tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58188436094871774612024-02-07T09:33:42.357+01:00THE ADVENTURES OF UN PEU LOUFOQUE“The Adventures of Un Peu Loufoque” are the humorous tales of the life of the Loufoque household, a family of some social standing living in central Brittany at some time during the two world wars. Dates are a trifle vague, as are many things about Un Peu Loufoque. The stories tell the daily trials and tribulations of a well brought up innocent abroad in the world.Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-66885729230803048442011-09-21T08:10:00.003+01:002011-09-21T08:12:52.953+01:00The feast of the Assumption or the need for a breathe of fresh air<a href="http://www.franceway.com/regions/bretagne/g-coiffe.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 431px; height: 343px;" src="http://www.franceway.com/regions/bretagne/g-coiffe.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">What should have been, as was predicited a hot summer, festered and died and we are left with an early autumn and a pervading dampness that blots out any hope of sunshine from our lives. Due to the long and rather unaccounted absence of the Chief Pattiseur who it would appear has developed an unsavoury compulsion to seek out the secrets of the perfect cheese tart , The reluctant children and I were forced ,by propriety and our elevated postion of social standing in the community, to go forth amongst the masses and represent the Loufoque family for the fete of the 15<sup>th</sup> August, the day when our Lady was assumed into heaven and the greatest feast of the Breton calendar. Normally one hopes for a fine hot day so that at least some of the festivities are able to be performed in the open air but alas and most vexaciously this year a slight drizzle and dark clouds meant the entire commune were trapped like sardiness in a tin within the confines of the chapel of St Cenyyd through out the long and tedious service.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">The Breton peasants have always in my experience been somewhat lacking in even the most basic skills when it comes to the genteel matter of personal hygene and cleanliness. The men when they marry are given 12 shirts one for each month of the year, made by thier dear mothers coarse and work worn hands from linen grown on their own land, this affords them one shirt a month which is worn for that entire month then according to Madame Grognonne ,who is somewhow privy to such matters, discarded in a corner until washday, where one presumes resident mice cats and rats make themselves at home, and the dirty shirt is replaced with a clean one. Washing is done once a year at the village lavoire when the women trundle thier dirty linen in a wheel barrow and spend the day scrubbing and gossiping and, one presumes, praying for fine weather so that the wet and relativley clean washing may be dried on the hedges and bleached in the sun. Sadly this only applies to the linen, the black velvet and heavy formal dresses and clothing of thier traditional attire has it would appear to make do with a rub down with a damp cloth and a brisk brush. This may work wonders to dislodge the dust of summer and mud of winter but I can assure you that it does nothing to dislodge the smell of stale sweat and the sour aroma of clothes dried inadequietly due to inclement weather conditions.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">St Cenydd if you are not aware was a rather disadvantaged and unattractive child with some sort of bodily deformity which led his father, rahter sensibly I feel, to set him adrift in a wicker basket of some sort persuambly in the hope of never having to see him agian. God being renowned through out history for having a rather obtuse sense of humour guided the little basket to the shores of an island where the birds and a rather unlikley breast shaped bell fed him and kept him alive on a diet of milk bread and rice until he grew up to be a hermit, his father on repenting prayed to God for his body to be cured however Cenydd like ungrateful ofspring everywhere, objected strongly and decided to remain a hermit on his island thus enjoying the company of birds and avoiding having to spend assumtpion day surrounded by the unpleasant and all pervading aroma of damp clothes and incontinent elderly and infants villagers. How he managed to become a saint I am uncertain but I suspect God rewarded him for his comon sense of choosing rice pudding and that of the company of seaguls to cheap cider and Breton peasants.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">It eas not a day a care to remember with much joy. My only concillation through out the entire ordeal was the knowledge that the clergyman officiating at the service was none other than he whom had comsumed far too much of our cider than was good for him at his last visit to the Loufoque household and whose intestines appeared some weeks later to be still suffering rather unpleasant after shocks. His sermon was thus mercifully short and I was accorded the pleasure of keeping him corned in the cloisters after mass and engaging him in appropriately banal and long winded conversation regarding the health of the poor of the parish whilst watching his face contort and his limbs twitch in an obvious desire to escape with the utmost speed possible to avail himself of the nearest convenience Having allowed sufficient time for madame Grognonne to have prepared a decent repas for the family and feelign thsat the unfortunate priest had deonhis penance for the day I bid him aduie and left him to scurry unceremonoiusly off with the upmost haste to a place where he could safely releive himself in relative privacy which was in this case a rather uncomfortable yet conveniently planted abundance of goarse bushes. Well they do say God will provide do they not ?</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">...................................................................................................................................................................</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; "><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; ">The photograph shows a group of young Breton housewives watching despondently the gloomy horizon in the forlorn hope of a break in the clouds so that they may dash home, grab their wheel barrow full of dirty linen and rush off to wash it before the next storm clouds appear.</p>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-87729841120362716842011-08-08T13:19:00.001+01:002011-08-08T13:30:01.768+01:00<a href="http://www.paradoxplace.com/Photo%20Pages/UK/Britain_Centre/Coddington/Images/Weathervane-Nov09-D0973sAR.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 450px; height: 636px;" src="http://www.paradoxplace.com/Photo%20Pages/UK/Britain_Centre/Coddington/Images/Weathervane-Nov09-D0973sAR.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-size: 16pt">The first of August has arrived and with it all the glory of the season that one may expect n Brittany. We have had fierce winds and torrential rain and the famers are fighting to get the grain in before it is ruined. With all this comes the mud, only yesterday poor Loic had to be dug from the pottager when his wooden leg sunk in the potato patch, I am forever warning him of the foolhardiness of venturing out into the potager wearing his dibber attachement on his leg when the ground is soft. If he goes too near the edge of the pond we may have to launch the boat to retrieve him. It is al very vexacious. </span> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">
<br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-size: 16pt">The boys friend has had to return home unexptedly to his parents after an unfortunate incident involving his slipping from the top of the roof whilst attempting to hoist a pair of madame Grognonnes capacious under garments on to the cockeral weather vain as part of some boyish prank, luckily none of the slates were broken but the boy will ,I fear , forever walk with a slight limp.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">
<br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-size: 16pt">Due to the inclement weather no one has been eager to remount the cock and disengage Madame Grognonnes undergarments, thus in the high wind they wave thier voluminous legs above the turret in all thier glory like some salop advertsing her wares. It is far from decorous ,neither is it an attractive edition to the ediface however, my one concillation is that should the village cleryman ever fully recover full control of his bowels after having participated of our rough cider on his last visit ,Madame Grongonnes pantaloons festonned as they are with lace and emblazoned with the Brton Motto <span ><span ><span style="font-style: normal"><span>Cassis tutissima virtus</span></span></span></span> ( virtue is the safest helmet) will be sufficient to enourage him to beat a hasty retreat. </span> </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">
<br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-size: 16pt">There is always the risk that due to their vluminous proportions they may become over inflated by the strong winds and rip the cock right off the roof. The cock was placed thier by the grandfather of Chief Pattiseuir, it is a proud of the symbol of the Loufoque family thus to have it ripped from its rightful place by a pair of oversized knickers would indeed be most unfortunate.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">
<br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-size: 16pt">The Loufoques are inordinately proud of thier cock although heaven only knows why, it is, compared to others I have seen ,a puny specimen and seems to require constant attention in order to keep it erect and in its proper place. Over the years its surface has become pitted and poor loic is forever up there giving it a thorough rub down and polish in order to satisfy the chief Pattiseur. Of Late it has indeed been sadly neglected. One may onlyhope that the wretched thing will meet its end at the hand of madame Grognonnes bloomers and we can continue to live in peace and harrmony without its rather unsightly presence looming above us.</span></p>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-61677138552283269032011-07-29T06:35:00.003+01:002011-07-29T07:05:06.235+01:00In which Un Peu contemplates how God does indeed move in mysterious ways<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXIpQQKThhyphenhyphen-AH2S_vG3ZM51c7tPu7gqRnecZ7stE1au0yVLUv-uf8BP_6Gx5skYm5pxCWMO-R6fPxcwa7-F_Eyj1zIxrRaLmbnPnGo3G-EZoNoCRMIihBfUgkTWeclZYwwXXExEatlc/s1600/breton+peasants.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXIpQQKThhyphenhyphen-AH2S_vG3ZM51c7tPu7gqRnecZ7stE1au0yVLUv-uf8BP_6Gx5skYm5pxCWMO-R6fPxcwa7-F_Eyj1zIxrRaLmbnPnGo3G-EZoNoCRMIihBfUgkTWeclZYwwXXExEatlc/s320/breton+peasants.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634644218949659906" /></a><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>There are times in ones life when one must rise above the mire into which fate has unkindly chosen to jettison ones dreams and whilst dodging the slings and arrows of uncertainty grasp the nettle and seize the day. There are other times when one might be better advised to remain in ones boudoir with the shutters firmly closed and nothing but a bottle of chilled champagne (with a fortifying dash of brandy) for company. Alas, and vexatiously so, I took today, upon awakening, to be the former when in fact it turns out I would have been better served to embrace the latter, however I digress.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>The morning had commenced with promise. Eldest being away visiting friends, the boys gainfully amused attempting to persuade a young school friend who is spending the summer here to jump blindfolded from the stable roof onto the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">haycart</span> below, in an effort to prove to him the theory of gravity. I sat under the fruit trees pondering on whether cowpox might be fatal, and lamenting my ignorance on the fact, when my cogitations were rudely interrupted by the arrival of Madame <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Grognonne</span> bearing news of an unwelcome visitor.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"> <span>France may well be a secular state but <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">unfortunately</span> someone seems to have been remiss in informing the Breton clergy of this singular fact, thus my daily contemplation of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Loics</span> handiwork in the dahlia beds, and my thoughts on bovine health matters was interrupted by the appearance of our local priest , who it it appears, had come to sure up my flagging spirits and liberally refresh his own with a small part of the contents for the well renowned <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">loufoque</span> wine cellar.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span> Good breeding forced me to offer the man some refreshment which, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">comme</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">habitude</span>, he accepted after a barely <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">noticeable</span> hesitation and I sent madame <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Grogonne</span> to the cellars to uncork a bottle. She herself being stoically anti the church since the incident of the veneration of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Loics</span> wooden leg chose to bring him a ceramic pitcher of rough cider , a beverage normally purchased as horse lineament in our household . It is very important to serve this in a small earthenware bowl in true Breton fashion as the cider tends to eat its way through glass within an alarmingly short space of time which can cause all sorts of problems as you may well imagine. The least of which being the dramatic effect of a beverage if drunk too quickly has upon the imbibers bowels.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span>Having drunk his beverage with ill mannered speed my visitor seemed to settle himself to conversation and became quite agitated when I attempted to waylay him with a discussion on saints days and the sanctity of marriage. it appeared he had remembered a prior more pressing engagement. Thus at least I was spared too much of the tiresome clergyman pontifications by his sudden and urgent need to make another call of a more personal nature. I was left therefore in peace to ruminate over the matters I was previously occupied with whilst the priest made a dash for the relative privacy of the open countryside outside the gates of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Loufoque</span> estate clutching his stomach as he ran. It is comforting to know that the church can ,if spurred on, can act swiftly when necessary.</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">…<span>...........................................................................................................................................................</span></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">In order to illustrate the terrible dangers of drink and the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">debilitating</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> effects of cider consumption on he peasant classes the photograph above shows the newly married Claude Marie-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Pommier</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> and his wife Angeline. Claude is 24 whilst his blushing bride is 18 years of age.I think I may rest my case.