Getting All The Latest Gossip At Maximum Volume…

Tags

France, French, fun, Humor, Humour, Life

 

So it’s Sunday, it’s miserable and threatening to rain, and so the kids, the missus and I decide to head off to the local fair. It’s organised by our village church and so is full of lots of people of, to be kind, advancing years. I always find that slightly depressing, when you find yourself to be the youngest people there even though you are in your forties.

But at the same time I also enjoy the chance to bask in my youthfulness because, even though I’m in my forties, I’m one of the youngest ones there.

It’s an indoor affair – which is a huge bonus on a day like this – and is held in our local ‘salle de fetes’ or community hall, for the non-French speakers reading this.

When we get there there are a group of line-dancing ladies keeping the crowds entertained with their rather sedate routine (average age of dancers: 76). We wait for a suitable pause and take a seat at a table near the stage where, we are informed, the grand raffle will shortly be held.

The compere for this soon arrives and it’s none other than Madame Dubois, a local character who I know from my English classes and who keeps insisting I call her Celia, and I do. To her face anyway: whenever I’m referring to her to others though I switch back to Madame Dubois.

You know those people who just seem like they will forever be referred to by Mr or Mrs such and such, and to use their Christian name would be sacrilege? Well that’s Madame Dubois, she’s one of those people.

She bustles over to us and says her hellos, steals my children, and then heads off on to the stage. She needs my kids to pick out the winning tickets you see. She also steals my partner, as she needs her to control my kids to in order to facilitate the picking out of the wining tickets.

The raffle kicks off and my kids hand her the winning tickets, alternately taking their place at the giant plastic ball and selecting the green ticket. The prize is then displayed by a glamorous assistant (approximately 82) before Madame Dubois, with the aid of a very powerful microphone calls out the name and number on the winning ticket. This is not the only information she divulges to the crowd (approximately 100-or-so, average age 71) however. She also comments on the current location and well being of the winners, in association with their prize.

It goes a little something like this:

Madame Dubois: ‘Ok what is this, hmmm a toaster and the winning number is 1,257 and the winner is Madame DuChamp. Well that’s no good for her, she’s been in the retirement home for 3 months now, maybe she can give it to her daughter?’

Madame Dubois: ‘And this next one is for a lovely scarf, and it’s been won by Monsieur Lafage with ticket number 245, but I don’t think he’ll be wearing it. Not for long anyway if what his doctor told me is true’.

Madame Dubois: ‘276, 276 for Madam Lafayette, yes, she’s not well she’s been at the retirement home for two years now and she’s a bit lost, so I don’t really think these roller blades will be very good for her’

Madame Dubois: ‘What’s this? Another bloody scarf? OK, stop messing around you two and give me a number. Yes, that one’s 1,035 and it’s for Madame Sedoyer, well she can wear it when she goes to the doctor’s. Again. She’s not well. She’s not well at all’

Madame Dubois: ‘A balloon trip? She won’t be able to get outside, never mind up in a balloon, lost the use of her legs two years ago. And that’s 365, for Madam Kristoff, 365 for Madame Kristoff’

 

I should add that the majority – but not all – of the people Madame Dubois discussed were not actually present in the hall. Or if they were they didn’t hear her – due to deafness of being asleep, it was hard to tell. I am now going to see if Madame Dubois will be the DJ at any future events we may decide to hold, she’s got a definite talent for keeping the crowds entertained.

We didn’t win anything by the way but, judging by the comments, I’m quite pleased about that…

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I Don’t Care What Time Of Day It Is, I Hate Clowns….

Tags

Clowns, Family, fear, food, funny, Humor, Life, Phobia, Scary

They all bloat down here…especially if they have TWO Big Macs

We go to McDonald’s now and again. I might have mentioned it. People will frown about that. They will say things like ‘Consumerism’ ‘Frankenstein food’ and ‘I hate McDonald’s’. And to them I say ‘Yes, but have you tried the bacon double cheeseburger?’.

