Bonjour. Je suis en France. A Barbancais, en fait. Aujourd'hui, it fait chaud.

And that is sadly as far as my French goes. At least without fear of inaccuracy. As Siobhan said cheerily as we scampered through Paris, my French is rusty.

I spent Friday night in Paris with the aforementioned lady and we drank kir royale and strolled along the banks of the Seine. On Saturday, I set sail for Figeac, location of a friend's wedding. Sunday was the ceremony itself. The sun shone, the bride was blissful, the speeches heartfelt and everyone was happy. And Monday, I came up the country a little au maison du Brian.

Since arrival, I have done almost nothing. Except eat, drink, read and make a little polite conversation. My one brave attempt at activity ended in disaster as I got lost and Brian had to come and rescue me as I had rambled too arbitrarily and inattentively over quaint rural pathways. Today we enjoyed the eggs of the hens of The Woman Who Lives Opposite, scrambled for lunch. I'm typing away on Brian's laptop with the front door flung wide to the deserted lane outside with a soundtrack of a hundred birds cheeping and one strident cockerel, perhaps in the barn of The Woman Who Lives Opposite, shrieking for attention.

I feel a life of idleness in the country would suit me well.

But instead tomorrow I return to a life of frantic activity in the city. Ah me.