</span></p>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-77876690697698108632011-07-20T18:55:00.003+01:002011-07-20T19:07:16.402+01:00Un Peu Lost in thought<a href="http://www.canvaz.com/serusier/paul_serusier_18.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 366px; height: 450px;" src="http://www.canvaz.com/serusier/paul_serusier_18.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">It is some time since we have visited Un Peu Loufoque and we find her in changed circumstances. See her, there, under the apple trees , sitting at the small table, her early morning tissaine untouched, Her gaze fixed on something only the heart can see ,her long fingers turning her wedding band , her silk peignoir with its abundant bright and Japanese chrysanthemum design partly hidden by the shawl falling about her shoulders , ill protecting her from the from the early morning chill that the feeble sun can not vanquish. </p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Oblivious and seemingly unobserved, She has the air of a woman made tedious by the world and disinclined to engage its trifle worries any further. She stares out over garden, the box hedged beds of which are laced with bejewelled cobwebs decorated with the diamonds of dewdrops. In the house her children sleep and the servants step quietly about their tasks. Her husband is nowhere to be seen. He has long gone. She is a woman alone.</p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">So then what frightful and vexing events have brought our brave heroine to such a pass, have the wicked but persistent sardine gutters finally had their revenge? Perhaps the fearsome looming shadow of Anck has darkened her household, or is it possibly that Loic ,startled into a fit of frozen animation by something such as the unfortunate backfiring of the lambique still in the outhouse at an inappropriate and inopportune moment, has tumbled from the towering turret above Un peu's long neglected studio, whence he has smashed , like a plummeting stone, through the glass of the hot house several metres below ,thus destroying the melon beds and flattering madame grongoines spiked German helmet in one swift but foul swoop? Who can guess, we shall just I fear have to gird our impatient loins and wait as the story unfolds as no doubt it will in due course....</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">.........................................................................................................................................................................</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The painting is "two breton women sitting under an apple tree" by paul serusier, if you would like to see mroe o f his work<a href="http://www.canvaz.com/painters/serusier1.htm">this online gallery is excellant.</a> Serusier was born in Paris on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span">9 </span><span class="Apple-style-span">November 1864 and was a French painter who was a pioneer of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abstract_art" title="Abstract art" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">abstract art</a> and an inspiration for the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avant-garde" title="Avant-garde" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">avant-garde</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Nabis" title="Les Nabis" style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(6, 69, 173); background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; ">Nabi</a> movement, he moved down to Pont Aven in Brittany in 1880 to become one of Gaugans band of followers.</span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-80392445963484358502009-01-16T15:32:00.002+01:002009-01-16T15:39:21.536+01:00A note from the Author<a href="http://4c.img.v4.skyrock.net/4c8/rouromeo/pics/791822227_small.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 317px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4c.img.v4.skyrock.net/4c8/rouromeo/pics/791822227_small.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The author and translater would like to let it be known that, for the moment at least ,the stories of Un Peu Loufoque household tales and adventures have come to an end. However all is not lost for there are other daubings on the wall in <a href="http://ttheothersideofme.blogspot.com/">http://ttheothersideofme.blogspot.com/</a> if you really can't find anything uplifting to read in your bookshelves may I suggest a short trip there. I belive the number 7 bus travels in that direction and one only has to change at Hornsley. </div><div> </div><div>Insane as ever but not quite Loufoque.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I thank you for your kind indulgence.</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-70336619395868413382008-09-20T13:01:00.010+01:002008-09-20T19:27:28.449+01:00Autumnal musings on a Lions Lunch<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVzJEknhIjo5OlACFUQLv2R8fyOR5mvcEj2_6Iy2d-K4Q1PR9S4xsM1AuEIvG_bzNbcMeEIynmVmVyOfsj0tGdve7-LnvdTu4b3lkka63trkXCsIjJKXZoFw1mJXOdaDOqRuh-iTgKSY/s1600-h/cirque-affiche-h.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248089623493921762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVzJEknhIjo5OlACFUQLv2R8fyOR5mvcEj2_6Iy2d-K4Q1PR9S4xsM1AuEIvG_bzNbcMeEIynmVmVyOfsj0tGdve7-LnvdTu4b3lkka63trkXCsIjJKXZoFw1mJXOdaDOqRuh-iTgKSY/s400/cirque-affiche-h.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It has been some considerable time now since the unexpected departure from our lives of Mademoiselle Amanda Delacourt. Her time with us is a period upon which we chose not to dwell too deeply.<br />As a lady, I naturally pride myself on coping with what ever fate and my servants throw at me with the resolute measure of decorum and tact that is to be expected of my station. Past experience has shown that I can be relied upon to provide, without faltering, the appropriate mot or gesture to suit even the most unfortunate occasion. However, in my opinion, even I cannot be expected to be deliver at the drop of a hat, the necessary dictum to deal with a situation whereby a member of my domestic staff chooses to be devoured by a lion at the Saturday afternoon performance of a travelling circus and in full view of the entire commune. Even my inestimable resources I have their limits.<br /><br />I am quite at a loss. It was so typical of that Mademoiselle’s attention seeking to make her demise a public spectacle, and wearing vivid green tutu and orange sparkling stockings. The English have no dress sense whatsoever. It does not say much for her claims to have been a cat lover to find herself eaten by a “Panthera Leo”, after foolishly berating him about the nose and a decidedly poor specimen at that. It is so difficult to get good staff these days.<br /><br />Soon after the event and by way of distraction, Madame Grognonne, supervised by myself, carried out the irksome task of packing Mademoiselle Delacourt’s effects away. In amongst the unsuitable garments and fripperies stuffed into the Amoire we were astonished to discover a Russian Samovar which had been missing for some weeks, several pairs of dentures, a large road sign indicating the direction of Rennes, numerous ecclesiastical candlesticks, statues and icons, and a set of fish knives. Under the bed was an old trunk containing a large bottle of petroleum spirit, a box of matches and inexplicably a box of cartridges from Madame Grognonne’s shot gun. I have no idea what she planned to do with the latter items I am sure. And finally tucked inside her night dress, one of dirty Loic’s sock in which was secreted a significant horde of Francs and what appeared to be personal items stolen from his potting shed. Of course having only one leg Loic can not be expected to have noticed he had a sock missing but one might have thought he would have been alerted to the absence of his thermal underwear, especially since it has been such disappointing summer weather wise.<br /><br />Where possible, we have returned those items we could to their rightful owners, the rest we have bundled in the attic until someone emerges to claim them. The money will of course go towards defraying the unforeseen expenses incurred by her inopportune departure.<br /><br />We were obliged to pay compensation to the circus for loss of earnings and veterinary fees. An amount that put rather a severe dent in the family house keeping and about which Chief Patissier was far from happy but as I pointed out, we were ,at least we were spared the cost of a funeral as there was nothing left of her but her boots and hat and the curé felt that to be insufficient remains to merit a Christian burial, particularly when evidence suggested that the deceased was a kleptomaniac with a taste for, amongst other things, the religious artifacts.<br />It appears that Mademoiselle did not agree with the King of the Jungles regal digestive system and he was taken rather poorly as a result. As I sternly informed the children, this is what one must expect if one indulges ones appetite unwisely between meals. On top of everything we also had to purchase a new dibber attachment for Loic as the lion had mauled it quite terribly when attempting to eat Miss Delacourt‘s hat by way of dessert.<br /><br />It is one of life’s little ironies that, although during her time with us we had tried unsuccessfully to find some evidence of her kith or kin so that we might return her to the bosom of her family, once news of her death reached the lower ranks of the British public via the gutter press several hitherto unknown relatives appeared to make claims on her estate. However, as one might expect of such people, all swiftly evaporated once we presented them with the bill for a new dibber plus vets fees.<br /><br />Life here has, at last, begun to return to normal. The bean harvest is in and the potato harvest well under way . The chestnuts are beginning to fall from the trees and autumn is upon us. Madame Grogonne and the widow are preparing for the cidre making season which will soon here, although this years crop of apples is sadly disappointing and Loic, armed with his new attachment, is merrily engrossed in the potager once more. Even Chief Patissier is relativly happy.<br />All it seems is right with the world and the rightful order of our lives has been restored now that the circus has finally left town.</div><div>...................................................................................................................................................................</div><div></div><div>The illustration above is the new poster produced by the travelling circus after the demise of Madmoiselle Delacourt, for whom she proved to be the Lion's lunch. As you can see the Lion fully recovered from his ordeal and it proved to be the making of both him and the circus itself. It is my understanding that, after it became common knowledge that he had eaten her , audience sizes increased considerably in the hope of his repeating the act with some other unfotunate person . Under the cicumstances one might have thought that we would be refunded the vets fees but alas no. Sometimes the labouring classes can be so churlish when it comes to the matter of money.</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-51988152551454769732008-07-13T17:58:00.006+01:002008-07-14T07:20:59.638+01:00A night at the circus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGf0bp5k65Qjo_I7rtf6xRxugBtaXUlmkH6FizinBzO5Wk_uxG8NR72yp869rBcqselgI0PQ324dAQiWl64-pNt54PWf7njWpioteryg-f6K_yKqfiSRIxcAzMgqv9WBuVQe6v-V2qO1c/s1600-h/The+Circus.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222750821347865842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGf0bp5k65Qjo_I7rtf6xRxugBtaXUlmkH6FizinBzO5Wk_uxG8NR72yp869rBcqselgI0PQ324dAQiWl64-pNt54PWf7njWpioteryg-f6K_yKqfiSRIxcAzMgqv9WBuVQe6v-V2qO1c/s400/The+Circus.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>I apologies, for it is some time since last I wrote and I realise, with discomfiture, that I have been shirking my duties to the less fortunate amongst you, in not writing more promptly, for I am only too aware that some of you lead dull, sad, lives and may well have been bereft, awaiting the next installment in the tiresome yet true escapades of Mademoiselle Delacourt and the more interesting goings on chez Loufoque. I hope you will forgive my tardiness and understand that there are some of us who have lives of our own to live and thus you must either learn to be patient or take up knitting. When last we spoke myself and the children were about to endure an evening of tent bound tedium in an effort to avoid an entirely more wearisome one at the chateau in the company of the afore-mentioned Delacourt and her halitosis and horrendous head gear. </div><br /><br /><div><br />As it happened we might have avoided both by staying at home Mademoiselle Delacourt, wearing her mobile lightening conductor, having accompanied us uninvited only to vanish into the ether somewhere between the entrance to the circus and the make shift public amenities erected at the rear of the field.<br /><br />Breathing a sigh of relief at her ungainly departure and with Madame Grognonne instructed to keep a weather eye out for signs of our misplaced mad woman, we had settled ourselves in our ringside seats all prepared to be amazed and enthralled by the pathetic posing of the rather weak strongman and to endure the painful pantomime of the decidedly toothless lion cringing in its cage whilst the trainer, wearing a faded red tail coat and a top hat that had seen better days, attempted to cajole it into leaping through a ring of flames. When the petrified lion refused to perform the clowns were called in to distract the crowds who were getting a bit restive. Youngest for one was particularly disgruntled that the lion showed no sign of savaging the ring master.<br /><br />The diminutive entertainers scuttled about the sawdust ring drawing the audiences attention away from the miserable big cat whilst a small person wearing a rather vivid green tutu and orange sparkling stockings attempted to tempt to lure the lamentable lion down from his star spangled perch by tempting him with morsels of sardine fillets. I remember thinking to myself that they might have done better with horse meat. After some difficulty the figure managed to attach a large blue ribbon about the neck of the reluctant Lion and finally dragged him down from his plinth. The beast however was patently not happy and was further more greatly agitated by the cavorting dwarf sized harlequins who seemed for some bizarre reason to be intent on the dangerous task of distracting the unlikely lion tamer, much to the amusement of the masses.<br /><br />All at once, and quiet unexpectedly, the king of beasts found his spirit and, roaring a deep primeval roar , with one giant paw swatted the head of his captor ,knocking her finery askew and causing her to rock backwards and fall heavily amongst the scattering clowns.<br /><br />The audience ceased to laugh.<br /><br />All was frozen.<br /><br />With one communal intake of breath all were transfixed by the enormity of what was unfolding before their eyes. Looking more surprised than hurt the small lion tamer raised her head and turned her face to the creature with a look of confusion and betrayal. In that instant each of our party recognized under the swathes of pink toile, purple ostrich feathers and sequins the unmistakable millinery of Mademoiselle Delacourt, her face painted in a terrifying parody of a smile and her voice ringing crystal clear in the silenced tent.