I am awakened by the dulcet tones of my husband and his mother having a row in the kitchen.   Olly has got up early and offered to drive to the village to pick up the croissants.  (note: croissants cannot possibly be bought the night before, oh no, they have to be bought as the boulangerie opens, ie tres tot, otherwise they will not be fresh enough.  They have a point, as they don’t taste like the Sainsbury’s packs of six that sit on our kitchen counter all week begging me to Taste the Difference.  These are irresistible, whatever wheat allergy I may have told myself I have in order to avoid putting on the trois kilos of weight that seems to be obligatory with each trip to France).   What can be the matter, je me demande?  Quel horreur could have set them at each throats like cats and dogs?  It turns out his hair is not as it should be.  Yes, he is 46, yes, he has kindly got up early to save her having to get up, but non, non, non, what will people think of him with hair like a savage?  (Still, at least it’s not the row about whether it’s okay to serve spaghetti bolognaise to adults). 

It’s been raining here which hasn’t helped everyone’s moods.  They’re getting ready for a wedding in the church opposite the house.  ”Marriage pluvieux, marriage heureux…”  say the French.  It rained when we got married in that church too, but I’m not blaming the church.  As we grumpily drive off for an excursion, we exclaim simultaneously:  ”well at least THEY’RE happy!”  It makes us laugh though. 

Gradignan has a garden centre with an aquatic section, and since today we have decided we need A Project, we are off to Gradignan to purchase fish for the stream that has over the years rather conveniently formed itself around a patch of grass with trees on it, thereby creating an island in Olly’s garden. Gradignan also has a rather lovely restaurant overlooking a stream, with a terrasse and an awning, ready for the next downpour.  We sit there with the kids, and I debate whether to have a magret de canard or a magret de canard.  (French cuisine, not known for being that experimental) 

Afterwards, at the garden centre, we wait while the woman in the fish section chats to a couple for what seems like ages to my husband’s increasing exasperation. 

“They’re one of those weekend couples with nothing to do except go to garden centres and ask questions about nothing.  They have no intention of buying anything,” says Olly, getting furiouser and furiouser.

I pull him back when he tries to saunter off:  ”I need you here! You’re the Frenchy! You have to ask her questions about what kind of fish are suitable for the pond! Don’t go! you have to pay attention so you can catch her when there is a pause!”  

“She’s only not talking to us because she thinks we’re English!” he says.  ”Well, speak French with Manu then,” I say, pushing her forwards.  (Armand has wandered off to find a crocodile).  ”I can’t think of anything to talk about!”  The couple ask a question about the difference between aquatic centres in France and in America.  ”Look at her shoes, anyway,” says Olly.   The woman is wearing silver sandals with an unnecessary abundance of straps.  ”Who does she think she is, a gladiator?”   “En francais!” I urge, before realising the stupidity of my comment. 

Finally it’s our turn.  The couple move off without buying anything and we debate the merits of buying two enormous koi carpe at £80 a pop, or several small carp at about £8 each.  We discover that fish don’t eat pond weed which was partly the point of buying them, but we press on regardless, Manu has become rather attached to them already and wants to sit with bags of them on her lap in the car as if she has just won them in a fair.   Upon reflection, it would have been cheaper and possibly quicker to have gone to a fair, and certainly more fun.  We buy 20 in various shades of blue, silver, gold and orange, and I become entranced by a lotus plant at the bargain price of about £60, which I also buy. 

Back at the ranch, we enthusiastically try and clear some of the pond weed using the net from the swimming pool.  (I say swimming pool, but really it’s a blancmange shaped blue bubble that sits in a state of semi-collapse like one of those forms of contraception responsible wives use, I believe, only much bigger, obviously)  It comes off the surface easily, but is immediately replaced.  ”It’s like a golf course,” says Armand, and it is, a vivid green, with a spongy looking texture that dragon flies bounce across.   “We’ll clear it!” I say enthusiastically knowing that I am talking complete and utter rubbish but feeling that this is a good lesson to pass on to the children involving Endeavour and Determination and a Sense of Accomplishment.  We clear, and I hold the bags in the water so that the fish can get used to the temperature, before gently releasing them into their new home.  It’s an exciting moment, dare I say it, an historic moment.  I remind my husband that ten years ago on our wedding day at our reception dinner we had large bowls on each table with goldfish in them, the idea being (in my deluded state of romantic happiness) that we would release the fish into the pond or stream (what do you call a stream with no current and a pond that is the shape of a stream?) and the fish would grow and be happy blah blah blah, draw your metaphors where you will please.  I remind him that had he not given them to the gardener or the carpenter (who probably had them for his supper, the french being the kind of people who will eat anything, as we know) we could have saved ourselves a fortune, and be looking at rather large fish right now.  (Query: how can French people eat anything yet not be a little more experimental with their menus? )  But then, our children would not be involved in this happy event, would they, and as Armand crouches on the bank beside me, nearly pulling me into the water but that’s okay, releasing the final batch of fish into their new abode, I cannot help but feel that yes, this was the right thing to do today.  And I swear the sun comes out at this moment. 

Ah! this is what Eckhart Tolle means about the Power of Now!  This is what it is to be totally in the moment! To let the mind slip away from the worries of the future and the constraints of the past, I think to myself.  Here I am, really participating in this family exercise!   And enjoying it!  

And then, from the corner of my eye, I see something silvery, about three inches long, flicking its tail up and down.  Something stuck and dying. 

I scramble along the bank, swimming pool net in hand, trying to get to it before the kids see. 

“Olly! OLLY!”  

A fish has swum a little too close to the twiggy bits at the edge and has not long to live.  I try and flick it over and back into the main part of the water, but I’m not sure if it’s going to make it.   My flip flops break, (Havainas, gold, the slim variety as purchased in LA), I feel twigs digging into my feet, mud splurging between my toes and there’s a mosquito the size of a moth giving me a third eye, but it’s all about saving the fish. I think it swims off, but I’m not sure, I’m not sure.   And then, from the corner of my eye, I see another one in difficulty, which I race over to, and then five minutes later, as Olly cleverly turns on the hose to raise the water level near the edge just in case any more stragglers decide to exit there, I see a silvery orange fish stuck under another twig, at the bottom of the pond, not moving, not going anywhere.  

The bells ring and I wonder what it’s all about.  

Eckhart Tolle.  I will not be reading your book tonight.