Day 36: I Get A Nice Review And It Makes Me Blush A Bit

There's some people who review blogs. They aren't paid, they just do it. They are often very rude, and putting your blog up for review is tantamount to sticking your head in a hungry lion's mouth. I read them everyday because they're good, and so should you. Anyway, they reviewed this blog. If you want to see the review (although why it would hold any interest for anyone other than me and my mum I don't know), go and see them here at Italk2much. Made me a bit blushy as it goes. Surprised they were so nice as they did go and have a gander after 2 slightly weird strong-booze-and-horse-cough-medicine-induced posts.

Oh, and if anyone fancies doing a bit of web design in return for monkey nuts or a brisk rub, do let me know.

Day 35: I Find Out How French Dukes Keep Themselves Busy

I always thought most of the French aristocracy had their noggins cut off by Madame La Guillotine c. 1789, and that all the Chateaux had been returned to the State, but no. There is still a duke (the Duc de Blacas) living in this very castle, Le Château d'Ussé, with his duchess, their children, their many servants, their pets, and his troupe of life-sized plastic friends dressed up in funny clothes.

I'm all up for paying a bit to go and look at someone else's dining room. Obviously I spend most of the time stealing leaflets, bouncing on the beds and pretending to smoke a pipe in all the plushly-upholstered armchairs when the guides aren't looking, but usually I'll spend a few quid and not resent it that much, and maybe buy a packet of branded mints and a teatowel in the Gifte Shoppe that I have to walk through on the way out. But I have to say that the Château d'Ussé (only 2 stars in the Michelin guide, even if it was inspiration for Sleeping Beauty), offered me a world of joy that I could only ever dream of.

See this chap? He's supposed to be a medieval soldier showing off some armour. I thought a bit more Genghis Khan, myself, and he only seems to have one eyebrow. But still we are not allowed to touch his face with our hands, or so the sign tells us. But it gets better, for leave the 'armoury' and who do we find?





Yes! it's everyone's favourite, the Gurning Footman, balanced on his magical transparent flying disc!

Stop, stop, I hear you cry. No. For the good Duke pays for his childrens' new ponies and his wife's new ermine stoles with the 11 Euros he reaps from every visitor to his Château, and I think it's only fair to tell everyone what excellent value that 11 Euros presents. (11 Euros is about 8 quid in English money, and no I don't know what that is in dollars.) Exhausted, we clambered to the top of one of the magical towers that you see at the beginning of this post. What is that delicate tinkling melody? Yes! It is One Day My Prince Will Come and yes, the good Duke is milking this for all it's worth because - lo! What is this? Yes! A lovely tableau of the sleeping princess and her prince. Down to the cave we go (not that kind, the wine store kind), and my heart goes cold.

What on earth is this girl thinking? And what does she think she's going to do with those grapes? Un peu porno, non?















Whatever it is, this chap seems to like it - and he's obviously got an awfully good sense of humour.








And they'd like to join in, but they're not sure where to put their hats.






I won't even go in to me getting diaspora and diorama confused. I'm not sure it's even really relevant. All I know is that that 11 Euros was the best money I've ever spent, ever, on anything, ever. Apart from the 4 Euros for the Cat Museum in Richelieu, of course.

Day 34: I Visit The Cat Museum In Richelieu

Cardinal Richelieu. Prime Minister in one of those pre-Revolutionary periods of French history when the Catholic church were in charge and lovin' it. He wore red and had a big conk and a goatee. Also had an ego the size of a planet, so, obviously, he built a whole town and named it after himself.

Not sure that he'd be that happy nowadays, though. His palace was flattened at some point by some disenchanted peasants and now all the fine town of Richelieu has to offer - apart from some nice architecture and an OK bar - is The Cat Museum.

But the Cat Museum! My dears! Take a fucking fantastic house, and fill it with tat that is loosely cat-related, and what do you get? The WORST museum in the world. If you're wondering what Richelieu looked like, for example, you don't have to wonder anymore: according to this splendid bit of tray-based sculpture, he looked like this (including giant cats in the background, obviously).


