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Everything posted by mint

  1. cassis, i dare not add anything else after the severe reprimand.  moreover, i am only new to the forum and i know next to nothing about the taxe de sejour. i have been put in my place and i am worried about being given the "order of the boot" and i wouldn't want pierre yves to be the recipient of same so........... sorry, admin
  2. i don't quite know which section to post this question and i suppose my household effects are, in a sense, travelling to france, aren't they? the day is fast approaching when we are going to be going over lock, stock and barrel.  i am confused by the bewildering choice of removal companies and the services they offer we are ditching a lot of our junk (clean, minimalist start has to be the order of the day) but it's still amazing the amount of "stuff" we have managed to acquire can anyone recommend a removal company they have used? bear in mind that we are in south wales so please recommend accordingly thanks in anticipation
  3. mint

    Word Game

    yellow (please chris, it's NOT personal, honest)
  4. Meanwhile, back at chez Pompodore de Frou Frou, Pierre Yves is tossing and turning on the oak carved bed with the tapestried headboard.  His very soul is seething with indignation. Le diner this evening has been nothing less than a catastrophe (he pronounces it the French way, naturellement).  What is to become of him and, more to the point, what is to happen to his dear Colette? Now that she is changing before his very eyes, she is dearer to him than she has ever been.  What if she becomes, perish the thought, like Madame Bovary?  What if she runs off with le rosbif, Jon?  The shame, the ignominy; it is not to be bourne. He looks across at his petite chou and cannot help but notice that, after the gin and tonics (or is it gins and tonic?), Collete is snoring rhythmically (but still daintily) and musically to the beat of the Marsellaise. Alors, this is intolerable.  Sleep eludes him.  He tosses and turns.  He groans aloud.  He pushes a corner of the traversin AND the oreiller into his mouth to stifle his audible sounds of despair. But in his heart, Pierre Yves' resolve hardens.  Tomorrow, demain, he will ACT. He shifts the weight of the bichon off his feet.  At last, Pierre Yves, with the air of a man who has made up his mind, finally falls asleep.   
  5. don't apologise for being welsh, llwyncelyn, please.  when i was in university in wales, my fellow students told me i was "honorary welsh" and i felt that to be a very great honour
  6. The new Napoleon?  "Mais oui, c'est moi!" Pierre-Yves tells himself.  As he does so, he draws himself to his full height; a tad under 5ft 6 inches (metre conversion for yourself, please) Pierre-Yves does not deign to hurry (the French think it beneath them to do anything so infra dig as hurry) but, shall we say, he hastens from the room.  Reaching the elaborate, carved staircase in solid oak of chez Pompodore de Frou Frou, he ascends with mounting excitement in his heart. He throws open the door of the bedroom.  There on the matrimonial bed, Mme Pompodore de Frou Frou looks up at her husband.  She notices the gleam in his eye, the flush on his handsome cheeks, the barely-suppressed emotion evident in every inch of his body. Madame clutches the bed linen, the finest bedsheets just back from the blanchisserie that very morning, to her bosom.  She half shuts her eyes, "Mon Dieu!" she murmurs. A smile of infinite pleasure spreads across the face of Pierre-Yves aka Napoleon.  "My dear," he says with a mixture of faintly perceptible condescension and affection,  "When we are alone, a deux, you may call me 'Mon General'....." "Ecoute, s'il te plait!  Apropos les anglais,  I have thought of a devious plan!"  Sorry, I don't know the French equivalent of "devious plan". At this last remark, Madame's eyes, which had been half-shut as you recall, fly open.  "Un PLAN!".  She has read about how les Anglo Saxons are all emasculated or retentive (in the Freudian sense) and are terrible lovers to a man. But, up to now, she has no idea that they need a MAP in the bedroom.  Madame begins to tremble a little; a frisson of je ne sais quoi is seeping down her spine. Pierre-Yves bends his mouth (that mouth with the luscious lips comme Mick Jagger's) nearer to Madame's shell-like ear.  "Let me tell you my plan," he whispers............. "Woof! Woof!" come the ear-shattering cries of the bichon.  Ah zut, zut et zut.....................!     
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