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.

A few days before Alex, Immy, Katie (Alex’s friend) and Sienna (Katie’s daughter) arrived for a fortnight’s holiday, I received an email from my Australian nephew, whom I’ve only met once, when he was 13. He was on holiday in London and could he come over for a couple of days? Fortunately Alex and co had decided to stay in an apartment in Dax, as my place isn’t huge, so I was able to welcome Chris.

I went to pick him up from Biarritz airport the day before Alex’s arrival, armed with his name on a sheet of card; I needn’t have worried about recognising him, an obvious blend of both his parents. Nor need I have worried about how I’d get on with a 26 year old aspiring actor who’s just finished drama school; he was such good company and a very easy guest; just as well as two days had morphed into five.

He was a huge hit with Arthur and Emily, when we looked after them the next day, so Kieran could pick up Alex and the others from Bordeaux; they soon cottoned on that he could lift them up onto the zip wire at the park, or give Emily a piggy back when her legs were tired, unlike their aged grannie!

Thursday was the start of the Dax fete; a huge event attracting over 100,000 people to the town. I explained to Chris that everyone wears red and white; so we headed to the supermarket to buy him appropriate clothing, before going to Kieran’s for a barbecue lunch. After lunch we all went into Dax; one item on our timetable was to listen to Kieran’s neighbour’s choir competing against two other male voice choirs. The contest was held in a big marquee; most of the people there were either drunk or heading that way, we were squeezed in like sardines and the noise levels were high before the choirs started singing! The winner would be decided on the level of applause, so we stayed quiet for the first two and cheered wildly for Didier’s choir. They won and we wandered off to look around the rest of the fete.

The following day was “children’s day” at the fête. I suggested to Chris that he might like a trip to the Pyrenees; it struck me how far we are from Oz, when he’d never heard of them! We spent a few hours in St Jean Pied de Port, in the Basque Pyrenees, near the coast, a beautiful old fortified town, but when I joked that we could go to Spain, Chris couldn’t believe his luck! This was his first trip to mainland Europe; if he could tick off Spain as well as France that would be fantastic! So we drove just over the border and went for a short walk; we could tell we were in Spain by the “policia nacional” building in the village.

After a day at the beach with Alex, Kieran and the rest of the gang, it was soon time to take Chris back to Biarritz; I think he enjoyed his stay – we certainly enjoyed meeting him.

Katie’s partner was coming to join them, so Alex and Immy moved in with me for the last part of their holiday. We spent a great day at a big water park on the coast and no, I didn’t do any of the many slides – I’m really not that brave, but offered to look after all our belongings – more my style.

We had meals out and at mine, spent an afternoon painting and Immy loved the accrobranch (treetop obstacle course). All too soon it was time to take them back to the airport, a trip Kieran nobly volunteered for. The apartment felt very empty for a while, but it’s not that long till Christmas.

If I’m honest, I’d been rather dreading the summer holidays; almost everything closes down for two months; there’d be no patchwork, painting or book club until September, and although the cycle club continues as normal, I can’t ride at the moment. What on earth would I do? How would I fill my time? And more importantly, would I see anybody at all?

I needn’t have worried; I heard that Annie, from the painting club, spends some Wednesday afternoons in the grounds of the library, to provide children with a place  to draw, supplying paper, pens, etc. I went along to help, only to discover several other painters gathered in the gardens to paint together. It seems that I’ve somehow missed being put on the members’ email list, so I didn’t know about the almost weekly gatherings by the lake either. The next day I joined them, taking my paints and contributing something to the”auberge Espanol” lunch; it was a lovely day, very relaxed.

A message arrived from the patchwork club president, inviting anyone who was interested in doing a “twisted log cabin” piece to a special day. I’m not a great fan of traditional patchwork, but it would be a day out and it turned out to be very enjoyable. The bonus was that I now have a new cushion cover for my sofa.

It’s the Marciac jazz festival at the moment, but as it’s a 2 hour drive from here, I didn’t go last year and really missed it; Nick and I went every year from Caupenne, usually for several days at a time in the campervan. So when Mart invited me to join them for the day, to see her daughter Annabelle, who was playing in several student bands, I jumped at the chance. We filled 3 cars; Mart and some of her extended family, as well as several friends. The kids played unbelievably well, the standard was so high, there was some really serious talent among the performers that day. The 4 hours driving was well worth it.

I headed to the lake one day, just for a walk, only to discover an outdoor art exhibition. Yves, my neighbour upstairs was there, with some of his paintings, as was another artist I met a few months ago. Dominique was very keen that I should be part of this world, and introduced me to Reine, who organises this and several other exhibitions in Dax and St Paul ; she too would like me to join them, but how can I, when I’ve currently only got three pieces and am giving two of those away as presents? So I’ve said I’ll think about it for next year and try to make a few more pieces over the winter. In the meantime, it turned out that Reine lives in the apartment block next to mine, so we’ve had a few walks together; so good to have someone to talk to on the way around the lake.