Now I have the kids full time on a Wednesday (thanks to French president Mr Macron, and I really do mean that) we often head there, especially if it’s raining.

It was raining on this grey and miserable Wednesday, so guess where we ended up?

Our trip to McDonald’s today was made more memorable as we were ‘entertained’ by the real-life, in the flesh, French Ronald McDonald, walking around saying bonjour, cava etc.

In case you didn’t notice the picture at the top of the page, he looked liked this:

Note suspicious glare from kid in bottom right of pic

He was walking around chatting away, smiling/grimacing at and cuddling people, with a balloon person accompanying him, making balloon animals for the kids, as if this would in some way alleviate the sheer terror that his form brought out in them and the adults as well. Especially adults like me.

It’s broad daylight, in a busy restaurant, yet this clown, squeaking around in his big red shoes, has got me quaking in mine. I hate clowns, yet have a perverse fascination with them, and have watched every horror film featuring them.

Some of the kids lapped it up, but some reacted like me and so there were plenty of scenes like this one:

I can say, with hand on heart, that he was at least 200% more sinister than the already-creepy-as-fuck UK ones that I used to see from time to time. I can also say that I have never seen my daughter turn away from something as quickly as she did when he approached our table today and tried to engage her in conversation, she was having none of him, his red shoes, his balloon animals or his ghastly painted face.

It was a pity, as the kids really did want one of the balloon animals – my son specified a dog, any colour but pink – but they were not prepared to endure having this painted creature interacting with them in order to get one.

He left half-way through our meal, probably had other venues to terrorise. We did not mourn his passing, and are not looking forward to him being there again.

Shame about the balloon animals though.

The Fog Of Awwwwww…

Tags

Family, France, French, fun, funny, Humor, Humour, photography, stay-at-home Dad

I’m taking a gamble today trying the kids out at a new place. Always a risky choice with kids, deviating from the norm. Plus I wasn’t sure if the village I’d decided to visit had a park. I knew what would happen if I didn’t find one. That would be all I would hear about for a week. I saw promising signs on the way into the village, and pulled up at the local lake. Parks and lakes go together like fish and chips, right?

The kids were not initially impressed by my risky gamble…

Me: ‘Look at this, what a great view, all that fog’

Him: ‘It’s all white daddy, look! Everything is white!’

Me: ‘Yes, this is a reaction caused by the cold weather’

Him: (a rare moment of parental concern) ‘Will you be warm enough daddy? You don’t have a thick coat like us on, yours is thin, you might be too cold’

Me: (tear rolls gently down face and almost freezes on cheek) ‘It’s OK son, I’ll be fine, thanks for asking though’

Her: ‘Awwww….there’s no park here’

Me: ‘Yes, but there might be one on the other side, and look at all this fog, doesn’t it look great?’

Her: Blows air out of her mouth and makes a negative ‘Pfffffft’ noise that you would  expect to hear from someone in their forties. This ‘Pfffffft’ effortlessly conveys and encapsulates her disappointment with the location, the scenery, the weather and me.

Me: (Looking up at the chateaux shrouded in fog and pointing it out to the kids) ‘What a great castle eh? Look at the height of the walls, I bet this was a good place to defend and look (pointing at ditch that runs along the base of the wall) I bet there was a moat here once too, what do you think?’

Her: ‘There’s no park here’

Him: ‘What’s that daddy?’

Me: ‘It’s where we put naughty kids’

Him: ‘Can you open it?’

Me: ‘No’

Him: ‘Ha, ha! Daddy can’t put us in there, he doesn’t have any keys. Ha, ha!’

Him: ‘Why are you taking pictures of a toilet? Why daddy? Why?’

Me: ‘It’s just in such a great location, look at it, surrounded by all the trees and leaves’

Him: ‘Weecee, it’s a Weecee’

Me: ‘No, it’s a ‘WC’

Him: ‘What’s that mean’

Me: ‘I don’t know’ (I’ve remembered now, without the aid of Wikipedia, and I think it means ‘Water Closet’)

Me: ‘Come on, I’ll take a picture of you both under this little house’

Her: ‘There’s no park here’

Me: ‘There’ll be one round here I’m sure. Now why don’t you both get under the house for a nice photo for mummy?’

