Apologies for the slightly tardy posting.

….I think it’s safe to say that I may have over egged my own marathon training pudding. Last week I struggled round 20km having previously only ever run 13km, so this week, having forgotten quite how wrecked I had been last week, I decided that there was no reason under the sun that I couldn’t increase that by 50% and run 30km.

All was going well until about 25km (apart from an unscheduled piss stop à la français) when I suddenly experienced quite extraordinary buttock cramping and had to stop for some stretching. This seemed to do the trick and I struggled on for another couple of km but it cam back and got worse – I made it round in the end but I guess I walked about 2km out of the last 5 which was quite annoying.

Suffice to say that I think I have reached my own personal tipping point re running. I have been unable to find a 40km route that a) I don’t get lost measuring out or b) doesn’t resemble scaling the north face of the Eiger, I take this as God’s way of telling me to stop running such ridiculously long distances (apart from anything else, yesterday’s run took over three hours. Even setting off at 7.45am meant it was almost lunchtime by the time I got home).

In other news this week we spent some time with one of Moraig’s Pilates clients who teaches interior design in a college in London to try and get some understanding of that market sector for the (mighty) DrawBox – most enlightening it was too and I think I have come up with a business plan which, unfortunately, means a lot more work for no discernible immediate revenue….nothing new there then.

The music means nothing in and of itself but is just a band (actually Matt Sweet from Southampton) I have been listening to recently..and jolly good they are too.

Finally in honour of the demise of the Olympics, a never before seen shot of the Serbia v Albania women’s water polo quarter final

Firstly apologies for our lack of blog last week. We blame entirely our guests, who made us drink copious amounts of alcohol which rendered us incapable of blogging.

This weeks blog finds us waving farewell to our guests and emerging from the holiday mist that has pleasantly distracted our progress at Jargeaille over the last few weeks. Sitting at the computer typing this I am reminded of the list of tasks waiting impatiently to be completed by the malodorous aroma seeping through my plasic pipework sytem. Evidently one of the more pressing tasks is to fit a more substantial U bend on the dishwasher which currently allows septic tank fumes directly back into the kitchen. It’ll take five minutes……or so.

The time spent visiting the UK and receiving visitors from the UK was indeed an agreeable distraction but now we are back into work mode I feel revitalised and brimming with enthusiasm to get some progress made. The great wall of Jargeaille is complete and now fully adorned with beams and floorboards and actually looking like a first floor. We have plans to get the last stage of the stable concrete laid this weekend and Roz will start putting together the plans for the garage extension we are considering this week. My guess is she will be calling in to see Helen who is hugely experienced a slashing through the jungle of red tape attached to this sort of project.

Roz’s parents were our last visitors and they made for very easy guests and also made themselves very useful around the place. ( Tip for anyone moving over to France, only invite people over who you know you can extract a decent days work from…loafers are no good to anyone!!) Roz’s mum Kathy said (foolishly) “how can we help“? It occurred to me that the things that would be of greatest use would be the things that Roz and I never have the time ( more likely inclination) to do. Thanks to Kathy we can now see out of our windows and walking across the floor doesn’t sound as if you are crunching across a gravelled car park. The flower beds are now discernible from the lawn and Rob spent a good part of his five days with us helping me position beams and when not doing this he found himself emptying bottles and cans into the recycling system . I think they enjoyed their stay!

Last nights mission was one more fraught and dangerous than most we undertake at Chez Harris. We had to wage war against the dreaded Hornet, known as Frelon over here. These beasties are big and bullish. They sting with great venom and sound like Apache helicopters in flight. In short they are nasty bastards. They have had the temerity to build a nest in our new stable block and the constant stream of them leaving and returning to the nest would make the concreting session pretty dangerous so they had to go. Roz’s mum was very concerned about us tackling this ourselves and generously offered to foot the bill for a professional, suitably equipped, to come and exterminate them. I knew this made sense but the thought of spending 75 euros on that when there are so many other things we could spend it on spurred me and (perhaps not entirely) Roz, into committed action. Roz went to the garden centre and for 20 euros bought some horrifically unpleasant chemical in a self dispensing can which assured us it would instantly “commit a violent act” and “strike down” the Frelon. Sounded good to me. This clever little can came with a long flexible tube and a bracket so you could A) fix it to where it needed to be, B) insert the tube via a tiny hole directly into the nest and C) run away quickly. Roz was in charge of this part of the assault while I was outside with another fire extiguisher type propellant of equal chemical toxicity. Clad in long coats, hats, gloves and in my case , my chain saw helmet with full face visor down ( probably a bit OTT) we set out to battle.