<br /><br />” Naughty Fleur must not hit mummykins” and smacked the lion hard across his nose.<br /><br />By way of response the Lion ate her.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>..............................................................................................................................................................</div><br /><br /><div>It was an irksome task to find a painting suitable for the illustration of this missive. however "The Circus" by Georges Seurat portraying the crowd holding its collective breath at the dangerous act performed for their delectation is, I think , fairly fitting. It was his last large-scale painting, on which he worked between 1890-1891 and is both abstract and decorative,. The Circus was left unfinished at Georges Seurat's death. I do not however believe this was caused by his being eaten unavoidably by a lion. However I am happy to be proved wrong, after all stranger things have happened.</div><br /><br /><div></div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-72952336006508152142008-06-24T15:54:00.003+01:002008-06-25T06:08:00.618+01:00A Quiet evening out<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetiensJolD-5grWkFVqVs8P8U4P0Doqs_hyphenhyphenGCiayPIOqfAKc7DciF5sKIO9noozY5qjtIskkntBp63sEhIpqew0BNcMySBC8yVQ6_Tckx5IHQ76659OExpK9a6VRCJ6iNjzITKMIUSTc/s1600-h/princess+Beatrice.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215461868159662642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetiensJolD-5grWkFVqVs8P8U4P0Doqs_hyphenhyphenGCiayPIOqfAKc7DciF5sKIO9noozY5qjtIskkntBp63sEhIpqew0BNcMySBC8yVQ6_Tckx5IHQ76659OExpK9a6VRCJ6iNjzITKMIUSTc/s400/princess+Beatrice.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"><br />It must be said that in terms of the mental stability of our erstwhile English employee events are moving from bad to worse. Mademoiselle Delacourt has added to her already interesting head gear a startling appendage in the form of, what one may only assume to be, a primitive lightening conductor of some sorts. Admittedly the weather has been excessively close and a storm is threatening but I feel this is a trifle unnecessary and typically attention seeking, after all Madame Grognonne has been struck by lightening several times and has suffered very few long-term side effects. The overall effect is bizarre in the extreme, added to which its appearance has played havoc with the asparagus bed as Loic is convinced that this newest fashion accessory bears a remarkable resemblance to the dibber attachment to his artificial leg which has been missing from his potting shed for some time and as a result he is thoroughly disagreeable and therefore is most unwilling to leave the potting shed incase anything else goes missing.<br /><br />It was, with some relief then that yesterday afternoon my spirits rose at the site of an unusually large erection in the Place de l’Eglise. A garish board covered in images of prancing horses and women in sequins heralding the arrival of a travelling circus in the village and a chance for some much needed distraction. At last something to inflame the senses and keep ones mind off malevolent milliners.<br />With vivid memories of the magnificent circuses of my childhood, in a rash moment of “espirit maternelle “, I sent Jacque out to reserve seats and gathered the children up for a family sortie to the premiere evening performance. Sadly Chief Patissier was unable to attend as he and Antoine had a prior engagement, a soirée of oiling sprockets at the biscuiterie which alas could not be rescheduled.<br /><br />Dressed in our finest and with the children scrubbed to within an inch of their lives we set forth in the motorcar myself, the children and Mademoiselle Delacourt, the latter of whom was an unexpected and late addition to the party having secreted herself in the front seat of the vehicle and refused to move so that we were forced to allow her and her ridiculous hat to accompany us. In consequence Madame Grognonne was also obliged to join the outing and rode between Mademoiselle Delacourt and Jacque to act as a form of human shield should there be a need to restrain the mad English woman. What I had hoped would prove to be a merry interlude was developing farcical facets even before we even left the Chateau, with Mademoiselle, her head thrust out of the window at a strange angle in order to accommodate the lightening conductor whilst at the same time attempting to wrest the wheel from Jacques . Happily Madame Grognonne, who had worn her padded Kendo suit for protection, repeatedly intercepted her lunges with admirable skill, thus saving us all from almost certain death several times.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />On stopping the car at the entrance to the circus encampment, Mademoiselle Delacourt broke free of Madame Grognonne and fled into the milieu of the milling crowds shrieking hysterically. Try as they might neither Jacque nor Madame Grognonne were able to recapture her and I watched helpless as her bobbing hat disappeared behind the tents in the direction of the caravans. Thus frankly our arrival did not have quite the elegant air one had imagined, but then alas neither did the circus.<br /><br />It was, without doubt, a shabby affair, the canvas of the tent faded and patched, the painted images flaked and chipped in places the whole thing wrapped in a llachrymose air of dejection, but needs must and when one is seeking some sort of distraction from deranged domestic staff one circus is very much like another in a time of need. We had at least lost Mademoiselle Delacourt for a short time, for which we were all extremely thankful.</div><div align="left"><br />Circled around the main tent were a menagerie of exotica, a rather moth eaten Lion who had seen better days, several small ponies adorned with bedraggled feathers , an Ostrich advertised as the biggest chicken in the world, and an aged tattooed lady with a colourful map of France penned across her chest . Sadly her splendid art work had somewhat drooped with age and the expansion of girth the passing of time had evidently brought her.This had an interesting effect on the geography of the French Nation, giving the uneducated the impression that Paris had been relocated and was now only slightly above Provence. By her side sat “The Strong Man” with baggy tights and a vast moustache whose appendages far from being muscular rivaled Loics by their noticeable absence. Moving around amongst all these were an assortment of jaded circus folk wearing spangled costumes that obviously predated the Great War and possibly even the Crimean one, and in many cases still being worn by their original owners. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />As we took our places in the main tent, one could not help but notice that on each available surface the handsome face of one man was posted. The once blazing star of his generation, who had in his youth performed in front of the crown heads of Europe. The redoubtable Sebastian Sommellier, the last remaining of the three once famous Sommelier triplets, the other two having tragically met their death as a result of a freak accident during a gala performance in Rennes some seasons earlier. Their act (in which two of the brothers, blindfolded and with one arm tied behind their backs, juggled flaming torches with their toes , the third supporting them on his feet whilst at the same time balancing on one hand on a spinning ball on the high wire the other hand somewhat incongruously holding an umbrella) was renowned through out Brittany. Alas on the fateful night of the accident it was Sebastian who was the one supporting the other too. It was a tragic story. He fell asleep mid spin thus causing his brothers and the Opera House to go up in Flames. Had it not been for the fast thinking of the Elephant it is very probable that Sebastian Sommelier too would have perished? Of course had his illness been diagnosed earlier the whole history of the French Circus may have been entirely different. As it is he now the only surviving narcoleptic tightrope walker and acrobat in France. It is, I am sure, a dying art.<br /><br />…………………………………………………………………………………………….<br /><br />The photograph is of a once rather famous tattooed lady who travelled the world and worked under the unlikely name of Princess Beatrix. Thankfully no photograph is available of the tattooed lady at our visiting circus; suffice it to say something’s are best left to the imagination.</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-46744668717660130252008-06-23T08:33:00.004+01:002008-06-23T09:00:03.190+01:00Mad as a hatter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDNNOCd5EgtxAFt7imSt1tOgc5DWzi5dlxN6bqvpMoa9cMds1Znm50ou2siti6Iett9hTtkWEVhyphenhyphenKHltf2yTMk5qfxT8H-YeLI-M7bg-AsvrkEUW7eM7JLXSpUr9qcTJKKI9ONrz_BV4/s1600-h/henri_matisse.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214977159761391314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDNNOCd5EgtxAFt7imSt1tOgc5DWzi5dlxN6bqvpMoa9cMds1Znm50ou2siti6Iett9hTtkWEVhyphenhyphenKHltf2yTMk5qfxT8H-YeLI-M7bg-AsvrkEUW7eM7JLXSpUr9qcTJKKI9ONrz_BV4/s400/henri_matisse.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Besotted as she was with her dear departed pussy, soon after his disappearance the already odd behavior of Madmoiselle Delcaourt has taken a strange turn and she has fallen , if that were possible , even further into foolishness. In an effort to divert her Madame Grognonne has been feeding her dishes of rabbit in exceptional sauces , all to no avail and she has taken to rambling the byways , wearing a fur trimmed hat, fashioned by herself from an old military helmet of Loics and what appeared to be some discarded animal skin of vaguely familiar markings, to which she has attached , a brids wing, species unspecified, a large blue ribbon, twisted into a ostentatious bow, and a somewhat avant-garde red flower made of the torn remnants of what appear to be flannel petticoats.</div><div><br />Regardless of the weather Miss Delacourt can be seen tramping the lanes and calling piteously for Fleur and her behaviour has begun to attract comment about the commune. Monsieur le Mairee , in a rare sober moment, called upon Chief Patissier at the biscuiterie and suggested some thing must be done to curb her excesses. But here lies the dilemma. we, having no return address for her, and thus being unable to dispatch her back to the shores of Tooting Beck from whence she came , have become by default, utterly responsible for her. Madame Grogonne has kindly offered to take her for a short walk in the woods and return alone, but alas it is too late, should she dissapear now her absence might prove difficult to explain. She has become like one of those foul plaster ornaments depicting a vaguely obese cherub frolicing amongst badly formed flowers and holding an impossibly large cornucopia above its head in whihc the artist intends one should dispaly fruit or flowers. A gift given to one fro Christmas by an affluent but annoying aunt. One cannot bear to look at the thing but can not risk parting with it incase awkard questions are asked later.</div><div> </div><div>I fear the time is fast approaching for steps to be taken to be provide her with suitable lodgings at the local mental hospital and very probably at our expense , since, despite our extensive enquiries, and the pacing of adverts in the Tooting Chronicle, she appears to possess no living relatives willing to claim her.</div><div> </div><div>.....................................................................................................................................................................</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>The painting above is by Henri Matisse of his wife who , alas, seems to have ungone an unfortuante millinary experience. simular to that of Madmoiselle Delacourt. Madame Matisse, one hopes was lucky enough to recieve suitable help form a local habidasher before it was too late. Although one might well imagine being married to an Artist madness may well be an occupational hazard. No doubt he inadvertantly cleaned his brushes on her best lace collar uthinkingly mistaking it for a rag. That at leat would explain the strange splodges of colour on her face and neck and teh utter contempt in her eyes.<br /></div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-34630434042262184052008-06-11T10:16:00.005+01:002008-06-11T10:52:04.644+01:00More than one way to skin a Rabbit.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnTpuqXFq0MH8jiXo32tGVDl8nxDli6yQkiCnkClKxCe5uUtGg4DfMzTRlqqJm1AHp50aMURrA-s74Vk0talskxGxNxtZ4Z4mzmjbfxbOR5mDt5OqFDjqmWYNDH9LWNR_O1kzec8OXyt8/s1600-h/d%25C3%25BCrer+rabbit%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210550646743794370" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnTpuqXFq0MH8jiXo32tGVDl8nxDli6yQkiCnkClKxCe5uUtGg4DfMzTRlqqJm1AHp50aMURrA-s74Vk0talskxGxNxtZ4Z4mzmjbfxbOR5mDt5OqFDjqmWYNDH9LWNR_O1kzec8OXyt8/s400/d%25C3%25BCrer+rabbit%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left">We have been luxuriating in a few splendid days of early summer, the orchard is heavy with the promise of apples, still no bigger than hazelnuts but growing by the hour and the garden is a mass of blooms. All has been tranquil and calm, and Eldest and I have spent pleasant hours together reading in the garden in silence whilst the boys are at ecole and Chief Patissier engrossed in the world of biscuits. We did plan to entertain ourselves with an energetic game of tennis only to discover the rackets needed re stringing, youngest having unstrung them to make traps with Loic in the vegetable patch. Madame Grogonne has been busy diving for fish in the lake with her harpoon and the widow has been baking numerous gateaux and desserts to make use of the glut of eggs our generous hens have provided.<br /><br />The only fly in the ointment has been Mlle Delcacourt who, if it were possible, has become daily more distracted since the unexplained disappearance of her incontinent pussy Fleur who mysteriously vanished sometime after the unfortunate incident involving the stolen lobster.<br /><br />I remember the day well. It had been the first day of the warm weather and on doing my habitual tour of the chateau to check on the housekeeping I was overcome by the unmistakable smell of Cat Pee emanating from the copious folds of newly hung summer curtains in the Salle. On closer inspection I was most distressed to discover the cream damask curtains tinged with yellow fluid the source of which was too obvious. Alerting Madame Grognonne to the problem she and the widow spent the entire morning washing the curtains and laying them out to dry in the sun, pausing only to prepare luncheon .<br /><br />I recall that lunch was a light affair, with one’s staff unexpectedly occupied one must make do with what one can but one endeavours to be stoical about such things. However her household tasks done Madame Grogonne prepared a miraculous feast for dinner of terrine of salmon, Rabbit cooked in cidre and garnished with prunes, new potatoes steamed , asparagus tips and served with a choice of several excellent desserts.<br /><br />By dinner time Mlle Delacurt was in full cry searching everywhere for her pungent pussy and I remember well how uncharacteristically kind Madame Grognonne had been by especially preparing Mlle Delacourt her own special dish of something called ”Mumbled rabbit”, from an English recipe, which she served her on a platter all of its own. I must say it looked and smelt quite unlike any lapin I have ever know, and it seemed to have rather considerably more meat than one would expect on a bunny. I did venture that I might try it but Madame Grognonne was adamant I really should not, thus I took her advice and refrained. One knows the English palate is quite different to our own and despite her obvious distress Mlle Delacourt finished the entire dish on her own.