I had a walk to Dax this morning, for a look at another of the group’s exhibitions; there are so many artists that the content changes from one time to another, as different people are available each time. Reine took me to meet all the artists and when one woman heard me speaking, exclaimed “you’re Dominique’s English friend; we all know about you”! I think there must be a certain kudos involved in having foreigners as part of any group, though it certainly seems odd to me that people think I’m quite exotic!!

So, between all that and occasional days looking after Arthur and Emily, the summer holidays are passing very pleasantly. Even the weather is on my side; in common with most places, it’s very strange this year and we’ve only had a handful of days in the high thirties so far. I’m not complaining, it suits me perfectly.

When I moved into my apartment, I planned to have all the redecorating finished within a year, but life got in the way; the first year arrived and my bedroom was still as it was the day I moved.

Maddy and Dom’s impending visit provided the motivation that I’d been lacking, so a couple of weeks ago I emptied the wardrobe and moved the furniture into the spare room. I’d have to get on with it now; the spare bed was all but invisible under a heap of clothes and drawers containing more clothes and I could hardly move in there for the extra furniture.

I covered my bed with dust sheets and stripped the horrible, old lady, vinyl wallpaper, then knocked in the dozens of Rawl plugs and plasterboard fixings and filled the holes with polyfilla.

The lining paper went up easily, once it had had time to dry, I painted the walls and ceiling white and headed to the DIY shop with the throw Alex made me.

They didn’t have the shade of pink paint I was looking for and the price to have a sufficiently big tin mixed made my eyes water, so I got a small tin of a deeper shade, which I mixed with some white – perfect!

I painted the wall behind the bed pink, cleaned up and put back my clothes, shoes and furniture. It was a treat to have a choice of what to wear, ie not just whatever was on the top of the heap.

I found a pair of table lamps in a local shop, to replace the work lamp I’ve been using for the last 16 months.

Now I just need Kieran to help me put up the lampshade and hang some pictures.

In the meantime, I’m making a patchwork quilt for the spare room. I’d painted the room all white, thinking the quilt would be colour enough; but laying out the quilt pieces on the bed, it became apparent that the wall behind the bed needed some colour.

There are plenty of colours to choose from and I had some green left over from the living room, so mixed it up with some blue tint and a bit of white, to get a lovely turquoise shade. I think the room looks much better now.

It’ll be even better once I finish the quilt, but that could be a few months yet.

Whenever people hear that I can’t do something-or-other because I have a rehearsal, they usually ask what sort of a choir I’m in; do we sing sacred or secular music? I love to see the look on their faces when I explain that actually it’s a rock band. It’s not at all what they expect of an otherwise quite ordinary grannie.

There’d been some tension in the band for a while,  between Adrian, the lead guitar, and Mika, the bass player. I’m not sure that Mika was even aware of it, but the rest of us certainly were. The problem was that Mika is a very good bass player, but not a great team player; he just cannot play simply, even when that’s what’s required. He was playing everything as if it was his solo, his fingers flying over the frets, which really upset Adrian, whose solos couldn’t be heard properly. He tried dropping hints, but they went straight over Mika’s head.

Then we encountered another problem, a fundamental difference in attitude between Mika and the rest of us – he would only play paid gigs. The rest of us are quite happy to play if we’re fed and watered, though a contribution towards petrol costs is always welcome. Mika informed us that he loved playing with us and would continue to do so, but only if and when we’re paid, which obviously leaves us in the lurch, with no bass, for free gigs. The discussion got quite heated, with Mika shouting down anyone else who tried to speak and laying down the law to the rest of us. He sent us a message later in the week to let us know he was quitting, but then turned up to the next rehearsal as if nothing had happened!

I was very confused, not having been able to follow the conversation very well at the end of practice, but it seems that he sent his quitting message to shock us into realising how much we’d miss him – his plan was to stay and thought we’d be so grateful that we’d be cowed into abiding by his rules!

Well, that backfired badly. We gave him his marching orders.

So….. what to do next?

Find another bass player and start again? No, Adrian, Jean Michel and Jean Marc, who’ve played together for years, didn’t think much of that one.

Play without a bass? No, it just doesn’t work.

Adrian and Jean Michel can both play bass as well as guitar, so suggested that if I play a bit of rhythm guitar occasionally, that can free up one of them for bass. I mentioned that for years I’ve fancied having a go at playing bass, but had never had the chance, though I didn’t think anyone heard me.

So when I got to rehearsal today, there was Ade’s beautiful bass hung on the wall. Had we got a new bass player? I asked. Who? “Yes”, came the reply, “It’s you”.  Oh…….maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.