On the count of three we launched a co-ordinated strike. Roz set off her internal bomb and I blasted away like Rambo from the outside where the blighters were coming and going. All was going well until I heard the familiar drone of an approaching Frelon, who was probably just randomly fleeing his nest. I , however, was convinced that he had singled me out as the aggressor and he was just the first of a thousand who were now coming to get me. Panic rose and all traces of Rambo vanished as I ran away like a little girl, flapping my arms and squealing. We haven’t been back to the stable yet to assess our strike but Im keeping fingers crossed. Kathy will be relieved to know we are both still alive and well!

“I always turn to the sports pages first, which records people’s accomplishments. The front page has nothing but man’s failures.” – Earl Warren

This week, between working like a horse and sleeping like a donkey I have been glued to the Olympics. Due to the British medal success I have found myself watching events that would never have appealed to me. Kayaking, Handball, Fencing have all been on in our house in the hope that I might see our medal count rise even higher. Its really tickled me how when we win a medal, a Scottish competitor is British, whereas when they lose they are once again Scottish. The union of the United Kingdom is a very fragile thing indeed.

Watching Usain Bolt sweeping the sprinting medal board has been truly inspirational too. Its like watching a negative of me as a youth. (on fast forward). I think most people will remember this Olympics for a long time (well maybe four years) especially after the Cuban Taekwondo competitor kicked the referee in the head yesterday after being disqualified. It really is worth seeking out the footage of this on Youtube.

Watching all of this sport has inspired me to play squash four times this week. As a result I can feel my fitness coming back and whilst my hamstrings are as tight as banjo strings, I am no longer walking like C3PO the following day. The problem is that my wife Mel keeps beating me at squash which would be fine were it not for the fact that I can’t stand losing at anything. I’ve thrown my racket down more times than I care to remember and have spat my dummy out on each occasion. I really should learn to lose with dignity instead of sulking for two days but I’m worried that if the Federation of Men find out that I’ve been beaten five consecutive times by a woman I may get kicked out.

This afternoon I’m off to watch the latest episode of the Soap Opera called Manchester City. It seems that our disgraced, exiled fugitive of a Chairman has finally run out of money and the neon “Crisis” sign is once again lit up outside our stadium.  I’m in the coporate box, courtesy of a supplier at work so I’ll be joining the prawn sandwich brigade which means I’ll have to temper my usual anglo-saxon outbursts.

News from France is that all of the gas pipework we had done last year will have to be re-done as it was done to English rather than French regulations. I won’t rant on about it (unlike last week) as I’m done with feeling brassed off with people who really couldn’t care less.

We’re due a weeks holiday there at the end of September so we need to get this sorted out so that we don’t freeze to death in the evenings. Either that or I’ll spend an inordinate amount of time chopping wood with the chain saw which isn’t my idea of a relaxing break and given my practical ineptitude also has a certain element of danger to it.

Our friends are over at our house in France and in between thunderstorms are apparently having a wonderful time. They said that the weather outlook is much better for next week which probably means it’ll rain for a week when we get there. I don’t care, we’re ready for a break and we’re counting down the days already.

Jack Russell George wont be traveling with us this time as we are flying over. He’s been a dream dog over the last month or so and we’re beginning to think we’ve cracked it. However, he cant stay on prozac for the rest of his life so we’re not getting complacent about whats ahead. With the torrid weather we’ve had this summer in the UK he’s developed a new obsession – lying down in deep puddles in the park. I’ll try and post a photo next week, if I can get the embedding to work but he really is becoming a fully fledged swamp dog.

This means that keeping the house clean is proving to be a nightmare but at least he looks happy.

….and finally the tables are starting to turn.

You may think this week’s musical snippet may seem to have little relevance to anything (as is usually the case), you could not be further from the truth. This week I have decided that there is far too much pussy footing around on my marathon training programme and that there is no need to take so long to build up to the 26 mile mark. So this week, having run 8 miles last week, I decided running a half marathon was the appropriate incremental increase.

I duly set off at 7.30am this morning (even a Limousin summer seems fiendishly hot when you have been pounding the streets for an hour) and made my first mistake. We have various circuits we run which start and end at the house, two of these are 3 miles and 5 miles. I decided to combine the two and then run the 5 mile again at the end. It transpires there is a huge psychological block about running what are, effectively, laps. Approaching the end of the first eight miles I was frantically trying to come up with reasons for not doing the five mile circuit again. If you just run seven miles away from the house then you have no choice but to run back again.

