Sunday afternoon and it's hot enough to melt terracotta. Luis is upstairs taking a siesta, Biff is lying listlessly in his doughnut, with his latest cache of pilfered goods (one pair of flip flops, one chewed pencil and a tshirt belonging to Luis) and I am in the courtyard trying to revive the rhododendron and hydrangeas. But really, it is too hot to do anything. The last time I remember it being this hot (34 degrees) was during la canicule or heatwave of 2003.

While elderly Parisians where dropping to the ground like Ronaldo in search of a penalty, I was peddling my way around the Loire valley on an organised cycle tour, covering approximately 50km a day in blistering heat. It was the equivalent of cycling in a sauna for seven hours at a time and when you were fortunate enough to be going downhill, rather than enjoying a pleasant breeze, you were slapped in the face by a blast of hot air as if you'd just opened the door of a very hot oven.

Still, I look back fondly on that 'holiday'. It's the only time I've been able to eat M&M's for medicinal purposes (ie for the energy to cycle up a hill in the afternoon heat). Secondly, it was too hot to eat, so I returned to London having lost several kilos in weight, with taut thighs and glowing skin (the legacy of drinking around four 1.5 litre bottles of Evian a day.) For weight loss and skin tone, it was far more effective than lying around in a spa for a week dreaming about all the food you can't eat. Some day I'd like to repeat the exercise. But not anytime soon.

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It's been an eventful fortnight, in which I painted the spare room (quicker than waiting for the artisans or Luis to do it), cleared all clutter to prepare the house for photography, wrote several features and went to London to interview Tom Ford.

I have also been entertaining a house guest: Biff's sister Milou, who has come to stay for a week while Frances and David are in the UK. I'm sure they are feeling anxious as the last time they left a dog with me, I kept him. But they needn't worry this time. Milou is adorable and very well behaved - Biff deserves an ASBO by comparison - but I've realised that two dogs are a lot more work than one.

Still, if I ever find that my writing skills are no longer in demand, I could have a second career as proprietor of a luxury dog camp. In the past week I have been playing the role of chief entertainments officer (three organised country walks a day, one game of dog football), head chef (one home cooked organic dinner in the evening) and spa director (daily aromatherapy shampoo and brush out following a daily swim in a stagnant lake.)

The daily programme of activities starts at 8.00am with two sets of paws beating on the bedroom door. They then follow me everywhere for the rest of the day, two pairs of interested eyes staring at me intently.

But when I walk them round the village, everyone seems to smile. Curled up together like yin and yang, they look adorable. Or as Martine said after watching Coco Avant Chanel, 'these dogs, they could be Chanel dogs. They are black and white and very chic.' But I don't want to give Biff any ideas. Thanks to the compliments lavished on him on a daily basis, he already has an ego bigger than Brittany.

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To the local cinema with Martine last night to watch Coco Avant Chanel, starring Audrey Tatou. It's a beautifully shot film - the stark black and white decor of the nuns garb and orphanage scenes at the beginning for example, reflecting perfectly the chic monochrome palette associated with the couture house.

The film depicts Coco's passionate love affair with wealthy British polo player Boy Capel, who provided the finance for her atelier in Paris. And while the clothes were a little disappointing - largely because the film focuses on the years prior to the launch of the couture house, when Mlle Chanel was mostly wearing men's clothes that she had chopped up and customised - the film is the best one hour fifty minute advertisement that the label could wish for.

I predict that Chanel is going to be more popular than ever the next twelve months, particularly if, as hinted in the French press, the super-talented Albert Elbaz, currently head designer at Lanvin, takes over from Karl Lagerfeld later this year.

Chanel and Elbaz - known for his devastatingly chic cocktail dresses and tailoring - would be a match made in heaven. I feel sure that Coco would approve.

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To make up for the lack of a garden, I am taking Biff on even more walks than usual. It's not exactly an onerous duty given the blue skies, sunshine and flower-sprinkled countryside. But I always think it's a little sad when May comes to an end as, to me, it's the most promising month of the year. Not only is it when that peonies and the poppies appear but (for some mysterious reason) the month when most of my closest friends - and dog - were born.

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I arrive back at Poitiers airport on Friday afternoon and after sitting in a boiling hot traffic jam on the peripherique - it's a bank holiday weekend in France - head straight to Frances and David's, to pick up Biff from 'summer camp.' David is sitting outside with a glass of wine, looking exhausted, while three dogs joyfully chase each other around the garden, trampling over the plants and the beautiful peony bush. (In addition to Biff and their own dog Milou, Frances and David have also looking after Molly, a former hunt dog who is eighteen months old and very energetic.)