<br /><br />Sadly, no one appears to have seen neither hide nor hair of Fleur the felonious feline since that day. On a totally unrelated point I am happy to announce that Loic has managed to source a plentiful supply of cat gut and thus repair our tennis rackets at last, so that Eldest and I will be able to enjoy our game again. I do thank God that I have been blessed with such splendidly resourceful servants.<br />………………………………………………………………………………………<br /><br />The illustration is by Albrecht Dürer a German artist and engraver who painted it in 1502 and is one of a series of paintings in watercolour of meadow life inspired by an earlier trip to the Alps. People often refer to it as Durers Rabbit It is not of course a rabbit at all but a large hare, however for things are not always as they appear at first glance.<br /></div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-57892454165773370812008-06-01T10:01:00.007+01:002008-06-01T11:30:48.604+01:00Nocturnal Omissions<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJouGb2VL0Od1xyVQPyWoOS3kAN-NqJ2i8sczimqC2hF8e6Ha9Xt_HTORDCxfIVKszbYXrQ8vG2zi_7LhqhBjR7qbDOTgPMTD1WoVwg80YVMXc96_zSx7zCAHVfxl7RRDerJZaYazOS_Y/s1600-h/cat+eating+lobster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206836071453308594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJouGb2VL0Od1xyVQPyWoOS3kAN-NqJ2i8sczimqC2hF8e6Ha9Xt_HTORDCxfIVKszbYXrQ8vG2zi_7LhqhBjR7qbDOTgPMTD1WoVwg80YVMXc96_zSx7zCAHVfxl7RRDerJZaYazOS_Y/s400/cat+eating+lobster.jpg" border="0" /></a> I am not, alas, at my best this morning. I slept badly last night. It was hot and I was unaccountably plagued by a fly that seemed intent on tangling itself in my coiffure, and, if that were not enough , after Chief <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Patissier</span> finally retired to bed I had to contend with unwanted attentions from another quarter.<br /><br />The evening itself had been a pleasant enough one, Antoine had joined us for dinner and Madame <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Grognonne</span> and the widow had prepared a veritable feast, with oysters, lobster and Wild Boar , followed by chilled champagne on the terrace by candle light. The tranquility of the latter only slightly marred by the robust, if muffled, accompaniment of Madame <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Grognonne</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Jacque</span> singing traditional Breton sea shanties in a somewhat discordant harmony , as they made space in the cave for next weeks delivery of wine. I have stopped purchasing Absinthe for the horse, much to Jacques disquiet, but he seems to do very well on rough cider and it saves a fortune on the vintner’s bills. After dessert Mademoiselle <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Delacourt</span> had retired to her room early with a headache, a restorative gin and lemon, and her revolting Tom cat Fleur, her absence making the end of the evening far more agreeable than it might have been otherwise.<br /><br />Antoine and Chief <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Patissier</span> had, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">comme</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">habitude</span>, taken themselves off to the library to look at some new purchases, which include a rather rare first edition copy of Pierre <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Choderlos</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Laclos</span>’ " Les liaisons <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">dangereuses</span>", which I understand to be an early treatise on health and safety in the workplace . I must admit I find the idea of spending an evening perusing such a book quite tiresome. I understand , of course that , <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/05/un-peu-and-great-step-forward.html">since his brothers unfortunate accident</a>, it is a genre that interests Chief <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Patissier</span> immensely, although I am sure poor Antoine must have been bored to tears. <br /><br />About 1.30 this morning, I was disturbed by Chief <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Patissier</span> entering my boudoir, and was startled , a short time later, by an altogether unexpected stirring under the bed sheets and the rather unpleasant sensation of something hard and damp against my thigh. I lay absolutely rigid not wishing to alert Chief <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Patissier</span> to the fact that I was awake, I find on nights, such as last, where he has over indulged with Antoine in the Library, it is better to feign sleep rather than risk being forced into activities best suited to the day light hours, activities such as discussing whether Antoine's cuff links are in fact real diamonds and where he might obtain a pair for himself. <br /><br /><br />Beside me in the dappled dark , Chief <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Patissier's</span> breathing was heavy and laboured and as the hard damp object dug against my skin I fell an extremely unpleasant sensation of moisture on my night attire and a strong smell of something fishy. Realising instinctively that something was horribly wrong, I shrieked in alarm and flung back the bed covers to reveal a nauseating sight, a sight that no woman married or otherwise should be forced to view without <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">sufficient</span> warning, that of the wretched Fleur devouring the remains of a large crustacean in our bed.<br /><br />Having been woken untimely from his somewhat intoxicated slumbering and not being quite awake, Chief <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Patissier</span> grabbed the offending feline without a seconds thought for his own safety and hurled it with great presence of mind , out of the open shutters where it landed with a crash beneath. I was so overcome at this unexpected bravery I quite forgot myself.<br /><br />Luckily <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Mademoiselle</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Delacourt</span> ,being unable to sleep and seeking the comfort of her pussy and the cool night air , had chosen that particular moment to take a turn in the courtyard below our bedroom and it was therefore, she on whom the cat landed, the Lobster still clasped in its jaws. Had she not been there there is every possibility that the foul creature might well have landed in the large ornate flowerpot below . An event which would have caused poor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Loic</span> deep distress as he has been training a rather impressive passionflower for weeks to entwine itself around the obelisk therein which he and youngest had cunningly constructed from his discarded artificial leg and a few old iron bedsteads acquired at the local <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">decheterrie</span>. As it was all was well and only a few tendrils were displaced. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Mademoiselle</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Delacourt</span> however was most taken aback and retired to her room with her cat where both have remained since.<br /><div align="center">.........................................................................................................................................</div><br />The painting today is by an unknown 19<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">th</span> century Indian Artist . After the disintegration of British Colonial Rule in India, which inevitably resulted in a lack of patronage for artists, Bengali art turned away from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Mughal</span> and traditional Hindu schools of art towards the rustic styles of folk art. The area around <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Kalighat</span> , its art typified by its sweeping brushstrokes and bold forms, of which this is an excellent example, producing some of the most invigorating. Initially the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Kalighat</span> art concentrated mainly on Hindu religious subjects for themes. But later turned to more contemporary social and political Indian Artist . This painting is entitled “Cat with Lobster”. How horribly apt.Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-63968867642087825682008-05-22T10:05:00.006+01:002008-05-22T12:51:19.311+01:00Un petit Fleur de pee...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMekLkD5OyYcGqZfIg1NjcqSC4ZeigU2OFEUmXaggc4ujmAILHDSX1klb8zn8fz79hwAhuGnpeVMgNQQALAT6EXjAaOGdJUPX_E65oQI0MTncXvfomOQx16wAYM2m-LDf66TWMRy-6NrQ/s1600-h/Louiswain1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203151066822751858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMekLkD5OyYcGqZfIg1NjcqSC4ZeigU2OFEUmXaggc4ujmAILHDSX1klb8zn8fz79hwAhuGnpeVMgNQQALAT6EXjAaOGdJUPX_E65oQI0MTncXvfomOQx16wAYM2m-LDf66TWMRy-6NrQ/s400/Louiswain1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>We have, en famille , unwaveringly attempted to avoid reacting to the failings of Mademoiselle Delacourt with anything but the most stoical politeness. The position of governess companion is always a tricky one in any household, the post falling, as it does, somewhere above the class of servant but below the status of family member or guest. In the case of Miss Delacourt it must be acknowledged to fall considerably lower. I have always felt that it is ones duty as a personage of some social standing to rise above the inconveniences of life and to set an example to those of less fortunate position and bearing. However even with my unequalled breeding and well honed comportment there are some things with which I find hard to tolerate. Miss Delacourt has pushed my composure to the brink for she has, it appears, fallen hopelessly and unwisely in love. With a cat.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I am well aware that felines have a fine part to play in many households, with their catching of mice, their useful skills in decimating bird populations and saving the family fruit trees from marauding sparrows.I know also that there are many to whom a cat is a cherished thing, a boon companion in an otherwise friendless life, even perhaps in some bizarre circumstances a child substitute. All this I can understand and to a certain extent empathise. Small fluffy kittens with saucer eyes have even to my eye a certain appeal, albeit transitory in nature. However, and here there is no kind way to state my case more clearly, Miss Delacourts cat is none of these things. Hers is not a fluffy kitten and what is more, Miss Delacourts cat stinks.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The cat has been named "Fleur" and is she assures us in her lilting lisping way that "Fleur is her mummies very own widdle fluffy kins". The latter statement was met initially with perplexed glances by the household and it took sometime to be able to decipher the exact meaning of the word" widdle". The name "Fleur" was only slightly less confusing but for different reasons. As a name it is not inapt for a kitten. It conjures up images of freshness , and of beauty, a lightness of spirit , a certain fragrant joy in life . It would be endearing as a name if it not for the in alterable fact that the creature is not only sloth like and the size of a small piglet, but is very certainly a male. Under the circumstances one feels perhaps "Widdle" might have been a more appropriate .</div><div> </div><div>I am given to understand that Fleur was discovered by his new love at the edge of the river when she was out walking and was alerted to his piteous cries. How he managed to get himself stuck inside a sack weighted with stones and tied tighly aroudn thetop one can only hazard to imagine. But he was rescued and brought home where he now resides in splendour complete with a large satin bow of a floral design in shades of pink about his rather beefy neck. Since his arrival he has divided his time between the scratching of our furniture and his fleas and has taken upon himself the odouress task of scent marking all the household linen with his urine. Anyone who has tried in vain to remove the smell of Tom cat from white Damask table clothes will appreciate this has not made him popular with Madame Grognonne ,who may be seen scouring her cook books for a recipe for cat stew which she insits is a eastern European delicacy. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>On a more positive front insufferable though her presence has made our daily life and as unpleasant as her unfortuante appearance, choice of garments and unforgivable halitosis may be there is a bright side to this dank dark English cloud of a woman. The mere mention of her name has proved sufficient to quell even the greatest flurry of insolence in Eldest, and her arrival in any room sends our daughter to swiftly seek refuge in edifying pursuits such as reading and needlework , she has taken to studying her catechism with vigour and even volunteering to assist her youngest siblings with their homework unasked.It would appear anything is to be regarded as better than being obliged to endure even five minutes longer than necessary with her English companion.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>......................................................................................................................................................................</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The illustration is by the unfortunate Artist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Wain">Mr Louis Wain</a>, who is a great favourite of Madmoisele Delacourt. She arrived from Tooting Beck with several representaions of his work wrapped in plain brown paper, a fact that in itself should have rung loud warning bells with me had I not been more than usually occupied at the time. He was , she tells me, born at Clerkenwell in 1860 and married his sisters' governess, a fact that I fear gives our own governess companion aspirations to do simular,. Add to this the fact that after his marriage he took to drawing nothing but cats , a subject with which he became unaccountably obsesive, I think is perfectly understanable that the poor man ended his days in a mental assylum. </div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-8394002773366449972008-04-16T09:00:00.003+01:002008-04-16T09:06:27.452+01:00The terror of Tooting Beck<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQGc43eKP_LADmGTP9qBcTe_mcSvExBWEdsg_2DH2y7cXIw52Z3_pEprAyR5-GYEL6mTtOjKPOaZXkmA1lHJeTdu1hIbj4131IWpycI5MS-Uhw4ivVUZmDm_MS46CpbqCDwt_uJ19It4/s1600-h/Mancini+Old+Woman+Drinking+Tea%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189750353652127202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQGc43eKP_LADmGTP9qBcTe_mcSvExBWEdsg_2DH2y7cXIw52Z3_pEprAyR5-GYEL6mTtOjKPOaZXkmA1lHJeTdu1hIbj4131IWpycI5MS-Uhw4ivVUZmDm_MS46CpbqCDwt_uJ19It4/s400/Mancini+Old+Woman+Drinking+Tea%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Months have passed unnoticed since I last wrote to you. It is incomprehensible how time has flown. See how the lily of the valley are breaking into flower, the cherry trees frothing with exuberant pink blossom, the birds playing their seasonal game of cache-cache between the branches, and yet still it does not feel spring like Chez Nous for with us lives the very chill and epitome of winter, One Miss Amanda Delacourt.