Him: ‘No, I want to hug a tree instead’ (Hugs tree)

Her: ‘Weeee! A park!’

Him: (disappears in a puff of air and reappears on the see-saw)

Me: (thinking: ‘Everything looks wet – where are the swings?’)

Me: (Now bored of the park – quickly done) ‘Let’s have a look over here kids, I think I can see something’

Both: ‘What is it?’

Me: ‘I think it’s….

Me: ….another toilet! And look, it’s got a little heart-shaped hole, how romantic’

Him: ‘I am getting really annoyed at you daddy, why do you keep taking pictures of toilets? Stop taking pictures of toilets daddy!’

After venturing inside and using the ‘facilities’

Me: ‘Why is the lock on the outside? How strange…and a little bit worrying’

Her: ‘Can we go back to the park now?’

Me: ‘Let’s have a look over here, I think I can hear something, can you hear the water?’

Both: ‘Yes!’

Me: ‘Maybe it’s a waterfall?’

It’s NOT a waterfall….

Me: ‘Well, it’s not a waterfall, but it’s close’

Her: ‘No it isn’t’

Me: ‘Let me take a picture of you in front of the foggy lake, and promise not to stick your tongue out’

Him: ‘OK daddy, I promise’

Me: (takes photo knowing exactly what will happen)

Him: (is seven-year-old boy, therefore sticks tongue out anyway)

Both: ‘What’s that daddy?’

Me: ‘It’s a little island, do you want to live on it for a couple of weeks and give me and your mum some peace?’

Him: ‘No!’

Her: (launches a series of physical attacks upon my person, primarily focused on the groin-area)

Him: ‘What are you doing daddy?’

Me: ‘Just taking a nice photo’

Him: ‘Shall we play a game? It’s where the first person to speak loses, so everybody has to be quiet’

Me: (nodding so eagerly that I develop neck ache later in the day) ‘Yes that sounds like a good game’

 

This is now my favourite game and one that is unfortunately short-lived, but lasts just long enough too get us back to the car, whereupon it’s business as usual and I drive home with what appears to the casual observer  – and sounds exactly like – two wild animals in the back of the car.

It could have been worse though.

At least there was a park eh?

Playing The French At Their Own Game…

Tags

Belote, Cards, Culture, France, French, funny, games, Humour, Traditions

Not a bad place to play games and not be lynched by the locals

Entering the room as the sole foreign participant in a French competition, playing a very French game, you may be under some misconceptions as to what may happen when your fellow players realise you are not ‘one of them’. Let me dispel a few myths.

The following will (probably) not happen:

1. Upon entering and saying ‘Bonjour’ and thereby marking yourself out as an Englishman, the room will not erupt into people standing up and pointing at you, mouths gaping open, while emitting a high-pitched scream. This will likewise not then be followed up with them making you fall asleep while a pod makes you turn into one of them.
2. Upon entering and saying ‘Bonjour’ and thereby marking yourself out as an Englishman, the room will not go deathly silent. The man that was throwing darts at the board will not miss and blame it on you. The barmaid will not refuse to serve you and the locals will not hound you out of the place, telling you to ‘stay on the path’. Furthermore you will not then be attacked by a werewolf, who will eat your friend, and you will not be forced to shower with Jenny Agutter.
3. Upon entering and saying ‘Bonjour’ and thereby marking yourself out as an Englishman, the locals will not get Britt Ekland to try and seduce you by banging on your bedroom wall in the nude. They will also not then place you inside a giant wicker man and set it on fire, dancing around it while you scream, and thus ensuring the harvest that year is plentiful.

No, all jokes aside the people that I encountered at my first concours de belote (or belote competition) were friendly and welcoming. If somewhat curious at having an ‘outsider’ in their midst.