'Looks like they've been a bit of a handful,' I say.

'Not at all,' he replies. 'In fact, we were just saying how nicely Molly and Biff play together.'

To prove it, he shows me a photo of the two of them nestled together on the sofa, Biff lying between Molly's paws. Casually, he mentions that Molly is a bit of a bolter and her owners might be having second thoughts about rescuing her. Molly might, he hints, soon be in need of a new home.

Biff does indeed look blissfully happy running round the garden with his canine pals in the late evening sunshine. He even hesitates for a moment before climbing into the car to come home with me.

And on Saturday morning, he lies in the courtyard among my wilting geraniums wearing his 'hard done by' face. I am consumed with guilt. Much as I love my house, I'm starting to think that it's time to move so that Biff has a proper garden to play in. Acquiring a second dog to keep him company isn't really an option. Is it?

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I know it's uncool to complain about Ryanair: when you fly with them, you have to accept that you've got minimal rights and certainly no right to expect that you'll be travelling with dignity. And if something goes wrong, you have no-one but yourself to blame for choosing the world's least favourite airline.

But I have discovered an even craftier way for Michael O'Dreary to shake down his customers. This morning I logged into the 'manage my booking' part of the website to add a checked-in bag for a flight later this week. I paid the fee £10 with my credit card and received an 'error' message; so I tried again with another card and again received an 'error' message. Thinking it was a problem with the Ryanair website, I went to the internet cafe on the square and logged in again, only to find that both times the transaction had been processed and £10 deducted off my cards.

Obviously, I'm not going to bother to call the call centre in Ireland. Who needs the stress, especially when you're dialling an 0870 number and paying 10p per minute for the privilege? But surely it's illegal for a company to take money from a credit card and give the customer the impression that it hasn't? This is potentially a very lucrative scam for Ryanair. Or is it just another way to discourage customers from checking in a bag? Either way, you have been warned - or, in my case, robbed!

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It was probably the best roast Sunday roast I’ve eaten - complete with Yorkshire puddings, delicious roast potatoes and homemade horseradish sauce. But who would have guessed that I’d find it in the depths of the French countryside?

On Sunday morning, I drove with friends through narrow cross country roads to The Mad Hatter’s Kitchen - a farm restaurant near Vanzay, owned by a charming young British couple, who several times a week (or by prior arrangement) open up the dining room in their home to the public; as well as serving cream teas (also by prior booking).

My friends, Anita and Kevin, discovered The Mad Hatter’s Kitchen by accident when buying a free range turkey at the farm shop last Christmas and were very impressed by the Sunday lunch, which consists of three enormous courses, including wine and coffee - all for an incredible €18. I was warned not to eat breakfast.

Pulling up in the gravel driveway, we are all instantly charmed by the big, ramshackle house with chickens of all colours and denominations wandering around the outbuildings. Inside, the decor was just delightful and straight out of French country interiors book, with cool flagstone floors, a big wooden staircase, antique mirrors, hangings and vases of fresh garden flowers thrown together in a seemingly effortless way (the owners previously had an antiques business.)

The dining room, decorated in a style best described as rustic French boho, had three tables, including a huge wooden refectory table for our group of six. (I so love simple wooden tables - so much more friendly and relaxed than what I call ‘white table cloth’ restaurants where you're scared of knocking over the crystal and everyone speaks in hushed tones.)

This was the sort of place where you feel instantly at home. The choice of starters included an excellent homemade aubergine and goats cheese tart; while the main course, which featured a delicious array of vegetables from the garden, was too enormous for me to finish (despite only having a pear for breakfast.)

Afterwards, I wanted all of the puddings on offer, which included the full rosta of British faves: lemon meringue pie, sticky toffee pudding and a cheesecake with fresh strawberries from the garden. It was a tough call, but I would say, that having sampled all of them, the sticky toffee pudding, with a hint of ginger and served with lashings of fresh cream, was the winner. I've been dreaming of it ever since.

Part of the charm of The Mad Hatter’s Kitchen is that it feels like a secret destination - the sort of place you only find out about through word-of-mouth. The owners don't advertise and there isn't even have a website yet. But that - and the fact that they only open up on an ad hoc basis (they need a minimum of six people dining to make it worth the effort) - make it seem very special. And because of the quirky ambiance and decor, it is perfect for special occasions. (I'm already looking for reasons to go back).

The owners will also cook to a theme - Indian food, for example - and for large parties. ( The previous evening they had cooked a four course meal for the local French mayor - an endorsement in itself - and forty of his friends).