Fortunately after eight miles Moraig met me on her bike equipped with water bottles and cycled in front of me for the last circuit to help keep me going. This may all sound overly dramatic but it was extremely tough.

In my time, amongst other things, I have faced West Indian Test team opening bowlers, been held up a gunpoint in a betting shop in Brixton and teetered upside down in a crashed jeep on the edge of a cliff in Thailand – I would happily relive any of those experiences rather than feel the pain (and really rather unpleasant chafing) I felt towards the end of that run this morning.

Still, ‘tis done – in an appalling time of 2 hours 5 minutes – I have renewed respect for the likes of Paula ‘Bobhead Pisspants’ Radcliffe who runs twice the distance more than twice as fast.

Sadly I am far too buggered to go and see Wreckless Eric and Amy Rigby (who is on of Moraig’s Pilates classes) perform at the Lawrence d’Arabie (“Hello Chalus, let’s rock”) tonight before they go on tour. Judging from the last time we saw them, I think it will be a top night out with more than a light drizzling of swearwords – always good value.

Oh, and the song was one of a few uplifting (at least I find them uplifting) tunes on the iPod that helped get me through some tough hills.

18 miles next week – arse.

Helen tells me her internet is down and is therefore unable to post tonight…..harumph.

The day hasn’t gone well today in the respect of work – but hey it is August in France so what can you expect.
The aperatifs of last night didn’t end for Matt, Tim and Alfie until 4am. Lucy, me and the kids fared better going to bed at 1am after a couple of bottles of San Pellegrino which helped to dilute the god knows how many litres of Cotes de Rhone Villages we drank ( very palatable and only 1€ quelque from Lidl!). When I got up this morning the kitchen table was bursting with suspicious looking alcoholic delights which haven’t seen the outside of the cupboard for many a year – including a bottle of eau de vie from our old next door neighbour about 11 years ago, lychee liqueur, Amaretto and the ever popular Gentiane (which we’ve had since arriving in France and which we haven’t managed to palm off on anyone to this day).
As can be imagined there were a few of the party a little worse for wear this morning but Matt’s mixed grill fry-up helped – sans carbs obviously. Tim and Lucy finally left at 2pm as the boys had tennis lessons in St Yrieix at 4pm and since that time I seem to have done nothing except make a curry, dahl and a chocolate cake ( and that out of a packet) but the weather hasn’t been conducive to much else today and despite being less wet hasn’t really improved since we woke to storms and torrential rains this morning.
Anyway back to Tuesday and day 2 of the holiday:
We left at 10.30ish to meet Nicki and Martin in the village where they are buying their house, passing through Orange first to have a look there, and then met for lunch in a restaurant where we had a lovely meal outside on the terrace.
Having met the owner of the house and looked around it for an hour or so before they left to go on holiday we went to Seguret ( that may or may not be correctly spelt) one the prettier Rhone villages where we had to stop for a drink and ice cream immediately after the 100m walk uphill out of the car park via a road of the most impossible gradient.
Back to Nyons and to the outdoor pool with the kids for a couple of hours and then to the house in time for aperitifs. Luckily we managed to make it back just in time as almost directly afterwards an enormous storm broke out with horrific rain. Things were so bad that for a moment it almost looked as if we were going to have to stay in and eat the pathetic array of food which Matt and I had bought from the little Casino on the way back from the pool in case no one could be bothered to go out again. I think what we actually came home with - tagliatelli, some dodgy olives, a jar of Organic ratatouille and bag of nougat – would have been a challenge to the most inventive chef and thankfully by 9pm the storm had passed and we all legged it for the door, in an attempt to escape the still life of horror waiting in the middle of the table.
All of the restaurants in the back streets were shut because of flooding. There was a lot of mop action going on around the doorways and buckets on tables catching leaks centimetres from peoples plates. We eventually ended up at the same restaurant at which we had eaten the night before. They do a very nice Caesar salad. Even better the kids found friends there and played football in the square all night. Perfick

