les Davey de France

The good news and the bad news. Mrs Davey doesn't like the Brompton folding bike. The handlebars are too low and not adjustable. This is good because it means we won't fight over it. However, it means that when the city folding bike goes back in September we'll need to look at getting another. You CAN get Bromptons with higher bars, but would they be high enough? Could we even try one out to see? And it means another eBay job, unless we spot one second-hand in Bordeaux. Otherwise it'll mean an inferior make. Decathlon has a range which seems to fit for size. They don't fold down as small, but you see a lot of them in Bordeaux and they seem to do OK.

It is SO GOOD to sleep without a dressing on my neck. It is SO GOOD to be able to twist and turn my head without stitches pinching. I'm looking forward to the end of the itching, aching and general feelings of discomfort, but we're getting there. Every morning I take a photo of the operation site and every morning there's a noticeable improvement.

Here's the latest photo of the gardens below our balcony. There has been frantic removal of rubble, detritus and junk from just below us and wholesale earthmoving, sometimes rather early in the morning. It seems they are trying to get this school good and ready to open in January. Then the tower just the other side of the car park seems to be pretty well completed. We're excited to get a chance to go up and see the views from the top floor. They MUST have an open day, surely? If not we'll have to try and rent a flat and go and see it.

Hurrah! Now to wait another ten days before starting to rub in well some "scarring cream" ( crème cicatrisante ) to keep everything soft and supple.

Before we moved from Pessac Pat sold her nice old mixte frame bicycle to one of the neighbours. I thought it was a pity, but the deal was concluded and the 40 euros changed hands. I sold my old Raleigh Magnum mountain bike, too. It was a faithful old thing, but I had never loved it. Even adding natty blue road tyres somehow didn't do a lot for it. Soon after we moved here we got a Bordeaux bike. The city will loan you a basic bike, designed for robustness, and Pat loved it but seldom used it. We wondered if the problem is the bike store. The bike store is a room next door to the main entrance to the building. It has two doors fitted with locks and automatic closers and then it has lots of hoops for attaching bicycles. To get your bike out you unlock it from the hoop, then manhandle it out of the door while fighting with the automatic closer and negotiating two right-angles. You then have two more automatically closing doors to exit, one opened by a button on the wall, the other...

US Boris has landed at Mérignac airport and presumably been whisked in his motorcade down the A63 to Biarritz. I didn't see Airforce1 on its approach. Maybe I'll see it as it takes off.

Still takes a bit of faith and imagination to see the promised gardens.

All seems to be healing up quite nicely. I put on a dry dressing overnight so as not to catch the stitches on my pillow, and in the morning there are little spots of blood that correspond to the eight entry and exit sites of the four stitches. I've had less discomfort each day, easily banished with paracetamol. I've made an appointment to get the stitches out on Tuesday, and I'm quite excited about getting rid of them. I think most of the discomfort comes from them, now. I do remember how excited I was about having the operation - and that had I known that it would feel like the surgeon was digging out the cyst with a sharpened dessert spoon my enthusiasm would have been lessened. What do you mean, of course he wasn't - I know what I felt. Anyway I'm sure that taking out the stitches will be unpleasant, too, but afterwards I'll be able to move my head without that sharp reminder.

Hurrah for paracetamol! The dressing's off. The operation site looks quite clean and dry. It's sore but not unbearable. Paracetamol is more than adequate. I've been feeling OK, but taking things quietly. No running, jumping, cycling or tram-riding for the present. (The back of my neck looks just a little alarming for now.) I have a prescription to take to a local nurse to get the (four purple) stitches out next Tuesday. There's a trio of well-regarded nurses just alongside our tram-stop.

will observe that I make little comment on politics.

I thought that since there would be lots of administration to do that I'd go quite early to the hospital, so for my 10 am appointment we walked into reception at about 9:10. Round to the desk. Identification please - Titre de Séjour - OK, up you go to operating block 1. Oh. 30 seconds and it was all over. I'll never get the hang of this. Anyway it gave time for a quick visit to the toilets. Pat located the coffee shop for when I was in theatre. We presented ourselves at block 1. "Oh, you're quite early. Take a seat and my colleague will call you." Two other patients arrived and sat beside us. A nurse said that Dr Canard (that's his name) was still in theatre but he'd be with us soon. Then at about 10 she called me in. Tee-shirt off - hop on the table, face down. The doctor arrived. Try your head to the left. Try to the right. Try face directly down. Is that OK? I could breathe. It would be fine. A quick wash with betadine, the placi...

I killed one the other day, but this morning ANOTHER mosquito was hiding under my desk waiting to attack my legs in the early morning.

Regular readers will know of our family history with rodents. A gerbil. Guinea-pigs. Rats. It is now over a year since Lawrence, the last of our rats, abandoned this vale of tears. A year is a long time and the prospect of getting her own place energised our daughter into dreaming and searching. She located a breeder of rats. She ordered a cage. She negotiated her price. We built the cage. It only remained to drive out to the breeder's home to get them. So we met Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, the three wise rats. They are husky dumbo rats. That means they are born with husky-like markings that fade over time, and their ears are rather lower on their heads than one would usually expect. This gives them a rather goofy and endearing appearance. The young rats came home and were placed in their cage. Disaster! They are so small that they can get through the bars. So they were put securely in a box until we could get a small mouse cage to be going on with. Disaster again. On o...

This is important for us because it will link directly our flat and the building where the church meets, as well as Catrin's flat (assuming all goes well for her rental). They hope to open the line to the public before Christmas.

The summer in France can be frustrating. Sometimes it's very hot. We bust the record a couple of weeks ago, with a temperature, I am told, of over 42°C. On days like that everyone moves very slowly in the streets, and you hope with all your heart that your bus or tram will have working aircon. It's touch and go. Sometimes it's not too bad. Today it's 24°C. To us now that feels just a little chilly. Sometimes you get thunderstorms. From our flat we see the lightning and watch the rain fall hard on the parched ground. But it isn't that that's frustrating. It's the summer slow-down. For example Catrin is waiting to hear about this flat she'd like to rent. We went to see it weeks ago, but the agency (which has very bad reviews on Google, by the way) is shut until the 19th. OK. Tram C has been out of action between the station and the other side of town following the devastating fire in the car park. But added to this we have the reduced frequency...

The trouble with being Welsh and living in France is that I am a bit obsessive about being on time. So my appointment with the surgeon was at 10:20 but I thought I had better allow for traffic and for finding the building and for finding a parking space so I sailed non-stop through the deserted suburbs of Begles at the limit of 30km/h, then a little faster though the empty streets of Talence at 50km/h, found the hospital, found the building easily and was spoilt for choice as to where to park. So at 9:30 I listened to a programme about Stefan Zweig's attitude to the First World War while waiting to go in. The trouble with being Welsh and living in France is that you forget that everything starts with a song and dance at the computers. So at 10:05 I went into the building, trekked to the toilets, then took a ticket to go to reception. I was number 53. There were seven people before me and two receptionists. But the receptionist has to 1) verify your identity and your address fro...