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.