After living all my married life in houses that we were in the process of renovating, I really appreciate not having loads of DIY to do in my apartment. It’s quite fun to help others though, and being able to walk away from the dust and the rubble at the end of the day.

Adrian, the lead guitarist with the band, lives in a house at the foot of a mountain, on the edge of the Pyrenees;  the terrain is so steep that the mountain comes halfway up the back of his house. His living space is on the first floor; the ground floor (if you look from the front of the house) is workshop and garage.

When it rains heavily the rain pours down the mountainside, straight through the back wall and into his garage and workshop, meaning that several times every year, the whole ground floor is flooded. Not ideal.

He asked a firm for a quote to fix this problem, but it was astronomical; they’d have to empty the place, dig a trench just inside the back and side walls (it seems that digging the trench outside is unfeasible) , and lay pipes, which would drain the water to the ditch outside.

Jean Marc, the drummer in the group, is a retired builder and Jean Michel, singer and guitarist, works in a builders’ merchants. They were horrified when they learned that Ade had asked someone else; why hadn’t he asked them? So Jean Marc spent a day at Adrian’s, assessing what needed doing, as well as the tools and materials he’d need. These were bought, using Jean Michel’s staff discount, and loaded into Jean Marc’s van.

I offered to provide lunch as I wouldn’t be much help with the building work and spent the previous day cooking; two chicken curries, one medium, the other barely spiced, for Jean Michel, who, like many of his compatriots, can’t cope with anything spicy. A chickpea and spinach curry, naan breads and a raita completed the main course, to be followed by the inevitable lemon meringue pie, without which I wouldn’t dare show my face at Ade’s. He got in rice and beers

By the time I arrived they’d cut the trench in the workshop, the lower of the two rooms, and were starting to dig it out. The place was full of noise, dust and a very positive vibe. I even felt quite useful when they were looking for something; of course all the shelving and other storage was shoved together on one side of the room – I was the only one skinny enough to squeeze through the little gaps.

The farmer across the road brought his tractor, with a big digger shovel attached, so that they could dump the rubble in it; he’d find a hole to lose it in.

By lunchtime they’d dug out the trench and were hungry; they’d had an early start. We all tucked in and they all declared themselves full after two or three helpings, till I got out the lemon meringue pie, a big one, which they cut into four, demolishing most of it along with ice cream – I think they all have separate pudding compartments 🤣.

Then back to work, mixing the mortar to fill the trench and scraping a groove in it to match the half circle guttering that would collect the water. At the lower end they cut a rectangular hole, a bit bigger, to fill with a bucket that in turn will house a small pump.

They hadn’t finished by the time I left, but the sky was turning very black and a storm was forecast. I had an interesting journey home with lightning flashing all around and rain coming in the windows, as they refused to close. Eventually I managed to close them, by pushing the “open” button; a problem with the electrics, I suppose.

For now, they’ve only done the lower room, the workshop, Ade will see if this sorts the problem and we’ll go back to do the second part later on, if necessary.

I’d collected fabrics for a Gustave Klimt style quilt for one of the gîte bedrooms when we lived in Caupenne, but hadn’t got round to actually making it, so decided to use the fabrics for my spare room instead.

About a year ago, the time felt right; I got out all the fabrics and spread them out on the bed, to see how they all went together and to weed out anything that didn’t go. However, there seemed to be fewer of the dark colours than I remembered; I searched high and low, could even envisage specific pieces of fabric, but couldn’t find them anywhere. Eventually I gave up and went to my local fabric shop; I was in luck – they had, in the patchwork department, a selection of Klimt cottons – I spent rather more than I should have, but they were irresistible!

I added the new fabrics to the old, spread out on the white duvet in the spare room, when my eye was drawn to the cushions at the head of the bed; three cushions, each with two, dark, Klimt style fabrics pinned around it. I remembered then; the room had looked too stark, too white, when Alex and her family came at Christmas, so I’d wrapped the cushions in quilting cottons, pinned in place as I’d no time to do more than that.

I’d have more fabric than I needed, but I can make cushions and maybe a coat……. After all, you can never have too much fabric!

I drew up a design and even followed it for the middle section, but then changed my mind and made the rest up as I went; I’m not good at following patterns, even my own.

It’s the biggest quilt I’ve ever made and I knew that quilting it by machine would be challenging and I’m far too impatient to quilt by hand, so I made it in three separate pieces, which I quilted to within a couple of inches of the joining edges, then stitched them together, leaving me only narrow strips to quilt once it was all assembled.

Once the top was finished, I’d have to quilt it. Most of the quilting is “stitched in the ditch”, a technique where you stitch in the seam between two pieces of fabric; it has to be virtually invisible, so is very precise and time consuming. Other bits, though, like the larger pieces of swirly fabric, I decided to do in free motion embroidery, following the swirly pattern on one of the fabrics; I couldn’t believe how much thread this used as I went back to Mondial Tissus again and again for more gold thread. In all I used about 400 metres, just of the gold.

Finally, it’s finished. The patchwork club wants it for our summer exhibition, so I’ve added hanging sleeves to the back. I’m pleased with it; it looks lovely on the bed and brings the whole room together. Cushions? I’ll do them sometime, but I’ve so many other projects to get on with in the meantime.

I love living so near to the “lac de Christus”, a man made lake in St Paul, constructed about 50 years ago to clear marshland and its associated problems. I frequently go for a walk around it, sometimes continuing into the forest at the far end of it.