<br /><br />Let us consider then this , our latest arrival. Let us examine her with the scrutiny deserved by any new member of a respectable household. Who is she and whence has she come?<br /><br />Her title implied maidenhood or at the least a celibate state however these things can be frankly deceptive, take for instance mademoiselle Salope in the next village who although unmarried and therefore technically still a maiden has managed to bring forth 7 smaller Salopes onto this earth within a space of 6 years, all of whom bear an uncanny resemblance to the local curé. Even allowing for God working in mysterious ways, one would, I suggest be hard pressed, to deny the family connection as they all have his ears. </div><div><br />Jacques dispatched on the feast of the epiphany to collect Miss Delacourt from the station went armed with a photograph kindly supplied with her application for employment. It showed a clear skinned young woman with fine features and a good head of hair.</div><div><br /> He returned with a withered bag of bones bearing a sour face and a pinched mouth. I am well aware that travelling can be frightfully debilitating if one allows it to be and does not take the correct precautions however, even allowing for this, our new governess had either undergone some sort of unpleasant metamorphosis en route from Folkestone or the photograph was an extremely old one. </div><div><br />Sadly, we were swift to discover, her temperament matched her face. She is a woman of indeterminate age brimming with the bitterness of one whose life has failed to live up to her expectations. The slightest hint of joy or humour in others she squashes with a tart word or a sneer which renders her face even more unattractive, if that were possible. She will have the last word on any subject as she is convinced she knows all. Added to all her charms is her indecipherable French spoken in what one presumes, she views as an appealing lisp and delivered with a coquettish angle of the head, which renders it all but inaudible hence one must, should one wish to understand, bow ones head towards her, having first taken for oneself a large breath of clean air in defence against her halitosis. Her simpering, which was no doubt alluring in her youth, and her style of dress all give the impression of some nightmarish hag dressed in a young girls clothing. Although she must have undoubtedly been a maiden once I suspect her fruits have long since been tasted and discarded by many in favour of riper and more luscious morsels. It is perhaps this that has soured her.<br /><br />In short, she is not the joyful addition to our entourage that we had hoped. Madame Grognonne has taken to ominously polishing her gun at the slightest provocation and Jacques for whom Miss Delacourt appears to have taken a fancy may be found at all hours hiding in the shrubbery with Loic to avoid her attentions. This is proving to be a trifling irksome should one require his services. She is the fly in our ointment the grit in our familial eye, Loic’s widow who kindly has adopted the habit of helping Madame Grogonne in the kitchen, in order to prevent the latter from accidentally discharging her firearm should Miss Delacourt enter her domain, swears one look from her will curdle the milk and prevent the butter form churning.<br /><br />Life has become under her presence more than a trifle vexatious. I fear something must be done to rid us of this carbuncle on the face of our happy family. The question remains is what and by whom?<br /><br />.........................................................................................................................................<br />The painting above entitled Old Woman Drinking Tea,( c. 1907) is by Antonio Mancini an Italian artist born in Naples in 1852, although not a portrait of her will, I hope, give the reader a fair impression of the visage of Miss Amanda Delacourt of Tooting Beck. Mancini once said that “Vulgarity is often the daughter of poverty” and in this case I fear that the same may be said of Miss Delacourt. I have instructed Chief Patissier that should I ever show the slightest inclination to visit Tooting Beck he has my permission to have me committed to the care of the local mental institution where I am sure, if Miss Delacourt is anything to go by, I would find the inhabitants far better educated and agreeable.<br /> </div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-45302876442045098802007-12-13T17:15:00.000+01:002007-12-31T15:48:37.262+01:00Christmas chez Loufoque<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcX4AR_HpS6qhWjKOzqyqaSn081Dt6ZnmAgXtTw23MKRoJnp8Z3Pyn19JEWjqgsnsZPq7x9IjhTPbF9UNjcaB1n_ut9ys193QdBj3KZtT-24uh683FF43rWNDasUkvZ1YingMvl0BElXI/s1600-h/durer+martydom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcX4AR_HpS6qhWjKOzqyqaSn081Dt6ZnmAgXtTw23MKRoJnp8Z3Pyn19JEWjqgsnsZPq7x9IjhTPbF9UNjcaB1n_ut9ys193QdBj3KZtT-24uh683FF43rWNDasUkvZ1YingMvl0BElXI/s400/durer+martydom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150147006032962978" /></a><br /><br /><br />A new year approaches at unfaltering speed. Christmas has come and thankfully departed leaving only the remnants of candle stubs and glass baubles and the shredded needles of the sapin de noel to remind us of its brief visit. Apart from a brief diversion caused by the unexpected arrival of a Christmas gift from the Americas (taking the form of a rather large packing case filled with an interesting melange of sprogets, dibbets and preserving jars of muddy coloured unctuous matter labeled peanut butter, which after some careful consideration we conjectured must be some type of engine lubricant)courtesy of our erstwhile friend Elma Bucket of the American flying corps,we were as ever assaulted on all sides with it the usual dull litany of unsuitable and unwanted gifts.<br /><br />What ever possesses ones friends and acquaintances to burden one with a seemingly endless supply of scented handkerchiefs, un-wearable items of knitwear and utterly undesirable objects d'arte is beyond my understanding. Thankfully we find ourselves blessedly bereft of relations on the Loufoque side and mine only relatives having estates in the Bordeaux region acknowledge sensibly their familiar obligations with a seasonal benison of several cases of their own exceedingly good Bordeaux Superior.I dread to think what My dearly departed Belle-Mere might have felt suitable for our household, a set of mathcing antimacassars embroidered with the passions of Christ possibly or a life size reproduction of the painting of the martyrdom of the 10,000 by Durer,to hang over our nuptial bed, the latter of which at least one supposes might prove to be quite a conversation piece although sadly also likely to squash any lingering passions not already quenched by the hand knitted Khaki bed socks she undoubtedly would have sent with it.I understand from Madame Grognonne that one of the old Madame Loufoques started the knitting of bed socks for the troops during the Napoleonic campaigns and it has become rather a familial tradition one which I have refused to embrace.Some traditions are better left to die a lingering painful death and that one is I fear one of them.<br /><br />We celebrated the Revellion of Christmas in the traditional manner with the entire family and staff attending midnight mass with Antoine joining our happy band for the feast afterwards, although the term happy may be a trifle over stating the joviality of the atmosphere since the inclusion in our party of the new priest of the parish did nothing to enhance our festive spirits and neither the cloying clerics insistence on telling rather inane jokes although dinner nor the way he brayed like a donkey at his own wit did much to improve any of our tempers.Finally the awkward situation was resolved after Madame Grognonne thankfully suggested to Chief Pattisiers that our honoured guest might enjoy a taste of our special reserve eau de vie, to which he happily agreed. as a result of which the we were able to enjoy the rest of our celebrations in peace and tranquility the cleric having predictable fallen into a comatose state soon after being foolish enough to down his glass in one. Jacques very kindly returned him to the village and propped him up against the main doors of the church where I understand his parishioners found him in the morning his hand frozen to the door knocker.<br /><br /><br />Since last I wrote, the duties and obligations of the festive season not withstanding, my time has been almost entirely taken up with the task seeking a means of ensuring Eldests future edification and improvement and having sought advise from relaible sources I have taken the step of placing an advertisement in a respectable English newspaper and engaging one Mademoiselle Delacourt as a tutor governess for Eldest whom I hope will be able to polish our not so little rough diamond into a shining gem. She comes highly recommended by Lady Caroline something or other and I understand is well qualified, although in what I am not quite clear.<br /><br />Miss Amanda Delacourt of Tooting Beck, I pin my hopes then, entirely upon you.<br /><br />,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,<br /><br />The painting illustration my small missive is Durer's depiction of the martyrdom of the 10,000 painted in 1508. The topic portrays peasants and servants being dispatched by their betters and was one imagines a reminded to the lower classes to be mindful of their placve in society.Although one can clearly sympathise with Durer's problems with his domestic staff it does beg the inevitable question as to whom Durer thought would do the tiding and cleaning up after all the slaughter,so typical of a man to forget such matters.Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-13279619552484725112007-11-14T21:09:00.000+01:002007-11-14T21:16:24.418+01:00Serious thoughts from the salle de bain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQX1h1GPXxzBEIPqW3Qgrqmsx9893fFpsaZBkANMpC9aMwo26PSWKLUBHKYVZmp1eyBsx832-SK8EVAgwQo3vY_xN__4PtcZyfY29hvgIMAaRUgZ4CrO0mj4_arMR4ugbAWusbEw1A6g/s1600-h/degas+woman+in+her+bath.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132791610058686882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQX1h1GPXxzBEIPqW3Qgrqmsx9893fFpsaZBkANMpC9aMwo26PSWKLUBHKYVZmp1eyBsx832-SK8EVAgwQo3vY_xN__4PtcZyfY29hvgIMAaRUgZ4CrO0mj4_arMR4ugbAWusbEw1A6g/s400/degas+woman+in+her+bath.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Having fully recovered from the ructions and ramifications of recent weeks I was lying in the bath the other evening, prior to dinner , and appreciating the milky beauty of my slender and elegant ankles when my thoughts drifted to the contemplation of the physical failings of others less fortunate and thus was, alas, sadly reminded of the rather unpleasantly disappointing thickness of Eldest ankles. A thought that naturally led me to a pondering upon her visage in general and in consequence what the future might hold for her. I ended my ablutions quite depressed as a result and quite unable to do justice to Madame Grognonne’s excellent Rognons de Veau flambés au Madère .<br /><br />It is, to say the least; regrettable that a couple as handsome as Chief Patissier and myself should produce such a rather plain creature, especially when one considers the unsurpassable beauty of her brothers. Nature can at times be tiresomely unfeeling in the distribution of her bounty, bestowing on our boys the clear nursery complexions of the English upper classes, the large violet blue eyes of their father and the thick dark lashes of their mother whilst absentmindedly condemning our female offspring with straight short lashes, thick eyebrows and a figure that owes more to robust stolidity of the Breton horse than to my own fine elegance. One must blame of course the Loufoque genes of her Fathers Ancestry. I know little or nothing of mine own antecedents but one can clearly see that the boys obviously take after my side.<br /><br />Children can be such a bitter disappointment. I imagine this is why Helen of Troy never embraced motherhood, what is the point ,after all, of being the face that launched a thousand ships if ones female progeny are naught but puddings? </div><div> </div><div><br />With a face as lamentable as hers one must accept the fact that she is unlikely to win hearts. After her rather disastrous attempts at learning Russian I have somewhat shied away from interfering in her education however, as good a job as the nuns have done with her in attempting to impart the finer points of needlepoint, piano and watercolours their knowledge of the world is naturally rather limited. Loathed as I am to add yet another domestic appendage to our troubled household perhaps a tutor is called for. </div><div> </div><div>I shall have to contemplate the matter closely meanwhile I have set my self to the task of preparing her for the wilder world and investigating the possibilities which a girl of her background might choose as a suitable career and to that end have managed to get a copy of Cassell’s Book of the household, which has a highly informative chapter on Careers for Girls, sandwiched between an article on the cultivation of Dahlias and a brief history to time. Admittedly it is English and is a little out of date but one must work with what one can.<br /><br />If all else fails she could of course join the convent although since she has adopted a rather unbecoming habit of truculent door slamming and grunting as her chosen means of communication I think we might seriously rule out a silent order.<br />..............................................................................................................<br /><br />The painting above is one of several studies by Degas of a woman going about her private ablutions. He seems to have been quite obsessive in fact about this particular theme, a fact that perhaps should not undergo too much scrutiny. I am sure that in some artistic circles it is perfectly acceptable for a gentleman to spend his time hanging about the bathrooms of ladies and watching them undress, but no tin my bathroom I can assure you. Far be it for me to comment on his choice of model but I really feel if he was going to concentrate on this particular subject the might have chosen someone slightly more attractive to paint. To be fair her wrists are fairly elegant in a coarse sort of way, even if her hands are a trifle red, but she definitely leaves a lot to be desired in the foot department and as for the state of the water one can only wonder exactly she has been doing that has caused the water to be covered in green scum.</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-53962678841162973082007-11-02T10:55:00.000+01:002007-11-02T11:30:54.016+01:00The story ends and all is explained..almost..<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNIZEtwOaaSzCNPILv5hEz79CQokMfGQ9ptSMqG98j-zxfslIwD8yakpOIgbZbs63a_MyIzcbETNhC95AaySeSlFIxY8uz7M6KWLSbLip2QcXiiimIt906ZreIv2oVZwxKhMYqcdMCBI/s1600-h/cat-lib-davy-adieu-bretagne3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128184465183608594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNIZEtwOaaSzCNPILv5hEz79CQokMfGQ9ptSMqG98j-zxfslIwD8yakpOIgbZbs63a_MyIzcbETNhC95AaySeSlFIxY8uz7M6KWLSbLip2QcXiiimIt906ZreIv2oVZwxKhMYqcdMCBI/s400/cat-lib-davy-adieu-bretagne3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>If you will recall back we left Madame Grognonne , Loic disguised as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Jacques frail farmhand and Antoine attired as a sardine gutter, for no apparent reason, at the entrance to Chateau Loufoque. We thus continue to the story’s end, its culmination pieced together from the accounts of all involved.