Read The French for Christmas for Free Online Page B

tree, which emerges out of the fog like a phantom, stands the most enormous pig I’ve ever seen, gazing longingly up at the apples still hanging from the branches. I tap on the glass and it peers short-sightedly towards the house, then, not the least bit bothered by my presence—and disdainfully ignoring the fact that I seem to be threatening it with two items of kitchen equipment better suited to making a ham sandwich than to actual self-defence—it begins to root blissfully amongst the fallen fruit, crunching the rotting apples between its large, ivory teeth.
    I put my hands on my hips and shake my head in exasperation. So much for rural tranquillity! Between the crowing rooster, the screeching owl, the barking dog, the midnight mechanic and now this hungry hog, the chance of a little peace and quiet would be a very fine thing indeed.
    I tap on the window pane again, harder this time, but the pig doesn’t even look up. So I unbolt the French doors and, grasping the breadknife and pepper pot in what I imagine to be a fearsome fashion—showing this critter I mean business—I step out onto the terrace.
    I realise two things in quick succession: fortunately the far side is bounded by a low wall which would offer some protection if the pig decided to charge; and unfortunately the flagstones of the terrace are covered in a carpet of dead leaves which have become slick with the saturating dampness of the fog. My feet slide out from underneath me and, giving a loud yell, I land on my behind with a thud that knocks the wind out of me momentarily. I heave myself up, hanging on to the wall for dear life, and rub my right hip, which took the brunt of the fall. My shout, and the clattering of breadknife and pepper pot onto the flagstones, hardly disturbed the pig at all. He looks at me appraisingly, his little eyes blinking as he chews an especially delicious rotten apple, and then nonchalantly turns his back on me and goes back to rooting in the damp grass for more booty.
    I collect up my scattered weapons, sliding wildly again and windmilling my arms in a most inelegant manner, before retreating inside. As I turn back towards the house, I notice a movement behind an upstairs window at the doctor’s house, as if someone has drawn back from the glass from where they’ve been watching my escapades. Great. Now my elderly neighbours know that a crazed knife-wielding pig attacker has moved in next door to them. I do so love to create a good first impression! They’ve also witnessed my fall, no doubt, so my pride now hurts almost as much as my backside does.
    Admitting defeat on the pig-scaring front, I replace the pepper pot and the knife beside the breadboard on the kitchen counter and stomp back upstairs to get dressed properly.
    As I brush my hair, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and I notice the faint frown lines that have etched themselves between my brows. When did that happen? I pause, hairbrush in hand, suddenly remembering the expression of serene disdain on the face of the pig as it surveyed the city slicker brandishing the pepper pot and breadknife at it, and I start to laugh.
    And as my reflection laughs back at me, she looks relieved that, after such a long absence, it turns out her owner’s sense of humour hasn’t upped and left for good after all.
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    T he pig has disappeared into the fog by the time I’ve brushed my teeth, peeled off my layers of nightwear (gingerly pressing on the large red circle on my hip where I fell, which is already beginning to darken to a becoming shade of purple that matches the bruise on my elbow), and pulled on my jeans, a thermal undershirt and several more layers of sweaters. I make a pot of coffee and cup my hands around the mug to warm them as I sit at the kitchen table, gazing out at the wall of whiteness.
    The crisp winter sunshine that I’d envisaged has failed entirely to materialise so far. I can’t even check out a weather forecast as the Internet isn’t