The owner of the museum, who was obviously one kitten short of a litter, was very keen for us to enjoy the splendid collection of cat portraiture 'assembled' by some of Europe's finest Cat Artists. Now, I don't get out much anymore, what with the leg and the rash, but I haven't seen that many owls with the faces of cats (one of many splendid exhibits). Nor have I seen that many cats made out of paper and grapes.



Still, it wasn't all bad. Amongst the cats made out of fruit, tin, old dogs, weasels and cake, we found a children's play area where tiny, tiny children could draw a picture of a cat and add their art to the collection. Thinking fondly of my own spastic feline, only now terrorising squirrels back in Brixton whilst I sit in the garden sipping faine waine, I was moved to make this lovely tribute. Do you think it's good enough to make the permanent collection of the Cat Museum? I do.




My Friend commented in the visitor's book: "This may well be the best cat museum I have ever visited."

Day 33: I Enjoy A Dutchman's Wooden Spoon In My Hotel Room

We drive for days and days, listening mainly - and unaccountably - to the Eagles, and finally arrive at this pokey hovel. It is owned by a curly-haired Dutchman who, of course, wears 'feature spectacles' and makes ribald jokes about the tiny size of our double bed. (I am not laughing, for I am sharing the room with an old friend of the opposite gender, but the thought of 'jiggy jiggy' with each other makes us both feel a bit sick, so we were hoping for twin beds or an Elephantine double bed.)

Ours is the second window from the left on the second floor. What you won't be able to see from the splendid photograph above, but will be able to see in the marvellous photograph on the left here, is the lovely wooden spoon (complete with dried paint) that he very kindly left us on our bedside table. We weren't sure whether or not it was a sign of traditional Dutch hospitality, or whether 'returning the spoon' meant that we were happy to take part in the Eyes Wide Shut-style entertainments he arranged with his guests and the locals. I'm going to err towards the former, however, because I discovered that when the Dutchman sits in his window at night tapping away into his computer and chainsmoking, he is not tweaking his porn ring, but learning French online. Anyway, the Friend with whom I am sharing this tiny double bed saw the spoon as a talisman to protect him from any amorous advances from me, and fell asleep with it in his hand only to be woken a few hours later by the sound of it clattering to the floor. This, however, was only one of many interesting sound effects that kept us from sleeping for two nights in a row. They included:

Sheep baaing so loudly it sounded like they were in the bathroom (one of the sheep later gobbed on my Friend, who had to wash his shirt in a hurry)
Random dogs barking
A cockerel, who started up at 4.30am and didn't let up
Tiny French children running up and down the corridors
Gravel crunching
2CV vans starting up
Shouting (random)
A scream
Ribald laughter
Breaking glass.

We are very tired.

Day 31: I Am Frantically Busy

4.30am: wake up. Go for wee. Dogs wake up. Dogs get into/onto bed with me.
4.30 - 5.30am: Coughing, blowing nose, general restlessness.
5.30am: Dog fetches Monkeymother in manner of tiny Jack Russell-shaped St Bernard
5.33am: Monkeymother pours drugs down my throat.
5.34am: I pass out.

Time passes.

11.30am: I wake up.
12.00pm: I eat scrambled eggs.
1.30pm: I eat salad things and drink the wine.
2.30pm: I pass out in garden face down.

Time passes.

5.00pm: I wake up.
5.10pm: We go for a bicycle ride, comment on the sunflowers, wave at the cows, agree that is excellent mode of transport. My chain falls off. Kind friend replaces it. I freewheel quite a lot and snigger.
5.40pm: Wash.
5.40 - present: Sit on bed staring at wall.

I have managed to get dressed. We are going out now. I am aware that if I go to bed now, I will probably not wake up for 3 weeks.

Tomorrow we are staying in a teeny tiny chateau in the Loire which is also a meeting place for international travellers. God help us. I think we're in the Africa Suite.