<br /><br />Arriving then at dawn to be met by the over excited pigs ,no longer confined to the pantry and greedily devouring the hydrangeas, our hearty heroes knew, without doubt, that something was a miss Chez Loufoque. Leaving Jacques and the widow to unravel Loic’s artificial leg from the sacking, Antoine leapt from the cart to unravel the mystery. Sadly this was not all that he unravelled, catching, as he did his petticoats and slipping face first into the festering fish guts. With help from Madame Grognonne, and unperturbed by the awful offal, he drew his cloak around him and pulled up his hood the better to scrub off the sticky sardine scales adhering to his skin, and a good job too for otherwise he would have certainly have come off far worse when he slipped on the pig excrement, as he descended from the cart, their recent meal of hydrangeas obviously not agreeing with their digestion.<br /><br />The crash of his clattering of his clogs alarming the pigs and no doubt alerting whoever was in the house to his arrival there was now little point in attempting to sneak up on them unawares. He marched onwards then boldly towards the kitchen.<br />Thrusting open the door, whilst at the same time being careful not to smear the brass handle only recently polished by Madame Grognonne, his eyes smarting from the reek of his fouled clothing, Antoine could see nothing in the darkness save a lone figure at the table. He moved forward to demand the interloper identity themselves only to find his voice hoarse and unfamiliar no doubt from his sleeping open mouthed on a cold night in an open cart. Spying chief Patissier’s decanter of best cognac on the table, he raised his arm to grasp it, intending to rescue it from the thieving hands of that unidentified figure at the table and hoping the restorative liquid might sooth his throat. </div><div><br />However he found, due to the rigidity of the whalebone corset he was wearing, he was unable to lower his arm again, his stays having been rather battered out of shape by his tumble from the tumbrel and he had the unpleasant sensation of something hard and sharp threatening to penetrate his person should he attempt to lower his limb. This was not a risk he was willing to take. In his discomfort he barely had time to give the figure at the table at the table a second thought for in the instant he realized he had been harpooned by his whalebone another figure entered the room, one whom he instantly recognized and at whom he rushed with relief, for if there is any man in the world skilled and experienced in the art of releasing Antoine from the confines of a woman’s corsets this is he! However before he can reach his saviour and seek succour the figure at the table shrieks and slumps in a most ladylike manner as only a person of her breeding and natural poise can do.<br /><br />Here then is all made clear. The mysterious spectre at the kitchen door is none other than Antoine and here are Antoine’s filching thieves, none other than Chief Patissier and his dear and charming wife Un Peu Loufoque. A rush of relief is felt by all. </div><div><br />Madame Grognonne, stout in limb and heart , hoists her mistress from the floor and carries her off to her chamber to recover her composure and repose in peace. Chief Patissier releases Antoine from his confining corsets and washes away the smell of sardines <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/04/unreliable-element-or-night-power.html">outside in an as oil drum as off old</a> , a fire is lit and a hearty breakfast is prepared by the widow. Stories are exchanged and tales of intrigue and woe. Chief Patissier tells Antoine briefly about his abortive friendship with Lawrence and Antoine recounts tales of his carousing with the local cleric. All is put right over a shared meal and a few restorative cognacs. Upstairs, sitting in the sunlight, Madame Grognonne silently watches over her mistress sleeping whilst she silently polished her gun and ponders upon life.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>But what of the Gendarme? What fate has befallen him?</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Only Time will tell, and time, as ever, is in no haste to do so.<br />................................................................................................................................................................. </div><div></div><div>The engraving above purports to depict the rather touching departure of the local cleric shortly after the the conclusion of the events described above. Some say he left to seek his fortune in Vannes where he worked as a missionary to sailors , others that he chose a life of penitence as a hermit on one of the small islands off the coast of Cape Breton. Some tell tales that he was called upon by a mysterious visitor, late one night ,accompanied by a person disguised as a sardine gutter, and that what happened at that meeting caused him to see the error of his ways. Truth is an elusive creature, but all that is certain is that he left the commune and was never seen again, and that the night of his departure the shrine to Loic and his miraculous limb was secretly dismantled and the money collected from it was found all neatly stored in a coffer in the clerics kitchen with a note donating it to the restoration of the church tower. </div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-7154378869984471522007-10-20T07:11:00.000+01:002007-10-20T07:14:12.305+01:00Homeward Bound<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qsRcdEo5McdfLDx-d5lCKgDKuCcNJwX1YispHK0EUGY7xp74DE4IGVAZfr44R_hdMWpxNG6LfGfNRPcm4jguf1lH5N4MlXQGRpfY74BoC3DI6J7MIdtTQQcOOsLr-8YZmV-2QshxDjU/s1600-h/canadian+trapper.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123297933731395698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qsRcdEo5McdfLDx-d5lCKgDKuCcNJwX1YispHK0EUGY7xp74DE4IGVAZfr44R_hdMWpxNG6LfGfNRPcm4jguf1lH5N4MlXQGRpfY74BoC3DI6J7MIdtTQQcOOsLr-8YZmV-2QshxDjU/s400/canadian+trapper.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Whilst our motley band of misfits slept the day away in the cool shade of the woods, and Antoine valiantly stood guard puffing on Madame Grognonne’s pipe to keep the flies at bay, there happened to pass, not far from them, the figure of a young lad intent on his duty. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>It was none other than the lost and grubby figure of <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/09/urgent-telegram.html">Jean Luc Perdu,</a> carrying in his satchel an urgent telegram from myself ,which was sadly by now somewhat ragged and stained owing to his unhygienic habit of storing his baguette and bloater paste repas in his satchel along with his mail.</div><div> </div><div> Little did he know that had he but chosen to rest his velocipede under the trees and taken the opportunity to perform some much needed ablutions in the clean waters of the stream he would have stumbled across Madame Grognonne, the rightful recipient of the telegram and thus saved himself several more days on the road. </div><div><br />Of course had he come across Madame Grognonne, there in the woods, he would have very likely not continued along the road to Paimpol and therefore perhaps never had the opportunity to make the intimate acquaintance of one Fleur Fleton a friendly fish filleter who introduced him with to the delights she usually reserved solely for the entertainment of members of the Breton fishing fleet, before sending him on his way back in the direction in which he had come. So overcome was he with Fleur Fletons and her fishy tales that, very soon after delivering his bloater paste stained telegram at Chateau Loufoque, he returned to Paimpol and bound himself as a cabin boy on a cod fishing boat sailing for the far flung shores of Cape Breton in Canada where, having discovered that due to an unfortunate inner ear imbalance he was ill fitted to the life of a sailor, he apprenticed himself to a fur trapper called Finnius Finnigan and eventually married Finnegan’s fine daughter Fenoulla. That however is another story altogether.<br /><br />Anyway, I digress. As the day began to cool and evening fell the party reassembled themselves and adjusted their disguises, not easy in the case of Loic whose backward facing foot had become inexplicably tangled in the widows garter elastic, then, having eaten a restorative repas of herring fillets and anchovy paste tarts washed down with the remains of the cider, they resumed their journey homewards with many a backward glance fearing with every turn of the carts squeaking wheels that they the perfidious port policemen at Paimpol may even now be pursuing them . <br /><br />The night being cold, all except Jacques, who was driving the creaking cart, took refuge in the back lying huddled together on top of the sacking in the rear gaining what heat they could from each others bodies and the festering fish guts, which although they make excellent organic fertilizer for the garden do not make particularly desirable bedding. Happily, none of them were discerning characters and were not ,therefore, greatly discomforted by their odiforous mattress although Loic did take the precaution of removing his twisted limb and hanging it over the side in order to avoid further petticoat entanglements and the danger of the joints becoming seized up with sardine scales. There was I am sure many an unfortunate traveller that night who felt <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/09/dance-with-death.html">their time had come</a> seeing the creaking cart go past in the mist its back piled high with bodies.<br /><br />On reaching the outskirts of our village the cart stopped with the intention of allowing Antoine to dismount and make his way across country to his home unseen. However he slept so soundly that none had the heart to wake him , and it was in fact lucky for them they had halted for in doing so they narrowly avoided an accident when a small but swift dog cart, its drivers muffled and travelling at speed shot past them unseeing and would have almost collided with them had they not been parked under the protective branches of an overhanging chestnut tree. Who could it have been rocketing past at such urgent velocity and at such an early hour? Fearing they had been found out and suspecting the worst they travelled onwards in silence choosing the little used roads until, as dawn broke the sky with its first shards of tentative light they arrived, Chez Nous ,to find some other person had arrived before them and the door to the silent house stood open...<br />..............................................................................................................................................</div><div> </div><div>The photograph is of none other than that of Finnius Finnigan, future father in law to young Jean Luc Perdu and Grandpere to all the little Perdus that Jean Luc and the fercund Fenoulla produced in the way of offspring, including Fanny, Florence, Fabian, Francois, Felice , Ferdinand, Phillipe and last but not least poor little Elodie . Early on in their marriage they made the sensible decision to ensure all their children were given prenoms starting with the letter F so as to save on the the cost of name tapes for their clothing. Poor little Elodie however was the exception and was named after Jean Luc’s maiden aunt whose crossed eyes she had unfortunately inherited. Phillipe was a spelling error, one that could have happened in even the best regulated families unless sensible precautions are taken.</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-68264131443693524032007-10-17T10:18:00.000+01:002007-10-18T21:37:16.782+01:00Floundering with the fisherfolk.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4QnuM-HjSzQKb1kjeqI8Sig3u9PH270gQnAHvu_22w5fFJKLTzFWJgHuRsNkiXccwPIGIJCvA_5E4-0bAEDbujcLN3vJMxkB7W_lww7Go9n0xT5WvBPqx3wr6PIgZpzUHORLyctimXI/s1600-h/scan0020.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122257301810280546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4QnuM-HjSzQKb1kjeqI8Sig3u9PH270gQnAHvu_22w5fFJKLTzFWJgHuRsNkiXccwPIGIJCvA_5E4-0bAEDbujcLN3vJMxkB7W_lww7Go9n0xT5WvBPqx3wr6PIgZpzUHORLyctimXI/s400/scan0020.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Having partaken of a restorative luncheon I shall now continue the tale of our intrepid travellers. </div><div></div><div>You may remember we left our devious band of domestics travelling incognito by night in an open cart borrowed from Yannick for the transportation of fish offal, Jacques disguised as an old deaf farm labourer, Loic garbed as a mariner, the Gendarme dressed as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Antoine dressed as a sardine gutter and Madame Grognonne dressed as herself. The night was a cold one and their journey long but they were amply prepared for the hardship, Madame Grognonne having assembled a hamper of comestibles and the widow providing an interesting assortment of beverages of various varieties and levels of potency.</div><div></div><div><br />The gently plodding of the cart horse well known for its soporific sound unsurprisingly soon sent all into a deep slumber until their sudden rude awakening as the cart wheel struck a rock and the wheel jarred by the jolt , jettisoned the passengers into the ditch. All would have been badly bruised had they not fortuitously fallen on the Gendarme. Happily, with each lending a hand, and using the still comatose and rigid body of the Gendarme as a prop, Antoine and Jacques were able to replace the wheel. Sadly as a result of the mishap Loics leg had become twisted and the foot was pointing backwards, a problem they knew <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/07/divine-intervention.html">from previous experience</a> could only be remedied with professional help. Therefore after some worried discussion it was decided that he and the Gendarme should exchange disguises, the widows long skirts would thus hide Loics deformity for even in Paimpol , the home of the Breton fishing fleet, the sight of a sailor with a foot facing backwards was bound to draw attention. This exchange of clothes was not easily undertaken for disrobing a drunken man without his acquiescence is not an easy task, and as a result they were forced to leave his corsets and bloomers on under the sailor’s tunic and trousers. However finally they were able to continue. </div><div><br /><br />Cresting the brow of the hill they saw below them the distant lights of ships at anchor in the port shining like stars in the early morning darkness and the cart, now squeaking alarmingly made its way to the town quay where the colourful cursing of female fish filliters drifted across the cold air as they hauled the catches up from the boats below. The plan had been that once they arrived at the bustling port they could easily discard the drugged Gendarme, dressed as a woman in the widows clothing, in some out of the way spot propped outside a tavern where he would eventually sober up. Meanwhile they would fill the cart with fish offal and would all be home and safe before he had been discovered. The Gendarmes recent diet of laudanum laced with eau de vie would almost certainly ensure his amnesia and failing that, his female garb would be sufficient to discredit any tale he told which might implicate the Loufoque households involvement in his predicament. </div><div><br /><br />Unfortuantly, whilst they sat outside a tavern, pondering a new course of action, they were spotted by a Sardine gutter, the very one that <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/07/loic-and-unholy-relics.html">Madame Grognonne had seen off</a> with a bucket of water some weeks previously at the height of Loic fever. Recognising her tormentor and casting suspicious glances in Loics direction, for even dressed as a widow woman his charisma stood out, she called upon her friends to come and help her reek her revenge and it could have turned a trifle tiresome had it not been for Antoine’s swift intervention.