Well we’re back, after 6 days down south and nothing’s changed much this end – the weather’s pretty much as we left it (changeable) and I’ve just been shopping for stuff for – aperitifs this evening!…..the social whirl just spins on as if we’ve never been away.
Brief resumé of the holiday then in between nibbles manufacture:
We left Monday for Nyons where Nicki’s (our friend who’s buying a house near Orange with her partner Martin) mum and dad have a house. Very nice town with an outdoor swimming pool with slides etc; 3 € enterance for kids, 4€ for adults or half price after 5.30pm. We were forced to buy speedos, for Etienne, at the ludicrously inflated price of 12€ from the shop there as he only had shorts. Note to anyone trying to get into a French swimming pool with anything other than your old fashioned trunks – don’t bother! We tried to stay as long as possible in order to get our moneys worth but as we didn’t arrive until 5pm and it started storming at 6pm we weren’t hugely successful.
The house is situated at the top of the village and the cobbled streets leading up to it are so narrow and steep it’s impossible to park anywhere near to the house so the first half an hour was spent ferrying quilts and bags to and fro. Highly reminiscent of the film ‘The Hill’ with Sean Connery with the simple replacement of sand for cobbles and Sean Connery for Matt. The five minute walk into town was absolutely exhausting but as Nicki’s parents manage it and they are nearly 90yrs old we couldn’t be seen to be defeated.
On day two we went to look at the lavender distillerie which is right in the centre of the town pumped out lavender fumes from a huge chimney stack out all day long. Whilst we were sat around the pool the first afternoon we thought that the town was on fire and that only we had noticed
Trip to the little Casino in town to stock up on wine and then the daunting walk back up the cobbled streets – although now, having done it almost twice we were old hands at it and knew when to stop and try to recuperate before the hellish hill to the house.
Aperatifs – obviously whilst watching the storm and then yet another walk into town to eat at one of the pavement restaurants in the square where we both plumped for the entrecote with Roquefort sauce and the kids were saddled with the menu enfant of steak hache and frites. Such is life.
Anyway talking of food I think I can hear a car and the arrival of people expecting wonders on cocktail sticks.
Whatever else is on there it won’t have anything to do with carbohydrates. I’ve been reading an article today in the Sunday Times about the ‘Arthur’ diet – like the Atkins but with more fruit and veg and less fat. We shall see how long that lasts….

I was thinking about Neils post from earlier in the week, a cautionary note to people considering a move to France. Wise words indeed and given Mel and I plan to move to France in the next few years when Project Petrocelli is complete, it comes as welcome advice. Earning money in the UK is relatively easy, even in todays financial climate but its easy to forget that the macro economic picture is diametrically different in rural France.

Its making me think in more detail and forcing me to ask myself questions. How much do we need to make the move? How much do we need in the bank? How much income would our holiday business generate? What else could we do to make ends meet?

Given that we have now taken our UK house off the market due to the credit crunch and and given how far we still have to go to complete our project, these are questions that we can spend some considerable time asking ourselves. My background is in IT and sales but I think I’ve developed good all round business skills. Mels background is in nursing but that’s a career that she would like to leave behind when we finally make the move. We think we can make enough to exist from the holiday business but I know that to truly survive or preferably thrive we’ll have to either do something else in France or occasionally return to the UK to top up the coffers as a number of people do.

I was thinking about the different contributors to this site. Kevins background is in e-commerce and web design, Neil’s background in carpentry and joinery, Helen and Matt in construction and development. There must be enough opportunities for everyone to make a living. Perhaps Kevin could design a web site, Neil and Matt could build it out of wood and stone and I could sell it…….or something.

In the meantime, the world of Corporate IT rumbles on unabated. I was away for three days in Ireland and having worked unbelievably hard for two days (and nights) preparing for a presentation to a client we treated ourselves to a night in Limerick on Tuesday. Its true what they say about Guinness tasting nicer in Ireland and I personally checked this theory several times to make sure. Perhaps its just the context, i.e the lovely pubs that feel like someones front room (and probably are after closing time) or perhaps it’s the lovely views of rugged terrain or the friendly people that inhabit it.  By midnight I’d decided that it was all of those things plus a successful two days of hard work that had made it taste so nice.

Thankfully a last minute change of venue meant that I didn’t have to face the embarrassment of revisiting my Hotel of shame. Instead, we stayed at the Raddison which was also the temporary home of the band Kasabian who were playing various dates in Ireland. They are big favourites in our house so it was really nice to meet them, though the rendition of the theme tune to Scooby Doo that they sang over and again in the bar is not something I shall be investing my money in.

I got back on Wednesday to the horrendous news that a plumber we had contacted through our friend Julie in France had been killed on his motorbike on the way to meet her at our house, where he was due to give us a quote for connecting our new gas tank. Horrible news and our thoughts are definitely with his family and with Julie who is naturally in shock.