I was amazed at how heavy it is! Our song, “L’amour germinale” can have a very simple bass line, so they thought I could try that first. I made notes of the notes and we started, but bear in mind that I still had to sing my harmonies, yes, in French, while trying to play. It wasn’t easy, and I made plenty of mistakes, but they seemed to think it was ok for a first attempt. I’ve brought the bass home to practice on, along with instructions to find the tabs online for “knockin’ on heaven’s door” and learn that too.

It’s all good for the little grey cells, but is it normal behaviour for a 68 year old grannie? Well, I don’t know about that, but it is for this one!

When I was pregnant with Kieran  and Princess Diana was expecting Harry, Nick’s brother’s wife’s sister, who was a journalist on Woman’s Own, phoned me to say the magazine was running a feature on fashion in pregnancy; they’d got a real model who was pregnant, but were looking for a pregnant “reader” with a child of about two. Would I be interested in going to London with Gemma for a photoshoot? It’s not the sort of offer that comes along twice in a lifetime, so I jumped at the chance.

My doctor suggested that, as Kieran was due only two weeks later, I shouldn’t do the double journey in one day and that I have someone with me to help look after Gemma, to which they agreed. Nick came with us as we took the train to London and were put up in a swanky hotel for the night, then the following day we went for the shoot.

It was an all female team, hairdresser, make up artist and photographer, who were all lovely and put me at my ease. They cut my hair, did my make up and chose suitable clothes from a huge selection lent to them by various fashion shops. We had a lovely day and got home exhausted that Friday evening. When Kieran arrived the following Monday, I received a huge bouquet of flowers from Woman’s Own.

It’s taken me a mere forty years, but, at last, in the week that marks Kieran’s 40th birthday, I’ve got round to having a print made and framing the photos Gemma and I modelled for, just days before Kieran was born.

In the original article there were photos of the professional model, too, but I used some of the prints I was given at the end of the shoot, to replace her pictures.

The printers have made a lovely job of it, even down to reproducing the pastel borders around each photo.

I brought it home and put it in the frame I had ready, then decided to take a photo of it. Easier said than done; no matter where I put it, there were always reflections.

I messaged my photographer brother for advice. “Black drape behind you and wear a black top” was his reply; I dug out all the black fabric I could find and taped it to the walls and doors, but there wasn’t enough, there were still reflections. A black tee shirt came in handy. Then I put on a black, long sleeved top, a black hat and black, fingerless cycling mitts. The corridor was now rather gloomy, so I added an extra light, covered in some net curtain fabric as a diffuser.

The whole place was beginning to look like a set for a Halloween play, but it worked – a reflection-free photo.

Mart and I had planned a soap making day, so I set off extra early, to make the most of being in the Gers and visit my friend Maithée too. Just before I arrived, the car made a bleeping noise and a red thermometer symbol flashed on the dashboard, so I parked at Maithée’s and called the breakdown people, who sent out a dépanneur (breakdown man) and lorry.

It was embarrassing to have to admit that I didn’t know where the bonnet opening lever was, but I’m sure I’m not the first “blonde” he’s dealt with. My question about the bottle of pink liquid in the corner and the fact that the liquid didn’t reach the “min” line was dismissed – no, that wasn’t the problem, just top it up sometime. I didn’t dare ask what I should top it up with.

Several inspections of the engine, lots of revving, head scratching and a test drive later,  he still couldn’t make the warning light come on again; he concluded that it must be an electronic glitch – it’d be fine.

I went to Mart’s, where we made 2 batches of soap. Paul, a neighbour, was there for lunch too, so he had a look under the bonnet; his reaction to the low fluid level was just the same.  But I wasn’t convinced that I’d get home without a problem, so, just in case, I set off in good time; sure enough, 45 minutes into my journey, the light started flashing again. I was near a car share car park, so pulled in there and called the assistance again; they asked all sorts of technical questions this time, such as did the engine feel hotter than normal when I opened the bonnet?! I had to admit that I’d never actually opened a bonnet in my life, so I had not the faintest idea. They’d send a dépanneur ; this time it was a dépanneuse – a young woman! She took one look in the engine and said that the fluid level was too low and needed topping up. She didn’t have any “liquide de refroidissement”, but I could get some at the supermarket, which would still be open if I hurried. I just had to make sure it’s the right one for my car, probably pink. She happily showed me how to open the bonnet,  exactly how to fill the bottle and how much to put in; she didn’t even make me feel a fool for asking.

I bought the coolant, as well as a sandwich and some water and ate while waiting for the engine to cool down a bit more, then did my best to look as though I knew what I was doing, opening the bonnet, propping it up and pouring the pink liquid into the bottle.  I screwed the cap back on, shut the bonnet and set off again. Eventually I got home with no more problems, but I really must book it in for a service this week.

I came home on Saturday from a visit to Harrogate with Kieran and his children.