For the uninitiated belote is a very French card game, played in groups of four with two players on each team. It’s a game that’s as much about luck as skill, like many card games. I’ve written a guide about it on here if I’ve peaked your interest, and I would do one of those linky-things where the text is a different colour and it leads you to the page in question, but I’ve forgotten how to do it. Never mind, I’ll put it in later.

Yes, let’s get the elephant in the room out of the way – belote is popular with a certain age group.

The game itself was broken down into four rounds, with each team playing a different team each round. Our team was composed of myself and my French father-in-law. My partner and my mother-in-law were looking after the kids. I pointed out to my father-in-law (he’s called Guy, I’m going to use that from now on, as typing father-in-law is making my wrist hurt) that it didn’t really matter what position we came in. This was because we were here, without the kids, and so had won the day already.

He did not disagree with me.

We received out team number (25) and milled about while the judges sat on high and decided who we all would be playing against. Once this was decided they chalked the numbers of each team, the number that that team would be playing and the table that they would be sat at on the board, and we were off!

ROUND ONE

We played a very elegant couple of ladies in our first round. They were polite and civil, they looked very glamorous. They wiped the floor with us. Guy looked crestfallen. ‘I have never lost by that much’ he said as he headed outside for a cigarette. ‘I bet he blames me’ I thought to myself. However there was more to these two ladies than met the eye….

 

ROUND TWO

We played a mother and her son for our second round. The mother was so frail and old and had such fine delicate skin that I was sure if I held her up to the light I would be able to see her internal organs. She was a lovely lady and played very well. Her son was equally charming, and very boisterous when he played.  He was, alas, afflicted with very bad halitosis, which meant for every boisterous gesture he made in my direction – and there were many – I got a waft of something that I would politely describe as ‘chemical warfare’. Despite nearly passing out, we won this round comfortably.

That’s Guy, the one who is dressed in white and is looking at me as if he is thinking ‘Why is this fuckwit taking photos?’

ROUND THREE

Another pair of ladies were out penultimate adversaries, they were a great couple and evidently got along with each other well. I noticed a large moth on the wall at one point during the game and pointed this out to them. They reacted as if a giant moth on the wall was commonplace for them and nothing special. However they seemed to treat me – following the moth comment – as though I was ‘special’ (My partner has often pointed out that for many in my village there is a fine line between the ‘village Englishman’ (me) and the ‘village idiot’ (also me in this example). Oh, I was still laughing at that one a few days later, when I left the iron on one of her shirts a little bit too long. And a skirt.)

We lost – by the narrowest of margins – three points* (alright, so technically one point is the narrowest of margins, but you catch my drift).

 

ROUND FOUR

Things get off to a very bad start as I fail to notice what suit we are playing and look at Guy’s face. Obviously looking at people’s faces is frowned upon, as the lady opposite loses her shit and the following exchange takes place:

Her (snappily) : ‘Can you play quicker?’

Me (snappily) : ‘Can you be a bit more patient?’

Her (snappily) : ‘Do You know that I know your partner?’

Me (nonchalantly) : ‘And so?’

Guy (to her): ‘You know me?’

This bit of frosty banter sets the tone for the game and we do not thaw out until the end. We lose, by a hundred-or-so points, and have a bit of a chit chat. It turns out that the lady opposite wasn’t asking me to be quicker – she thought I was trying to look at Guy’s cards, and so suspected us of cheating (or trying to anyway). In hindsight probably a good thing that I just thought she was telling me to hurry up. She apologises for her earlier error as during the course of the game she realised that we were not cheating. Cheaters get more points than us.

So the game is finished and the judges duly note the scores and tot up all the totals on the board. The results are as follows:

28th place – Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards would be proud

Some of you may have noticed the letter ‘F’ appearing next to a number of teams. This denotes that the team was all-female. A curious French tradition that, when I query its origins to Guy, he simply replies that it is a ‘curious French tradition’.