Had the original English plumber done his job properly and not done a runner part way through the job, we would never have needed to get anyone else out. The guy (part man, part neanderthal) knows who he is and I should probably leave it at that. (though I doubt he’ll be reading this due to a lack of pictures).

Bradley Wiggins (extraordinary cyclist) has become known as Chief Wiggum in our household, hence the title of this post. I think you will see the resemblance.

Today I watched Usain Bolt run very very fast. I have to say there was a pang of guilt when I drove to the supermarket immediately afterwards for tonight’s Graves offering at tonight’s free meal from friends (hurrah), it is only 200m away but wine and chicken makes a heavy load.

Today will hopefully be my last blog offering for a while as I am hoping the Bradbury’s are returning this weekend….I have a lot more respect for Helen’s efforts having written ridiculously little all week. I have been looking at other blogs not only to flagrantly nick stuff but becuase some of them are quite good. I can recommend ‘Chase me, ladies, I’m in the cavalry’ as long as you don’t mind appalling language. I especially like his recent positng regarding the death of Alexander Solzenetc.

Champion bore Alexander Solzhenitsyn has died.
They made us read his Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich when I was at school. It’s about some gloomy Russian guy in a labour camp in Siberia, who goes on and on about a spoon he hid in his boot. That’s pretty much all that happens. Our English teacher asked what the spoon represented and the class dunderhead said it symbolised the lack of cutlery under Stalin.

Miserable bloody Russian. Everyone was glad to see the back of him.

Tomorrow sees another day of idleness planned, watching Team GB win yet more medals, interspersed with the occasional portion of roast chicken and perhaps the merest hint of cauliflower cheese. I may do some work but I may not….who knows.

I also think people are worrying too much about the polar bears

and finally….one for Julie

Little Berwyn Dafydd-Anwell was in his junior school class when the teacher asked the children what their fathers did for a living. All the typical answers came up;-
Fireman, policeman, salesman, politician; Berwyn was being uncharacteristically quiet and so the teacher asked him about his father.
“My father’s an exotic dancer in a gay club and takes off all his clothes in front of other men. Sometimes, if the offer’s really good, he’ll go out with a man, rent a cheap room and let them shag him.”
The teacher hurriedly set the other children to work on some colouring and then took little Berwyn aside.

“No,” said Berwyn, “My father plays rugby for Wales, but I was just too embarrassed to say”.

I realise it is probably poor form to laugh at the 3rd world struggles of Africa and it’s various bloody internecine struggles towards the birth pains of fledgling democracies but really…..soldiers of Liberia…sort yourselves out.

Another jam packed day of fun and frolics. An early 13km run was followed by a (mighty) DrawBox director’s conference call (nowhere near as important or indeed useful as it sounds), a light lunch of scrambled egg, bacon, grilled tomato and sautéed potatoes….it’s not all about health.
Work in the afternoon and a quick tour around the region looking for houses ‘à vendre’ for my good lady wife to hoover up and mandate (in reality I was also looking out for any kind of shop that was both open and sold booze, today being yet another public holiday and the house being fresh out of wine.) In fact this week has been inordinately healthy, not a drop of alcohol has passed my lips since Sunday evening - I am planning on making up for it this evening - not that the people who have invited us for dinner know this.

One of Moraig’s Pilates clients gave her a bag of haricot verts from her veggie garden yesterday. She was nochalantly munching on one of them when a french Pilates client came in…..”Non, non!” she apparently wailed “you must cook them…..you know, they are a vegetable…you can eat them with meat” - sadly I wasn’t there or I would have added “…and suchlike” which would have made me laugh enormously.
Now, this is a 38 year old french teacher…..it is slightly peturbing to ponder on what utter dolts some of these french people must think we are. I can understand one of the wizened crones in the village feeling she needed to explain the mysteries of brer bean to me, not that I would be listening, but did this woman think my wife had never seen vegetables….she is south african I suppose.

Finally (as if to prove what a bunch of twats we, or more specifically, what a bun (singular of bunch) of twat I am) if anyone is looking for an early Xmas present for me - please see below. They are, I believe, the only jeans designed to be worn whilst kicking someone in the face…under $20 for all that exposed gusset action - please, what a bargain.

….oh and thank you for the two entries in the Jesus’ cock caption competition - sadly today is a public holiday so no booze is available.