<br /><br />Screaming shrilly he leapt from his seat, between Jacques, disguised you will recall as a deaf farm labourer, and the Gendarme, dressed as a Sailor on shore leave, and slapped the sailor soundly about the head accusing him of interfering with his person and making such a fuss that they were soon surrounded by a crowd of indignant dalliers under cover of which Madame Grognonne and Loic were able to slip swiftly away leaving the widow behind to offer the others support. Although even at a distance anyone would have been remarkably desperate to make advances at Antoine dressed as he was, the other Sardine gutters were quick to rush to a fellow woman’s defence and all set upon the Gendarme who, as luck would have it, was just that minute regaining consciousness. </div><div> </div><div>Finding himself aroused from his opiate induced slumbers by a bevy of big breasted beauties he lurched forwards to make himself acquainted but in doing so tore his tunic on a nail thus revealing to all his women’s corsets under his mariners uniform. At the same time his breaches, designed for a smaller figure, burst their buttons and the widows lace bloomers billowed out. Such a commotion followed as the sardine gutters surged forward intent on finding if this was a man in woman’s clothing or a woman in mans and in either event disrobing the pervert. A fish gutters life is not a gay one and thus they must find amusement where they can. </div><div><br />Jacques and the widow managed to remove Antoine, who was eager to remain and join in the fun, swiftly had the cart filled with fish entrails and were safely back on the road homewards before anyone had time to note their dissapearance. As luck would have it the day was a warm one and their progress was accompanied by a swarm of flies to escape from which Antoine and the others drew their hoods over their heads. It was decided it would be safest to secrete themselves somewhere and stop until nightfall thus they might avoid the attention of the flies and other travellers on the road. The rested in a wood where Antoine volunteered to sit guard by the cart whilst the others slept. </div><div><br />Thus we must leave them once more, a little closer to home and perhaps a little closer to phantom at the kitchen door, for I too am tired from their exertions to continue further.<br />........................................................................................................................<br />Above is the photograph is of a group of fisherwomen sorting crabs on the shore at Paimpol. I think you will agree that they look indeed , a formidable force not to be trifled with and that Jacques and the widow were wise to extricate Antoine from their vicinity with such speed for goodness knows what might have happened to him had they discovered that far from being a harmless sardine gutter of advancing years he too was a man in disguise!</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-48664559012409272512007-10-09T14:26:00.000+01:002007-10-09T14:33:57.483+01:00The cunning plan commences...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpsSXQzqh15na4p4Avm2z6gorB8yVM3Qer-G_kol_b440M0s-5z9DAOzdoDTvZGkkociIRmn2xd_j-7cyz_4h0tgG8JKKGLmiIidT9ZcWRrQ1cOkG0U2NeLPzBqJ3Kk51nWaXSzYsDrI/s1600-h/591072.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119329005992769554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpsSXQzqh15na4p4Avm2z6gorB8yVM3Qer-G_kol_b440M0s-5z9DAOzdoDTvZGkkociIRmn2xd_j-7cyz_4h0tgG8JKKGLmiIidT9ZcWRrQ1cOkG0U2NeLPzBqJ3Kk51nWaXSzYsDrI/s400/591072.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />Whilst anxiously awaiting my response to the <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/09/spot-of-trouble.html">urgent letter</a> Madame Grognonne had sent me seeking advise regarding her “spot of trouble” ( by dint of repeated applications of large and regular doses of an intoxicating mixture of absinthe, eau de vie and cider laced with laudanum, and the occasional blow to the head) the Gendarme was successfully concealed in a semi comatose condition in the cellar at Chateau Loufoque for several days. Meanwhile Loic and the widow took turns to stand guard, sharing the domestic tasks in order that Madame Grognonne was able to go about her business and maintain the façade of normality, shopping and visiting the lavoire so as not to arouse suspicion in the village.<br /><br />When, after almost a week, no reply was forthcoming and supplies of laudanum were running dangerously low, it was decided that help must be found elsewhere, and therefore Jacques was sent out to seek Antoine, who had been left in charge of the biscuiterie in Chief Patissier’s absence. Thankfully Antoine , on hearing the peril in which the entire Loufoque household lay, rushed to their aid bringing with him extra supplies of opiates and fresh engine oil , the latter for Loic’s knee caps which were in danger of seizing up after long hours spent in the cold and damp cellar. </div><div> </div><div><br />Meanwhile the Telegram I had sent urging Madame Grognonne to do nothing remained un- delivered in the canvas post satchel of Jean Luc Perdu, the delivery boy, who was lost somewhere on the backroads of the Cotes D’armor having taken a wrong turning at Clegerac and headed off in a southerly direction by mistake.<br /><br />After an ample meal and lengthy discussion around the kitchen table Antoine and the brave troupe came up with a perfect plan to rid themselves of their troublesome guests whilst not arousing the wrath of local law enforcers, none of them having any desire to end their days at the hands of the guillotine!<br /><br />The plan was this. Dressing herself in the Gendarmes clothes, liberally stuffed with pillows,( the Gendarme being slightly more full frontally endowed than she)Loic’s widow, as dusk was falling ,was to make her way to la place de la poste in the village which lies in the shadow of the church and is notoriously badly lit. There, under the gaze of any late pilgrims still lining up to fondle the miraculous appendage otherwise known as <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/07/loic-and-unholy-relics.html">loics limb at the priests make shift shrine </a>, she would , to her utmost surprise, happen upon none other than Madame Grognonne who would be innocently loitering on her way to collect a baguette or two to accompany the servants evening repas. There they would engage in jovial conversation in full public view and part amicably in front of witnesses thus quashing any rumours that the Gendarme had disappeared or that he and she were on bad terms.<br /><br />As if to answer a call of nature the widow, disguised a the Gendarme would hasten behind the church wall and secrete herself under a blanket in the backseat of Antoine’s automobile which would be conveniently parked there whilst he sought out the curés company for a timely aperitif. Madame Grognonne meanwhile, having purchased her bread, would engage the lurking limb fondlers at the shrine in pleasant conversation regarding the weather until Antoine, returning to his car, would pass the square and , noticing her there ,offer her a lift back to Chez Loufoque . </div><div> </div><div><br />Once out of site of the village Antoine would drive to a pre-appointed rendevouz point where they would pick up the drugged and drunken Gendarme, now dressed in the widows clothes and supported by Loic who thanks to the contents of the children s dressing up box would be dressed as a sailor on shore leave. Here the group would part company Antoine to return by automobile to the village stopping briefly to have a warming drink at the bar tabac where he would let slip his planned visit the following day to his maiden aunt in Rennes, in order to establish his alibi. The rest of the group would wait in the shadow of the trees for Jacques arrival in a cart, borrowed for the purpose from Yannick under the pretence of needing it to collect fish guts from the sardine fishermen at Paimpol as fertilizer for the vegetable garden. Hidden under the sacks placed in the cart for the transportation of the fish fertilizer, they would travel under cover of darkness towards the coast stopping briefly on the road to Guingamp to collect Antoine, now dressed as a Sardine gutter. There was actually no need for the party to include Antoine dressed as a Sardine gutter but since he still had his<a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/07/itinerrant-spoon-seller-and-other.html"> old spoon sellers costume</a> and got such obvious enjoyment form dressing in women’s clothing it seemed churlish for the others to draw attention to the fact.<br /><br />Thus far the plan worked well however the party, which now consisted of Jacques disguised as an old deaf farm labourer driving the cart, Loic dressed as a sailor, the Gendarme dressed as the widow, the widow dressed as a woman of ill repute, Antoine dressed as a sardine gutter and Madame Grognonne dressed as herself, had many hurdles to leap before they were home and dry again in the safety of Chateau Loufoque.<br /><br />Alas! I fear this story is far too arduous for a woman of exhausted spirit and shattered nerves such as myself to recount in one sitting thus I shall rest here for a restorative cognac and a light luncheon of poached salmon and artichoke hearts dipped in butter and resume my telling later.<br /><br />..........................................................................................................................................................<br /><br />The photograph shows the long line of women siting on the bank by the shrine with some remarkable patience fro their turn at polishing poor loics purloined appendage. Some evenings I understand there are as many as thirty of them gathered there, and they use the opportunity to exchange local news and knititng patterns.</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-5328993421154606472007-10-06T10:00:00.001+01:002007-10-06T10:02:26.268+01:00The story behind the tale...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyU7c424dIuJl5LGD_lDDoyPcyLgxb3YUzLwTP-rAcbyxgQ0YcegrNjybdq4CCMF5BnfTxdMHVlxTsAo8RjjiSL2GVhEa59a0rlqtXAENkJGx9OaEXSlqVxA_LWOudZkcuTAFXmFrhUKw/s1600-h/The-Cider-Mill-1880-+John+George+Brown.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118146266488731650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyU7c424dIuJl5LGD_lDDoyPcyLgxb3YUzLwTP-rAcbyxgQ0YcegrNjybdq4CCMF5BnfTxdMHVlxTsAo8RjjiSL2GVhEa59a0rlqtXAENkJGx9OaEXSlqVxA_LWOudZkcuTAFXmFrhUKw/s400/The-Cider-Mill-1880-+John+George+Brown.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Over the past week I have been able to piece together, from accounts given by the various members of the household, exactly what it was that happened here, Chez Loufoque, in our absence and an explanation for the appearance of the phantom figure in the kitchen. The story is a strange and complex one but I shall do my utmost to render if faithfully.<br /><br />As I had discovered from Madame Grognonne’s somewhat idiosyncratic carte postales which I received whilst taking the cure in the South. After a series of unfortunate events she and Jacques had been left in a spot of trouble arising from the Police maltreatment of animals and in consequence had <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/09/spot-of-trouble.html">unconscious Gendarme</a> in the confined in the cellar. Jacques immediate reaction had been to finish off the Gendarme and bury his body in the garden however he and Madame Grognonne had been unable to agree on a suitable spot in which to safely inter him<a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/05/un-peu-loufoque-and-surprising-package.html">, the melon beds having already been earmarked for possible later use,</a> and were in the midst of a heated argument regarding this topic when who should arrive buy Loic and his widow friend who had come to deliver the latest produce from the widows orchard . Cider, and a few bottle of Pomig , a deceptively strong spirit made form cider, of their own fabrication<a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/08/un-peu-loufoque-girded-loins-and.html">. Loic had of course been in hiding</a> with the widow after the religious fervour surrounding his miraculous body appendages had got a trifle out of hand.<br /><br />This momentarily distracted Jacques and Madame Grognonne who were, out of politeness, forced to taste the latest alcoholic offerings, a social obligation that inevitably took sometime. However after all were well lubricated from their tasting it was decided to store the remaining drink in the cellar and allow it to mature a little. Loic being the steadiest on his feet, an interesting fact in itself since he has an artificial leg which I understand had at that time an attachment for crushing apples. Unfortunately, whilst removing the cider to the cellar Loic ,who had not his apple picking attachment on his false arm and therefore his grip was not as well as it might be, was startled by the sound of groaning, obviously this was the gendarme gaining consciousness, and accidently dropped the barrel in fright, it smashing on the Gendarmes head and drenching him in the cider. Miraculously, bearing in mind this was the second major blow to his cranium within a relatively short period the blow did nothing worse than render him unconscious again.<br /><br />Hearing the commotion in the cellar Jacques the widow and Madame Grognonne rushed to Loic’s aid fearing he had been set upon by sardine gutters lurking in the dark , and having discovered the cause Jacques and Madame Grognonne were obliged to tell the whole sorry tale of the Chief Druid and the Gendarme to Loic and the widow. After which they were all in need of further refreshment so they made themselves comfortable, by sitting upon the recumbent Gendarme ,and opened a bottle of absinthe which was fortuitously to hand, whilst deciding what course of action to take next.<br /><br />It was after the Absinthes bottle was emptied and they had moved on to sample some of the special wines Chief Patissier had arranged to be sent up from Bordeaux that they hit upon their cunning plan. A plan which requires an explanation all of its own and which revealed to me the identity of the terrifying creature whom I encountered upon my return here, the identity of whom I have discovered and will reveal to you. Meanwhile, all I shall add is that, bizarre although the entire tale is it only proves that as I have always perceived it to be, that is that fact truly is stranger than fiction.<br /><br />.......................................................................................................