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 staid; 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.

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.