The ten days passed all too quickly, with visits to Tropical World, a trampoline park, Harlow Car Gardens, swimming and the Forbidden Corner, among other places and of course, meeting up with old friends.

The cherry trees were in bloom on the Stray, which was a treat for the eyes. I’m sure they used to flower in May, but it was lovely to see them, early or not.

I was lucky enough to be invited to an eightieth birthday party. I’ve known Mike since I was 7 years old and can remember my mother going to his 21st party; he’s still going strong and looks a lot younger than his years. It was amazing to see people there who I haven’t seen for over 50 years, and to recognise many of them.

Alex had just started a new job, so couldn’t take time off, which made the weekend and evenings even more precious, it was lovely to see her so happy after a year in her previous role in a toxic environment. Her new job looks as though it has possibilities for growth and she’s giving it her all.

Belle and I went to Harrogate theatre to see an amateur production of Sister Act, which was great; so between that, decent curries and the availability of vegetarian food in restaurants and cafés, the trip ticked all the boxes of things I miss in France.

I’d forgotten, however, just how cold it can be in Yorkshire; I took thermals, thick sweaters, hat, gloves and scarf, but was still perished most of the time in the glacial winds and have arrived home with a dose of bronchitis and without my voice – if anyone finds it, please send it to me!. But if that’s the price I have to pay for a great holiday, then so be it. I don’t think I could live in that climate again though.

Some of my photos seem to have doubled up and I don’t know how to get rid of them, sorry!

Twice a year, the painting club holds an exhibition in a community building on the edge of the lake and this time I was persuaded to put in three pieces.

I’m no great painter, the only painting I’ve done over the last 50 years being of walls and ceilings, but I thoroughly enjoy the afternoons I spend “playing” at the workshop.

There are some very talented artists, all happy to share their expertise and give me the benefit of their experience, but I’ll never be a real painter and am very happy to use what I produce as the basis for some textile art, unlike the work of anyone else in the club.

I framed my three little pieces and took them along to be hung. We all do one or two afternoons manning the exhibition; often there are 5 or 6 people, which makes for a very enjoyable few hours.

I was there one afternoon when someone pointed out a couple having a good look at my work. “Go and talk to them”, she said, which I did; they wanted to know about the techniques I use to arrive at the result, they seemed very interested and ended by buying one of my works! I was delighted, though to say I was surprised would be putting it mildly.

My brother’s partner, Penny, had some leave to take from work, but Peter didn’t; so Penny and I decided that we’d have a few days away. Naples seemed to fit the bill; we could find flights that arrived within minutes of each other and we had a good chance of decent weather in March.

Penny booked the accommodation; it was amazing – a beautiful apartment on the 6th floor of an old block, overlooking the bay of Naples and with a view of Vesuvius! There was even a concierge, who chatted away to us in Italian, seemingly unconcerned that, beyond good morning, pasta and pizza, our Italian was somewhat limited. If there was something we really must understand, he’d drag someone in off the street to translate for us.

A colleague of Penny’s comes from Naples, so we had a list of good pizzerias to try, along with a recommendation to try fried pizza. It sounded disgusting, but actually was delicious. The pizzas were so huge that we never ordered more than one between the two of us.

Friends I’d spoken to were horrified at our choice of destination – they said it was busy, filthy, etc, and it was! The traffic was unbelievable, scooters weaving their way in and out of fast moving cars, lorries, buses, everybody hooting their horns; you felt you were taking your life in your hands every time you crossed a road, even on zebra crossings, which the drivers largely ignored. And yes, there were overflowing dustbins outside the shops in town…… However, there was such a buzz about the place; people were so animated, so full of life. We loved it.

We’d booked a guided tour of Pompeii on the Saturday afternoon; a good job we didn’t book earlier as it took us all morning to work out the trains. At last we arrived, found somewhere to eat and were ready for some serious history and culture.

Pompeii was fantastic; our guide was very knowledgeable and more than happy to answer questions, he even managed to keep two very loud Americans in check. It was incredible to think that the frescoes on the walls and mosaics on the floors have been in place for over 2000 years, they’re in such good condition. Some parts of the mosaic floors resemble crumpled pieces of fabric, following the form of the earth as it moved and buckled on the day of the eruption in 79AD. There are plaster casts in glass cases, made from bodies found, intact, during the excavations, as well as fast food outlets, bakeries and  brothels.

Once the tour was over, we took the train to Ercolano, a modern town around ancient Herculaneum. Having been to Pompeii allowed us to interpret better what we saw in Herculaneum, which was a richer suburb of Pompeii all those years ago. It was getting dark by the time we left, the thought of the long walk back to the station was too much, so we took up the taxi driver’s offer of a “special deal”; yes, we were charged more than we should have been, but our feet felt it was worth it.

All too soon it was time for me to take the bus back to the airport, Penny had an extra half day before heading back to London.