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loud as the sun warmed my back. What a beautiful day. The smell of fresh bread floated out from the boulangerie, hooked me by the nostrils and drew me in to buy a baguette, still warm from the oven. Shops were dotted around the town, interspersed with quiet little houses, their window boxes still showing summer colour from red and pink geraniums. How did the French achieve it? I wondered. Wherever you went in France, there were geraniums spilling out of window boxes and traffic roundabouts ablaze with colour. Pride, God love ’em, they had pride.
    After covering every square inch of the town, my hunch proved right – no shop selling art materials. The locals were cheerful enough, nodding in friendly greeting as I passed. I picked up some fresh fish from the poisonnier – fishmonger to you and me – and stocked up on fruit and vegetables before heading back.
    Today was like a rebirth. I’d promised myself a year in France, which meant another three hundred and sixty-four days to go.
    I went back into the house with a broad grin on my face, and set about preparing a lunch of prawn salad. As I cut the bread, there was a tap at the kitchen door and I looked up to see Louise peering through the window. I beckoned her in.
    To say conversation was stilted would be like saying the Matterhorn is big. Not surprising considering my rusty French and Louise’s near lack of English. Mind you, once I got into my stride, the muscles in my brain seemed to loosen up and work harder for me so I found myself firing off question after question. Looking back, I’m amazed she didn’t run up a white flag and sprint out of the door. Instead she bore it all with remarkable good grace, a lot of smiles and the occasional frown. I did, however, learn Christophe only spent part of his time at the surgery, since he did the bulk of the equine and large animal work, while his partner, Philippe, kept to the domestic animal work.
    ‘Did you go to the racing dinner, last night?’ I asked.
    ‘No, that is very much Christophe’s thing. He loves horses.’ There was so much emphasis in  this statement, I couldn’t work out whether she was a bit pissed off with his obsession or merely stressing the point. As I nodded she continued, ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t just make a bed in the stables.’ Then she giggled, ‘Maybe he already has!’
    She was even more pretty when she giggled. I wondered if Christophe’s admiration for her went beyond the professional.
    ‘Perhaps that’s why he isn’t married,’ I suggested, boldly yet cunningly manoeuvring the conversation towards his love-life which, I realised, was starting to form an unhealthy preoccupation for me.
    At this, Louise’s lovely smile slipped – just momentarily but enough for the finely tuned eye of a high school teacher to spot. She threw up her hands. ‘Oh, that’s men, isn’t it?’ she said, beaming again.
    Hmmm…had I plucked a tender nerve? I gave her my you-can-say-that-again look accompanied by a pair of hand flaps. I believe it is universally acknowledged that in a conversation between two strangers, a pair of men will gravitate to football and cars, while women enjoy a minute or two on the failings of men. So, in this moment of mutual disclosure, I said, ‘Don’t talk to me about men! I’m fed up with men. Right now, I prefer to stay single.’
    ‘Why?’
    If I’d had a better grasp of the French language, I could have done justice to the phrase ‘right-royally shafted’. Instead I just shrugged. ‘I was going to get married but it didn’t happen.’
    This drew a look of concern from Louise. ‘So sad. But I’m sure it was for the best.’
    ‘Yes. The end of a relationship is very painful but really proves just how wrong it was,’ I said, sounding wiser than I felt. Louise nodded. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ I asked her, still hell-bent on satisfying my fascination with Christophe’s status.
    She smiled shyly and shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
    ‘My friend,