We queue up with the others to wait while they receive their prizes, the prize allocation at a concourse de belote generally goes something like this (with flowers included if the players are female, another curious French tradition):

 

1st prize: large piece of meat

2nd prize: slightly smaller piece of meat

3rd prize: slightly smaller piece of meat

 

and so on. Oh and if you come in last place you get the following:

 

Last place: a little bit of meat

 

This is where you wait to collect your prize – not pictured, large fridges full of meat.

 

We notice that the winning team – 20F – were the ladies that obliterated us in the first round. Something that still smarts for Guy. He gets chatting about them to a chap in front of us while we wait to receive our consolation prize. Turns out they were cheating. ‘They kept touching each other under the table’ he says, looking around in case they hear him ‘With their feet’. I’m about to suggest that maybe they are just ‘good friends’, but then he tells us they did it the week before too and are apparently ‘well known’ for it.

I ask Guy why they don’t just get banned for it, but he doesn’t know. I personally can’t see the point in playing a game and then cheating, it is a hollow victory after all. But then maybe that’s because I’m just not all that fussed about winning a lot of meat. I just enjoy the game.

We collect our prize* and head off into the sunset. I think I’ve done alright, and held my own.

And, due to the fact that he waits for me to get in the car before driving off in it, I think Guy thinks I’ve done alright as well.

 

 

*It’s a bag full of meat

‘Fêtes franco-écossaises d’Aubigny’ AKA The Scottish Festival…

Tags

Culture, France, French, funny, History, Humor, Humour, photography, Photos, Scotland, Scottish

Each year my village celebrates the ‘Auld Alliance’ that exists between Scotland and France. We are the last village in the country to keep this tradition going – I don’t know why the other slackers dropped out, maybe they fell out with Scotland?

So each year hordes of Scottish people (usually around 30, does that constitute a horde?) and various people from across the globe descend on our sleepy village to make a lot of noise to commemorate this historic link. The festival runs for three days and three nights, starting on the Friday and finishing up on the Sunday.

There are a variety of activities that go on – traditional methods of making shoes, tools and armour are displayed. Feats of strength such as caber tossing and wrestling sit alongside sword-fighting and archery displays.

There were even dogs pulling barrels full of booze this year.

I did not ask if the dogs drank any of it, this is France so they probably did though.

I always take loads of pictures, and that’s what this blog will feature. There will be lots of men in kilts, so if you don’t like that I’d stop reading now.

On the plus side though, at least you can’t hear the bagpipes. I could. They are bloody awful things if you ask me.

I kept that to myself though over the course of the festival…

So now you are thinking to yourself ‘Where’s the dog pulling the barrel full of booze? He said there’d be a dog pulling a barrel full of booze, but I didn’t see a dog pulling a barrel full of booze, did you Clive?’ ‘Eh…err, no I didn’t Shirley’.

So just for my imaginary readers Shirley and Clive here is a dog pulling a barrel full of booze:

The Strange Food Contest…

Tags

cultural differences, Culture, England, English, food, France, French, funny, Humor, uk

 

We were sat outside in the fading light, enjoying a delicious meal at a local restaurant. I was busy shovelling a fruits de mer pizza into my mouth.

As another tentacle disappeared into my gob, my French friend commented on the contents of my meal: ‘English people eat some strange things’.

I looked at him, the setting sun glinting off my dark brown eyes.

I made the universal sound for a horse.

I made the universal sound for a frog.

I couldn’t make the universal sound for a snail as I’d forgotten about that one. Plus they aren’t very noisy.

Ha! I thought to myself, let’s see what my French pal comes back with now.

‘You know’ a voice piped up from my right ‘They eat crisp sandwiches in the UK’.

I looked at the owner of the voice, it was none other than the mother of my children, the light of my life, my moon and stars. Et tu Brute?

She then went on to describe, at length, how one makes a crisp sandwich, to the astonishment of my friend.

He looked at me aghast, asking with his eyes is this was true.

I held his gaze and said ‘The bread’s got to be white’, his mouth already yawning open, now stretched even further, coming within touching distance of the table.