It might not have any Michelin stars but The Mad Hatter’s Kitchen is on a par with my favourite (award winning) gastro pub in London -my benchmark for English cuisine. And so, loathe though I am to give this secret away, here are the details - and don't forget to phone first:

The Mad Hatter’s Kitchen, Le Logis, Le Breuillac, 79190, Caunay. Tel 05 49 27 67 29.

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Following the news last week that Ryanair is to introduce a £10 fee for the privilege of printing your own boarding card, news reaches me of an even nastier - and unpublicised - ‘sting.’ Friends who have recently flown back to France from Stansted, report that the airline now carries out last minute checks at the boarding gate, pulling passengers out of the queue to measure and weigh their bags.

If you’re unlucky enough to be a gram or a millimetre over the prescribed dimensions you are clobbered with an on-the-spot fine of £40 and forced to check in your bag. This is presumably to weed out those guilty of buying a bottle of duty free, thus tipping their bags over the allotted ten kilos.

Of all Ryanair’s charges, this strikes me as the most insidious. Having circumnavigated check-in, security and the whole uncivilised process of flying with this airline - and by the time you’ve hiked several kilometres to the gate, since Ryanair is too cheap to pay for accessible parking stands - you could be forgiven for allowing yourself to relax without fear of being hit with any more charges. But no, Mr O’Leary has found one last way to mug and demean his customers before they board the plane.

Travis reports that one passenger - who had been daring enough to buy several cartons of cigarettes - reacted by unpacking his case, swapping his trainers for a pair of heavier shoes and trying to wear as much of his carry-on luggage as possible, in order to fit his cigarettes into his bag. Well done that man! I suggest anyone caught out similarly do the same: if Ryanair is going to treat its passengers like this, the only way to react is in a similarly small-minded way. Hopefully, faced with dozens of people unpacking their bags and changing outfits at the boarding gate, the airline might rethink this last-minute sting.

Meanwhile, should his airline ever go tail up, I have thought of another career for Mr O’Leary. Given his greed and propensity for mugging the public, he could join the appalling ranks of Hazel Blears, Mr and Mrs Ed Balls etc and become an MP.

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To the local cinema with friends last night to see Chéri, the new Stephen Frears movie. Based on the novel by Colette, it tells the story of Léa, a 49 year old courtesan and her 25 year old lover, Chéri (played by a louche looking Rupert Friend.) Having read the book, I can highly recommend the film, which is worth seeing just for the exquisite outfits that Michelle Pfeiffer gets to wear, and the opulent Belle Epoque decor of her boudoir and the lush garden scenes.

Back home with my own chéri (left), I paled when I read the birth date on his identity card (we were booking a summer break in Ibiza). I thought Luis (shown left but not a good photo as he hates being photographed and this was taken with my phone) was seven years younger than me, which was bad enough, but in fact, when he told me his age all those months ago, I must have misunderstood. Luis is actually twelve years younger than me. Aaghagh! Without realising it, I have, like Léa, acquired a toy boy (although I am younger than Léa and Luis is a little older than Chéri).

The only solace is that thanks to cigarettes, whisky and the Portuguese sun, my chéri looks much older than he is, so that as my friend Martine points out, the age-gap is not that noticeable.

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In London, I had a cleaner. Here in France, I've yet to a) find someone who's willing to mop floors on my behalf; b) figure out the system that makes it legal for them to do so (apparently you can buy vouchers at the mairie that include taxes and social charges, thereby avoiding a possible hefty fine for employing someone 'on the black.')

In the meantime, I've been wielding the mop and the feather duster myself, telling myself it's an upper arm workout and totally in tune with these credit-crunched times. Usually, - or rather unusually as I don't do it very often - I crank the Rolling Stones or the soundtrack to Slumdog Millionaire up high and see how much I can get done to a two-hour deadline.

Yesterday, it being a gloomy, rainy Saturday seemed like a good moment to indulge in a little nettoyage, especially since everyone around me seemed to be doing the same. Encouraged by the sound of the vacuum cleaner in the Portuguese house next door and the news that Travis, who is at his French house for the weekend, was likewise engaged, I set about the task with enthusiasm. A little too much enthusiasm as it happens, as I broke one of my Baccarat crystal champagne flutes and somehow managed to dislodge the satellite connection.

I went to bed with gleaming floors, only to be woken up shortly before 6.00am this morning by the sound of Biff crying and in obvious distress. I went downstairs and discovered that the poor little mite had puked up his fish and basmati rice dinner. Very considerately, he had done so mostly on my Laura Ashley floral doormat but as I walked him round the square in the early morning half light, knowing that I'd have to get out the mop again - and that with no satellite connection I'd miss the Andrew Marr show - I figured I might leave it several months before cleaning again.

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