The “grange de Christus”, a building on the edge of the lake, is used for exhibitions from spring to autumn. I went to this year’s first expo a few weeks ago; contemporary paintings and sculptures,  I loved them.

Once that expo was finished, it was the turn of the painting club; the grange is such a popular location that we only had 10 days this time, so we all arrived with our paintings for the members of the committee to hang and turned up to man the expo a couple of times each. It’s a good way to get to know other members of the club; the workshop is open five afternoons a week so, being creatures of habit, it’s quite possible only to meet certain people during the exhibitions.

The vernissage attracted nearly 200 people and we had over 800 visitors over the 10 days. I didn’t sell anything, but several people did. The theme this time was “music”; there was an amazing number and variety of pieces, so many people were inspired to submit a piece on the theme, which is optional.

Kieran and the kids came to lunch one day recently, after which we had a walk to the children’s play park on the edge of the lake. There’s another expo on in the Grange now, the local patchwork group, so we called in to have a look; Emily liked a few of the quilts.  It’s too structured a club for me, but I met two women from my club there; we agreed that though there were a few nice pieces of work, we’re glad to be part of a different group.

Sad, isn’t it, when a couple of hours in a bar warrants a special mention? But the French, or at least those of my age, don’t really do going out in the evening. Once the sun goes down, the shutters do the same, which can make evenings seem quite long. And for all the effort I’ve made, joining various clubs, I only see the people at those clubs; it seems quite difficult to make proper friends.

Last Tuesday, at painting club, Fabienne said that her group was playing at a bar in Dax on Friday, for St Patrick’s day; it’s an Irish group, she plays cello, her husband and another man are multi talented, playing fiddle, mandolin, banjo, guitar and bagpipes between them.

To me it sounded like the perfect excuse, so I asked if anyone would like to come with me; a lot of navel gazing ensued, so I didn’t push it.

I called Beatrice from the cycle club, but she has choir practice on Fridays, so I tried Jean Claude, another single from the cycle club; yes, he’d love to go.

At painting club today, I mentioned it to Francoise, who only does Fridays; she’d ask her partner and the friend they have staying, but liked the idea.

So five of us turned up for what was a lovely evening, the crowd in the bar was noisy and good humoured, the music was excellent and maybe I’ve reinforced another couple of friendships.

Last year, Adrian, the lead guitarist with the band, decided it was time to transform the piece of mahogany he’d had lying about for the last twenty years into a guitar. He’s worked on his own and friends’ guitars for years, improving and repairing them, and is a trained furniture maker, but even so, this would be quite an undertaking. He bought the neck and the electronics and set to work.

We heard reports and occasionally saw photos on how it was progressing over the next few months and I had a hand in choosing the colour, Ade had no idea! ” Red, yellow or blue?” he asked; I was appalled – he couldn’t finish something so elegant in a primary colour! He listened and the resulting shade is beautiful.

Finally, he brought it to rehearsal; he was delighted – it played beautifully and sounded wonderful, but it was far too heavy and very quickly made his shoulder very painful. He realised too late that he should have left cavities in the body.

So he’d make another one, an improved version, having learnt from his first timer mistakes.

Today’s rehearsal was the first for three weeks, the drummer and the lead singer both having been down with man flu. My brother delicately explained to me that this is one of the problems of playing with a geriatric band!

Ade looked particularly smug when he arrived, brand new guitar in his case.

He leaves his pod (for effects) at the studio, so hadn’t yet been able to put the new baby through its paces and was obviously nervous when he plugged it in. This was the moment of truth, as he and Jean Michel programmed the pod.

He needn’t have worried; the electronics in the guitar worked perfectly with those of the pod and he was able to sound like an acoustic or electric, 6-string or 12-string, a Stratocaster, Fender or any number of other makes/styles.

Adrian, being a self proclaimed grumpy old git, isn’t given to bursts of enthusiasm or overt demonstrations of joy, but today was different, he couldn’t stop grinning.

The French don’t really do curtains; most windows have shutters, which keep out the dark or the sun, help deter intruders and maybe help insulate against the cold. But they’re not exactly pretty from the inside, so some people have nets or voile curtains.

I decided I’d like “proper” curtains in my living room; I spent a long time visiting fabric shops near and far, but couldn’t find anything I liked, or even anything that would do at a push. Then last April, while I was in Harrogate with Kieran and the kids, I called into the fabric shop in town; they had just what I’d been looking for. Would it be the right shade of green? It’s always difficult to carry a colour in your head, but I was fairly sure it would work. I quickly calculated how much I’d need and bought 12 metres, along with header tape.

Fortunately, when I’d booked our flights, the best deal was a family ticket, with a generous luggage allowance, all of which we hadn’t used. A visit to Primark provided an extra cabin bag that was big enough to hold my fabric.

Back home, I ordered lining at my local fabric shop, then I got busy with other stuff and sort of forgot about the curtains (boring to make), until I had a big (and very much needed) clean up in my workshop last week and was reminded of them – the fabric was taking up far too much space anyway.

They’re big curtains, the window being almost floor to ceiling and 3 metres wide, but by pushing the sofa out of the way, I made enough space to work. Once they were nearly done, Kieran came round to fit the pole that had been lying in the hall for months. I went looking for rings, but all I could find locally were rather bulky and cost 30€ for ten! I’d need 32 – no way was I paying that! Amazon came to the rescue and even delivered on Sunday, so since then I’ve hung the curtains, pinned the hems, taken them down, stitched the hems, pressed them and rehung them.

It feels much cosier in here now.

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.