‘And my favourite flavour is salt and vinegar*’ I added, without batting an eyelid.

I may have just lost a French friend.

 

*Actually it’s a toss-up between Seabrook’s Salt and Vinegar or Pickled Onion Flavour Monster Munch, but I think there are things that some people’s minds just can’t cope with.

Really Dodgy And Inappropriate Advertising On Kids’ Go Karts In France…

Tags

Advertising, Cigarettes, Driving, France, French, funny, Humor

We came across the following go-karts on a day out to see one of the many lighthouses on the il d’Oleron during our holiday. They were on one of those unmanned tracks where they just leave the karts and it’s up to you to insert the required 2 Euros for upwards of two minutes of mild amusement for the kids.

The first one, as you can see, is littered with lots of almost-but-not-quite official sponsors, see if you can spot them all:

I particularly liked ‘Tec Tyc’ because when I think of racing, I think of Tic Tacs.

That was really amusing though, but I found the next one not so funny:

There’s no dodgy, knock-off attempts made here. If you put your 2 Euros in this baby, your child will soon be riding round the track advertising one of the world’s most popular brands of cigarettes, with no ambiguity whatsoever.

What’s the message here? Start them young?

France eh? You’ve got to love it.

I Still Love Hunting For Crabs Under Rocks, Because I’m Just A Big Kid Really…

Tags

Crabs, France, funny, holidays, Humor, kids, photography, Sealife, stay-at-home Dad

This is the equivalent of finding a ten pound note to me – albeit one that you can’t spend, and can’t keep either. Alright, bad analogy.

 

Ever since I can remember rock pools have fascinated and attracted me. Those areas that trap a bit of sea water and contain so much life, a tiny little microcosm of the ocean. Of particular interest are the rocks themselves, because upon lifting them up they generally reveal a bounty of treasures: crabs.

I bloody love crabs.

Not eating them though, if I’m honest, never really developed a taste for them. But seeing them revealed, under a rock, and then scuttling away or – even more entertaining – seeing me as a threat and holding their claws aloft (just like the crabs in Finding Nemo).

This appetite for uncovering these crustacean critters has spread to my kids, and especially to my son.

I’ve always known he loved these crab-hunting trips, but it really came to the fore during our recent trip to Ile d’Oleron, a beautiful island off the west coast of France. We spent a lovely week there – well, after the first three days of rain had buggered off anyway – and pretty much from day one my son was pestering me to take him crab hunting.

I love when you find something that you have in common with your kids and, if I’m being honest, I was probably having more fun than they were. I was definitely having more fun than my partner – their mum – anyway. As evidenced on the many occasions when she would sigh ‘Come on! It’s tea time, let’s go!’ and we would slowly, slowly head back towards her, stopping to collect shells, or look under more rocks as her face got longer, and longer.

We didn’t just discover crabs though, my son and I, as the following photographs show. I won’t even try to pretend to know what some of these things are, they just look bizarre. I will tag them with what I think they are but, as I’m no marine biologist, apologies if I’m wrong.

I can say with absolute certainty that this is a crab.

 

Claws aloft, ready to bring the pain if I put my fingers near those pincers (I didn’t)

 

An incredibly brave/stupid crab here. Hiding under an excitable 7-year-old’s shoe is not a great idea. Happy to say that both crab and shoe are safe and sound*. (*unless a seagull ate it after we left… the crab I mean, not the shoe, nobody would eat my son’s shoes).

 

This one is a tad smarter, he knows I won’t hurt him, look at how comfy he looks, his face just screams ‘I have found my haven! Hurrah!’. Also he’s definitely a crab. 

 

This one isn’t too clear but that is actually a hermit crab on the rock, in the centre. First one my son had ever seen and, of course, he wanted to keep him. You may notice the lump of slime to the right, but that’s no ordinary lump of slime because it’s… 

 

….a sea slug thingy!!! Yes I can say with absolute vagueness that this is definitely some kind of slug-like sea creature. I thought it was just some inanimate slime at first till it started moving. Funnily enough, my son did NOT want to keep him.

