else to use the shower as it was, which also made me realise that I still haven’t got round to replacing the badly discoloured silicone sealant in the bathroom and kitchen either.

How difficult could it be to replace a bit of a shower? I’d have a go. I measured the diameter of the pipe and went to the DIY shop. There was a bewildering array of parts for showers, in different shapes and sizes; I suddenly realised that I didn’t really have a clue what I was looking for – not a good start to my venture into the world of plumbing. I found a member of staff and showed him a photo of the part that was broken; he was very helpful, found the correct part and explained, sort of, the basics of how to detach the broken one and replace it.

Back home, feeling more than slightly apprehensive, I found the main water tap and turned it off. Now I’d started, I’d have to finish. But what if I got it wrong? Would I flood the apartment? The apartment downstairs?………

I checked all the taps and took a big pile of towels into the bathroom; every time Nick did some plumbing, there was a mini flood and I was always sent to find towels. I located the screws to loosen the pipe and realised that the junction below wouldn’t turn enough without hitting the wall, so I’d have to remove the flexible pipe too.

I had a look through my tool box,  found a screwdriver and a monkey wrench and undid the screws, but the monkey wrench was fractionally too small. Patrick, who lives downstairs, seems pretty good at DIY, so I went to see if I could borrow a bigger monkey wrench. He brought one round, obviously thinking that I wanted him to do the work for me, which I didn’t. However, I was very pleased when he stayed to supervise, giving me some useful tips along the way.

A few minutes was all it took. Patrick insisted that I turn the water back on and run the shower, to check for leaks, before he left; success – the water flowed just where it’s meant to.

The shower heads are now soaking in vinegar; I’ve poked all the holes with a large sewing needle, to loosen the limescale, so tomorrow’s shower should be a big improvement on today’s.

Soon I’ll have to redo the silicone; hopefully before Graham arrives.

Due to all the upheavals and uncertainty of the last few months (losing both the lead singer and the bass player), the band hadn’t played a gig for some time. Then François asked if we could do half an hour at one of his cabaret evenings, held to raise funds for sick children and their families in this area.

This would be my first gig as bass player; I was very nervous, in spite of telling myself that nobody listens to the bass. The rest of the band would hear my mistakes!

Because the stage was to be used for the main event – a sketch about a talent show – we were squeezed into a corner of the Salle des fêtes. The sound check was something of a shock, to me at least; we were so close to the drums that they were deafening and the rest of the sound was far from clear, I couldn’t tell if I was close enough to the mic, in fact I could barely hear myself and the rest of the guys had similar problems. We all put in special earplugs, I think they’re called attenuators, but although they cut down the overall volume, they didn’t help much, it was still a mishmash of sound.

Pascal, the sound man, had other people to see to, so we left him to it and practiced quietly in a side room.

Someone appeared with food for all the performers; baguettes, cheese, paté, ham, beer, etc. But no knife and no bottle opener! Eventually someone found a knife and Adrian tried using his guitar capo to open beers – it worked!

The show started; before long, it was our turn. Pascal must have done something different for our sound, as it was much clearer; I just put in an earplug on the drums side, which helped.

I made a few mistakes on the bass, due to nerves, but I don’t suppose any of the audience noticed, and I wasn’t the only one not perfect. The gig passed pretty well, though the audience were fairly dead; afterwards the Maire of the village asked if she could book us for a two hour set at their village fête next June, so it can’t have been too bad.

When Jan and Kate came to stay with me last year, we got on so well that it seemed a good idea to arrange another get together; this time we included Liz, another long term friend.

None of us having previously been to Porto, in Portugal, that was chosen as our destination. Jan found a lovely apartment in the centre of the Ribeira district, within walking distance of so many interesting and historic sites, as well as some excellent restaurants.

There was a great little restaurant just up the road from the apartment; by 4pm on the day we arrived , having had a very early start and having eaten nothing since breakfast, we were all famished, so that’s where we went. Kieran had recommended that we try a francesihna, a traditional Portuguese dish. It’s a sort of hot sandwich; two slices of bread, filled with steak, spicy sausage and ham, topped with melted cheese and served in a pool of gravy, with chips. Not at all my usual fare, but it was actually delicious!

The weather wasn’t great for the first few days, but somehow we managed to avoid the worst of the showers, sheltering in the cathedral,  shops or a market.

We were able to eat lunch outside, on the banks of the river Douro the first day; the threatened rain not materialising until later, just after we’d admired the cloister and climbed the tower of the cathedral, rewarding us with fantastic views over the whole of old Porto.

From the top of the town, we took the funicular down to the top level of the Ponte de Dom Luis 1, a beautiful iron bridge spanning the Douro, and walked across. Trains run across this level of the bridge, within inches of the pavements on either side, but without anything to separate the trains from the pedestrians!  The whole place was refreshingly free of any sort of health and safety measures; it seemed very strange to us Brits.

On the far side of the river are the port producers, all with their shops and tasting areas. We intended to go for a tasting, but ran out of time; however we did take the cable car down from the bridge, walking back along the riverside, soaking up the ambience and stopping at one of the many restaurants for dinner.

We visited the “golden” church of St Francis, so named because the inside is almost totally decorated in gold; hideously over decorated and overwhelming in my opinion, but a must on the tourist trail. I didn’t even take a photo!

We walked miles every day, going to markets and museums, listening to some very talented buskers, ambling round shops and along the riverside and up and down the steep cobbled streets of the old city.

Finally, on our last full day, the rain stopped, the sun showed its face and the temperature rose; we took an old fashioned tram out to where the river meets the sea and watched the waves crashing over the breakwater, while soaking up the sunshine, then stopped for lunch in a sports bar, run by a gruff-looking bear of a German (who turned out to be delightful), wearing a St Patrick’s day Guinness tee-shirt.

Two of the foursome will celebrate their 70th birthdays next year, so I think that’ll be a good excuse for another trip.

After the departure of all my summer visitors, it was great to have something else to look forward to – a trip to London, to see my brother and his partner. He’d moved house since my last visit, as had his partner and his ex-wife, so I was looking forward to seeing all their new homes.

It was a busy few days; knowing that I miss the theatre, Peter had booked for us to see MJ the musical. I’m not a fan of Michael Jackson, but the production was faultless and the guy who played the lead role sounded and moved exactly like the man himself. The standing ovation was well deserved.

Penny is a real culture vulture and  always knows what’s worth going to see in the city. We visited Tate Modern to see an exhibition of the “blue riders”, a group of artists including Kandinsky. I’d not heard of them before, but it was fascinating to learn their story.

Peter and Penny had arranged a party on the Saturday, to meet her new neighbours, who include a concert pianist and a professor of music, amongst others – some lovely, interesting people.

I spent Sunday with Peter’s ex-wife and children, seeing their new home and catching up on their news.

Monday was a trip to Kew gardens, the waterlilies were especially beautiful and the weather was so summery that we went around the treetop walk too.

It was a great trip, with unbelievably good weather and I always love catching up with old friends and family, but as the Pyrenees came into view on the descent into Biarritz, I realised just how much this has become my home now.