The Chikungunya, for that’s what the bloodwork confirmed, was a trial.  Co-codamol didn’t help.  Neither did long soaks in a bath of Epsom Salts.  I couldn’t raise my arms, or roll over in bed without howling in pain.  I felt like such a wimp ….. I was regularly reduced to tears of both pain and frustration.  Lengthy sessions spent scouring the Internet gave little in the way of hope, and then I had a lightbulb moment thinking “I bet there’s a Chikungunya support group on Facebook!”  Ta-da!  There are several, filled with lots of people suffering as I was, and far worse.  People sharing their stories and home-made remedies.  Snake-oil salesmen abounded selling “cure-alls”.  But there was some seriously useful information therein too. Someone reported that their doctor had prescribed a course of steroids and that within hours of taking the first pill she had begun to feel vaguely human again.  Others leaped on the bandwagon and gave similar hope.  Still more cautioned of having taken a course and had awful relapses when they came off the pills.  I know that one shouldn’t self-medicate , particularly with drugs as serious as steroids, but we just happen to have them in the house as Graham has to take them thrice-daily for his PMR, so I did.  I took a 5mg Prednisone before going to bed, and managed to get the first half-way decent night’s sleep I’d had in ages.  I took the last 1.25mg three weeks ago and – touch wood – I am happy to report that there has not been a relapse.  My fingers are firmly crossed that it stays that way.  I wouldn’t wish “chik v” on even my worst enemy.  Well, maybe there are a couple of people who are deserving of the special type of hell that it brings to life……

Christmas in France was a bit of a rude awakening for us, on many different levels.  For decades we’ve done Christmas in an ex-pat community where your friends are your de-facto family.  The celebrations can be big, and not a little messy as people move from one party to another getting ever-more well-oiled in the process.  But now we’re in an environment where our friends and neighbours are mostly French, and the festive season is a big family affair, with several generations of large families gathering together.  It felt a little odd to lay a table for fewer than 10 people, but we did.  And, actually, it was rather nice.  My father flew in from Cyprus for the holidays.  The last time we’d spent Christmas together was in the mid-1980’s!  Friends who live the other side of Bergerac came and shared our meal.  It was good not to slave for hours over the stove/oven in high heat and humidity.  Dessert went for a burton – I think that my use of “God’s free fridge” backfired, and it froze!  But it was a lovely day nonetheless.

New Year’s Day was a bit of a disappointment.  We “inherited” a party from a dear old friend who, sadly, died just before Christmas.  He had started the party back in the Islands waaaay back in the early 1970s.  Several years ago he told us that he was too old to do it any more, so we moved the party 10 doors down the block to our house and kept it going.  We had always planned to carry this tradition from the BVI to France, and so we did.  We invited long-standing friends, neighbours and new acquaintances alike.  I catered for a cast of thousands, well about 30.  Thanks to illness and last-minute family commitments (see above), we numbered no more than a dozen or so.  Anyone for roast pork?  There’s still some in the freezer!  Apple sauce too.