 

The underneath of a limpet (I think), not something we see every day, but they are by far the most popular shell that the kids find on their shell hunts. 

 

Here we see, floating amongst the sea snails, a (drum roll)….possible small jellyfish, or something like that. Definitely not just a piece of floating tissue paper, or a large amount of phlegm, which was my (and your) first thought.

 

Wednesday Fun With The Animals…

Tags

animals, Countryside, Farms, France, fun, Humor, Photos, Relationships

Due to French teachers enjoying a glass of wine (or six) with their dinners to mark the half-way point of their working week, I pick the kids up early on Wednesdays. Our favourite thing to do on this day is to go and feed the animals in one of the local farmer’s fields. I say they are farmers, but to be honest they just might be people who enjoy having massive fields, and then shoving some animals in there.

Wouldn’t surprise me in the least, this is France after all where everybody has at least two or three things with four legs.

So here we head, during the week, just me and the kids. It’s a great, cheap way for them to see some animals up close (just the price of a bit of bread, or fruit) and the livestock have got that used to us that we don’t usually have to call them anymore, they just recognise my son’s mass of curls and come shambling over.

It wasn’t like that to start with, back then I had to rattle my (appropriately named) Asda Bag For Life in the air for a few minutes before I got any response. These days though, they are there like a shot.

It must be the nice bread.

Either that or they’ve realised that if they don’t get over quickly my daughter will eat it all (It’s very nice bread).

They don’t like buns though – we’ve discovered that if you offer buns or cakes to the donkeys or the horse, they’ll eat one then sniff your next offering, with a distinct air of mistrust, and refuse any more sweet baked goods.

Although if the goats are there you won’t have any problems off-loading four-day-old cakes  – they will eat anything.

They’ve even tried to eat my son’s hat a few times.

Either that or they were trying to eat my son.

The road that runs alongside the field is well travelled, and one of the weeks while we were feeding the animals a group of French visitors passed us. They made appreciative ‘cooing’ noises and voiced the opinion that it was great to see something like this: a bit of country life in the middle of a city.

I wouldn’t call where we live a city in a million years – but I got their point.

It’s great to be able to open your door on a morning and see ducks, geese and chickens roaming in the fields (and even the odd cow from time to time). And being able to throw on some clothes and be able to feed horses, donkeys and goats within five minute’s walk is also something I don’t think you can put a price on.

The kids love it and it’s such a thing to see, these giant beasts, taking food from their hands in a very delicate manner – as if they know they are small and fragile.

That lasts right up to when one of the goats or sheep get too close, then the horse or the donkeys lose their shit and chase them away. We love feeding them, but there’s definitely a hierarchy going on here – and the sheep and goats are definitely below the horse and his donkey buddies.

So yes, a great activity for me and the kids on a Wednesday.

Oh and if you thought we only fed them when the sun’s shining on a glorious day like today…

 

….you’d be wrong! Nothing stops our Wednesday fun!

Running With My Son…

Tags

Family, kids, love, Relationships, school

 

Every day we do this son.

 

You look at me, your eyes glinting with fun.

 

‘My bag’s too heavy Daddy’ you say with a grin.

 

Then you pass me your bag and head off, eager to win.

 

You know it will slow me, and give you a head-start.

 

And so I grudgingly shoulder your burden, as you depart.

 

Every day we have a race across the park, to your school.

 

Every day you ‘win’, I let you, but that’s cool.

 

Because your legs are getting longer, your lungs stronger as well.

 

And soon you’ll really be the winner, that much I can tell.

 

So for now I’ll just treasure these mornings we share.

 

Running after your little legs, laughing together, not having a care.

 

Other parents watch us, as we race through the grass.

 

Or they move out of our way, happy to let us pass.

 

It’s our thing, our ritual, our little bit of fun.

 

We do it in all weathers, but I prefer the sun.

 

Because seeing you running, your golden hair lit up by its rays.

 

Will live with me forever, till the end of my days.