<br /><br />The rather idyllic painting is called The Cider mIll and was painted in 1880 by John George Brown an American artist of rather fanciful tastes who specialized in idealised portrayals of impoverished peasant children at work and play all of them looking remarkably well nourished and clean. I can not imagine that Loic and the widows cidre production however it is cidre none the less for that. I am given to understand from Loic and the widow that hygiene and health and safety is not high on their list of needs when it comes to producing their products and that the odd dead rat in a ask only serves to add to the flavour. I shall not I think be sampling their Pomig. </div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-15376996366751849112007-09-29T15:30:00.001+01:002007-09-30T08:57:42.617+01:00Dance with Death<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0e7dOtnb5TkFyzhihsi5ysajCDxjjxXAPoehGnj_nb5EqXCcQbbMHUffdkvwWjLzz4hOVcdR6mSlRJeMR-51G70rZ8cJ1QlFhqfOLu-qQTuPphuFXHyhtsuaWgJzn4QSn1QEyGR1aRI/s1600-h/ankou.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115633770750113746" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0e7dOtnb5TkFyzhihsi5ysajCDxjjxXAPoehGnj_nb5EqXCcQbbMHUffdkvwWjLzz4hOVcdR6mSlRJeMR-51G70rZ8cJ1QlFhqfOLu-qQTuPphuFXHyhtsuaWgJzn4QSn1QEyGR1aRI/s400/ankou.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">I must have passed out for a mere second, before I regained my senses, the invidious aroma of the spectres pungent scent , as it crossed the expanse of the dark Kitchen lumbering towards my husband , reviving me almost instantaneously. As it approached Chief Patissier, it threw back its hood to reveal its face, and he lept forward to embrace the figure, as one embracing death itself. </span></div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><div><br />It was at this point that, despite being a woman of stoical nature and backbone, I lost all sense of reality; I remember sliding floor wards, the cold sensation of the flagstones on my skin and the sound of wooden clad feet hurriedly entering the kitchen, metal scraping on stone. The noise of a commotion and raised voices and the vague sensation of being lifted up by strong arms and then after that all was quiet and dark until I woke here in my bed with the figure of Madame Grognonne sitting at my side polishing her rifle quietly in the sunlight. </div><div> </div><div>It was as if all was normal, and always had been thus, as if the strange events in the kitchen had never happened. </div><div><br />............................................................................................................................</div><div><br />The image above is of Ankou, who, in Breton Folklore, is the spectral personification of Death, his appearance usually is taken as a portend of death itself coming to take a member of a family. The Ankou is said to be the spirit of the last person to die in the area. It can be male, but more often is female, and is a tall, haggard figure in a wide hat with long white hair, or a skeleton with a revolving head who sees everybody everywhere. The Ankou is said to sometimes drive a deathly cart with a creaking axle and piled high with corpses. Bretons beleive if one is out late at night and hears a creaky axled cart coming along the lane behind you it's generally not a good idea to try and hitch a lift.</div></span>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-60223367626623926972007-09-25T18:58:00.000+01:002007-09-25T21:15:02.560+01:00Un Peu meets her Nemesis<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2E3fPpUmipI1ruD1U7Fgr0VSkGquYBHxXrpyWlp9SIsptdRkVach_9pdCuoBPg5tJLw9sJoaGsjHYDUAN0RkTOQ4LnZ59f7UW_e12eWocUgVRZ9xDsg5cxi-0hHZzBeLHKb73hTYWQE/s1600-h/bernedette+Lourdes.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114202859445778370" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2E3fPpUmipI1ruD1U7Fgr0VSkGquYBHxXrpyWlp9SIsptdRkVach_9pdCuoBPg5tJLw9sJoaGsjHYDUAN0RkTOQ4LnZ59f7UW_e12eWocUgVRZ9xDsg5cxi-0hHZzBeLHKb73hTYWQE/s400/bernedette+Lourdes.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Seen from the darkness of the hushed kitchen the figure before us stood frozen, a looming shape outlined by the lightening sky, its face shrouded, having thrust the door wide open its arm remained raised in the air, its trembling finger pointed as if in accusation. Even the pigs outside were hushed into deadly silence by its awesome presence. </div><div> </div><div>I clutched the cognac glass and stared resolute at what must surely prove to be my nemesis. Shrouded in dirty skirts and shawl the vision stood a good six feet tall or more, an unearthly height for a Breton. From its body emanated an unholy smell of decaying flesh and excrement as if it had risen from the very bowels of hell itself. </div><div><br />The only sound was that of Chief Patissier in the other room searching in the pantry for the means of lighting a fire and something to cook upon it.<br /><br />The spectre spoke, shading its eyes as it did so as if the better to see into the gloomy room.<br />”Who dares to enter here uninvited? “ it demanded its harsh tones gruff and disturbing. “Answer me” it yelled “or I shall set the very hounds of Hell itself upon you!” </div><div><br />I could not speak. </div><div><br />Outside were the sounds of other footsteps moving closer, and the apparition turned its head swiftly so that its face was partly revealed in profile. It was as if the Devil, upon hearing a description of Eve, had attempted to manufacture himself his own feminine companion to rival God's creation, but had instead created a grotesque travesty of womankind. The voice, the height, all was wrong, and yet,I held it strangely familiar in some repellent way.<br /><br />Chief Patissier called out to me ,some prattle about having found matches and paraffin, and at the sound of his voice the figure tore its attention back to the kitchen as if jolted by electricity. I gasped loudly as my husband, oblivious to the danger therein, re-entered the room armed with his treasure and immediately seeing the intruder cried out in shock. The figure rushed forward, arms outstretched.</div><br /><div><br />The last thing I saw as I collapsed into unconsciousness was the sight of those large strong arms stretching out to encircle my poor husband.<br /><br />...................................................................................................................................................................<br />The illustration is a photograph of the young Bernadette Soubirous who, in 1858 saw the ghostly apparition of a small woman who appeared to her eighteen times. The lady, as she called her, was wearing a white veil, a blue girdle and had a golden rose on each foot as well as "holding" a string of Rosary beads and caused roses to bloom in February. One can only ask oneself why is it that this young uneducated peasant girl is blessed with such a vision when I am rewarded by a grotesque apparition stinking of rot and built like a Blacksmith? Sometimes I really feel there is very little justice in the world!</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-16414917361861461482007-09-21T10:39:00.001+01:002007-09-22T12:10:34.373+01:00A dark Dawn Breaking<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiH63NWuVcSlTxVNNqcIUvpXMWQcQyzF1RJ0tKHVoxL-nTn2u7rBgU0zSkQpgcDAvjtvxo8HoquwYe9Dscr4l5K0jGT3-uOYdNlJpXJF0uU00QU0AgtBaks4qOVlpeXsHSACT1lS3Gnmw/s1600-h/scan0015.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112590417053710258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiH63NWuVcSlTxVNNqcIUvpXMWQcQyzF1RJ0tKHVoxL-nTn2u7rBgU0zSkQpgcDAvjtvxo8HoquwYe9Dscr4l5K0jGT3-uOYdNlJpXJF0uU00QU0AgtBaks4qOVlpeXsHSACT1lS3Gnmw/s400/scan0015.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>Chief Patissier made excessively disagreeable company on the return journey home, having had to abandon a camping expedition with his friend Lawrence because of our sudden departure. He was petulant at missing their proposed trip, but was forced to face the seriousness of the situation when we returned to find an empty house. Strange he should be so swayed by Lawrence to camp I really never saw Chief Patissier as a camper, however, I digress.<br />As dawns light broke, casting its weak rays on the bleak scene of the cold kitchen Chief Patissier ushered the pigs into the yard, they had become quite irksome in their determination to eat his shoes, and closed the door firmly. It was chilly and I shivered although I knew not whether it was from the damp Breton climate or the deep unrest at finding our home thus. He kindly handed me a restorative glass of his best Cognac and I had not the heart to tell him it was really a <a href="http://theadventuresofunpeuloufoque.blogspot.com/2007/05/un-peu-loufoque-and-callers-in-night.html">concoction of eau de vie, cheap brandy</a>, cooking sherry and cold tea the recipe for which Madame Grognonne and I had had long ago mastered in an attempt to curb escalating vintners bills. </div><br /><br /><div><br />Out in the yard the pigs were quite agitated, but I discerned, over their commotion, the sound of footsteps approaching across the cobbles. As the porcine excitement rose to a frenzy I realized that these were the heavy steps of sabot clad peasants and not as I had thought those of our children arriving with the luggage. We had left them to walk back from the station with our cases, Fresh air is, after all, very good for children. The walk from the station would have taken an hour at the very least. We had sensibly made the journey by dog cart in order to make the greatest haste possible.<br />If not the Children then who could it be approaching our door at this ungodly hour? Was it the sardonic sardine gutters in search of Loic? The might of the law come to waylay me for my part in the demonic Druids demise or perhaps worst still the spirit of a ghostly gendarme returning to seek revenge? As the noise of the pigs reached a crescendo the kitchen door was thrust open and there before us silhouetted against the light was a figure. It was an image I shall never forget.<br /><br />……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………<br />The photograph is Madame Illettré, in the very dogcart which we borrowed to travel home from the station, Due to the early hour , and her being, amongst other things, a trifle deaf, we had been unable to raise her thus Chief Patissier had resourcefully left her a note pinned to the dogs kennel advising her that we had taken it. Of course Madame Illettré can not read but hopefully she will get the gist of the message and as Chief Patissier so unkindly pointed out since there is every chance I am currently being sought by the Police for spreading libelous rumours regarding the Chief Druid I may as well add theft of a vehicle to my criminal record. I am sure you will appreciate I found his levity a trifle inappropriate under the rather circumstances. I was not amused. </div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-41163988822457919552007-09-19T22:02:00.000+01:002007-09-19T22:30:36.433+01:00The return of Madame Loufoque<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFVR9psYsDkIm2USzqyd1IawUqC4tIVyna83VBs7p_lzGIQdqWrNcbHeSfZiK1iALnXB5kr8x74yh3f-wEvoP-aGlxtsWE9oe6ojKZm9F63jtGY9LVVU1-ckk-ZcSoukgdmv-WqlW-QU/s1600-h/PRISON-VANNES.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112024039708638258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFVR9psYsDkIm2USzqyd1IawUqC4tIVyna83VBs7p_lzGIQdqWrNcbHeSfZiK1iALnXB5kr8x74yh3f-wEvoP-aGlxtsWE9oe6ojKZm9F63jtGY9LVVU1-ckk-ZcSoukgdmv-WqlW-QU/s400/PRISON-VANNES.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I can not truthfully describe to you the depth of trepidation with which I undertook the long journey north to Brittany. Having received Madame Grognonne’s last communication, and having had no response from my telegram to her, I had no idea what I might find at Chateau Loufoque on our return . It would seem my worst fears were justified when we arrived in the dark hours of the early morning, tired and travel weary from our long journey, to find the doors wide open and no sign of life. </div><div> </div><div>We had come as fast as we could but it would seem we had arrived, alas, too late.<br /><br />The kitchen range was cold, no lights were lit, and all was dark and empty. There were signs of an apparent disturbance in the pantry plus an all pervading and unmistakable aroma of stale fish in the air. I had neither strength nor stomach to inspect the cellar nor the melon beds but feared the worst. The only sound was the slight snoring and snuffling of Loic’s pigs curled up under the kitchen table, not I admit the most appropriate place for them to sleep but, under the circumstances, I had not the heart to disturb them. </div><div><br />..................................................................................................................................................<br />The etching above is of the Prison in Vannes, an insanitary place with little in the way of comfort. When I imagine Madame Grognonne incarcerated there in, possibly shut away for ever for her crime my blood runs cold. As a housekeeper her faults were undoubtedly many and various but good domestic servants are so hard to find these days and where on earth would I retrieve another capable of pulling a governess cart unaided and wielding a Kendo stick with such accuracy, it has taken me years to get her to understand the finer points of English tea making! Had I been a lesser woman I should have wept.</div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818843609487177461.post-79879638665144670552007-09-16T18:36:00.000+01:002007-09-16T21:18:25.697+01:00URGENT TELEGRAM<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbt8iZGsN6_No78VwMglkU_XmTRKgVig4ObkAJyWlilrvisicC3tUa1TqbvzH-0jW9Fdb7_iutEguOkow4_1jps0HMa_jKe7zbK4ctsHz6QwcoB6XVe3dww5WL4ZzbLMOEoTiN-vbaoQE/s1600-h/180px-Thomas_Swinscow-Telegram_Delivery_Boy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110858120153270594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbt8iZGsN6_No78VwMglkU_XmTRKgVig4ObkAJyWlilrvisicC3tUa1TqbvzH-0jW9Fdb7_iutEguOkow4_1jps0HMa_jKe7zbK4ctsHz6QwcoB6XVe3dww5WL4ZzbLMOEoTiN-vbaoQE/s400/180px-Thomas_Swinscow-Telegram_Delivery_Boy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><strong>URGENT TELEGRAM</strong></div><br /><div><strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">FAO</span> Madame <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Grognonne</span>,</strong> </div><div><br />Alarmed to hear recent turn of events. <strong>STOP</strong>. Do nothing until I return! <strong>STOP</strong>.Returning by train tonight. <strong>STOP</strong>. <strong>UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES </strong>allow Jacques to finish off cellar dweller and inter in melon beds.<strong>STOP</strong>. </div><div><br />Madame <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Un</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Peu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Loufoque</span>.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div></div><div>Footnote.. </div><div> </div><div></div><div>The photograph is of Jean <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Luc</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Perdu</span>, the truculent and tardy telegram boy for the commune who sadly, due to a diminished sense of direction delivered this Telegram to its rightful recipient some days after it was dispatched by the sender. The missive eventually arrived at its destination via <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Paimpol</span> where, by chance, Jean <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Luc</span> was luckily waylaid by an friendly female fish gutter who recognised the recipients name and , after a short delay, sent him back in the right direction armed with a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">baguette</span> and a pot of Bloater paste for the Journey. </div>Un Peu Loufoquehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09387826515638192265noreply@blogger.com19