The pump

We have two water tanks, and hence, two water pumps.  One tank is up at the house, while the other is at the big shed.  The water pump at the big shed was originally at the house.  However, soon after moving in, we bought a new tank, installed it behind the shed, and the house water pump got relegated there, while we bought a new pump for the house.

So the pump at the shed has been reliably pumping water for goodness knows how long.  When you spend time at the big shed, you can hear it's whirr and whistle as it periodically turns itself on to re-pressurise.  Of course, you can hear it when you turn on the tap too.  It grinds along, while the water comes out of the tap with as much pressure as you want.

The other day I turned on the tap, and watched as the water poured slowly into my bucket.  There was an eerie silence.  The pump had gone.  The whirr and whistle no longer accompanied the flowing water, and there was no pressure to speak of.  It was a bit like the absence of a good friend, who always talks a little bit too much.

When I told my husband about the broken pump, he gazed at me and asked "Do I need to fix it today?".  Well, the water still pours out of the taps albeit slower, but it's far more than a trickle, so I figured there was no hurry.  But I am hoping that it will be replaced by Christmas.

Tour de France

My husband doesn't watch T.V. - Tour De France being his one and only exception, when he sits up half the night for three weeks, transfixed by two hundred guys on bicycles.  On the odd occasion I watch the beginning with him, hoping to poke him in the ribs as they show off some stunning chateaux.  I'll be honest - I also enjoy the culinary segment presented by Gabriel Gate'.

Well the other day, Gabriel Gate' dished up a recipe for leg of lamb, Normandy style.  With sheep grazing in the foreground, and Mt St Michel in the background, who could resist?

So I told my daughter that tonight Gabriel Gate' was coming to cook dinner.  "Gabriel who?", she asked.  So I explained.  She gazed at me.  So I dug out my best French accent, and tried to impersonate the famous chef.  Aha ... now she understood.  Except that she forgot his name.

So, all afternoon she kept asking "So, when is Master Chef coming?"

When we finally made it into the kitchen, I impersonated Gabriel again, just to set the scene.  By now she memorised his surname - well, sort of.  So, every time I turned my back it was "Hey, Gateaux!"

And if I turned around and spoke normally I was heavily reprimanded that "you are not Mama any more, you are Gateaux, speak like Gateaux!"

As the dinner preparations went on, and our conversation continued - me speaking with ze sexy French accent, and flirting like a true Frenchman, while the little girl batted her lashes, blushed, smiled and encouraged me to go on, we eventually moved onto first name basis.  Except my female form must have cast an influence, and so it became "Hey Gabriella!".

Eventually, dinner was served.  Given how much play acting and French talking oozed over it anything could have been forgiven, but it was not only edible, but delicious!  I was allowed to become Mama again as long as Gabriel made the odd appearance.