For reasons that I can't yet write about here, life has been a bit of a hard slog recently. But on the advice of my friend Travis, I sat down this evening and wrote a list of reasons to be cheerful:

1 Toute Allure is nearly finished (it was very motivating indeed, to discover a few weeks ago that Pierre L, one of my blog readers, had pre-ordered a book yet to be written!)
2 Biff no longer has a mushroom growing on his head.
3 The window is no longer patched up with a Jiffy envelope.
4 There is one corde of wood in the garage (though still waiting to be stacked.)
5 Travis has been made redundant from his TV job and is about to move to France for six months to hopefully make a reality series about life in the Poitou.
6 I'm going to London tomorrow for 24 hours (and this time tomorrow night, will hopefully be having a glass of champagne in Browns hotel with a friend.)
7 Unlike some parts of the Charente, we have electricity and have not been flooded.
8 One of my blog readers, Lesley, has named her car mimi pompom.
9 A friend in London has located a (possibly illegal?) source of old-fashioned, 150 watt light bulbs (I know it's not PC, but I just can't bear these enormous, new-fangled bulbs that cost six euros a pop and give out hardly any light.)
10 There are mysterious green shoots in the courtyard.
11 It's almost spring and the sunflowers will be out soon (ish).
And finally, ... (added as a postscript - see comment below):
12 Lovely emails from readers.

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Well, this is certainly an unexpected and totally amazing development. In Waterstones High Street Ken - the biggest and best Waterstones in the chain - Tout Sweet, is No9 in the bestseller chart. This means that it is now displayed, in the front of the store, on the shelf next to Martin Amis!! [He is No 10] and is selling better than Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love and Sophia Kinsella. Surely, some mistake? But here is the picture - a bit blurry as it's been sent to me from an iPhone - to prove it. (Honestly, it hasn't been doctored.) The list is updated daily, so I don't know how long I'll be there but finding myself on the shelf next to Martin Amis has to go down as a seminal moment in my life. Thank you Waterstones High Street Ken.

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On special offer this evening in Intermarché: kilo bags of pork fat (yum!), ducks hearts (tightly vacuum-packed together in deep purple-red blood) and most disturbing of all, langue de boeuf. I mean, have you ever seen a cow's tongue? The tongues on sale in Intermarché are enormous, each curled around in a big fatty slab. I know that offal is fashionable and ethical (if you're going to kill an animal you should try and eat all of it et tout ca) and I know that some people probably have very delicious recipes for duck hearts and cow tongues, but never has pizza seemed so appealing.

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Bérnard, one of my neighbours, says that he knows where I can get a corde of wood.

'Will it be dry?' I ask (a tall order at this time of year, when any wood that's available has probably been sitting around under three inches of snow.) But Bérnard assures me that it will be, and at €150 the corde, de bonne qualité.

On Saturday morning, the garage is cleared out and the rubbish taken to the déchetterie. The wood delivery is supposed to take place at 2.00pm. Great excitement. At 2.30pm Bernard calls the wood man and is told he will be there at 4pm. At 5.30pm we are still waiting and the tension is rising in the street outside, where Bernard is pacing around anxiously and a couple of neighbours have gathered to watch.

Finally, at 6.30pm under the duvet of darkness, two very anxious men show up and align their van next to the garage, so that no-one can see that they are delivering wood. I can see immediately that the logs are very wet and the last thing I need is a garage full of damp wood.

'C'est pas sec,' I say.

They try to persuade me that it is dry in the middle and will burn - and they look beseechingly at Bérnard to confirm this - but I am having none of it. For once I stand my ground - not least because, even to my less than expert eyes, the delivery looks many logs short of a corde. Bérnard suggests that they try and palm it off on Pascal, the artist on the square, who has also been asking in the local cafe about wood. Ten minutes later Bérnard taps on my door and says 'vendu.'

Pascal has bought the consignment of damp wood, which makes me wonder if I ought to have taken it after all. But yesterday morning, great clouds of black smoke, were being emitted from Pascal's chimney. Meanwhile, the intelligence from the local cafe is that wood is going to be very hard to come by in the coming year and it's best to order early for next winter (I've written it in my diary as a priority for July.)

The reason is that most firewood is sold is on 'le marché noir' and the authorities are cracking down on any farmer or landowner looking to earn a bit of extra cash in this way. Busy bodies are therefore being encouraged to shop anyone who's been busy with a chainsaw or pulling a trailer of logs behind their tractor.

This is all according to the gossip in the local cafe. Martine, my mayor friend - and fount of all knowledge on la vie rurale - is in New Zealand at the moment, but I will check the veracity of this when she's back. In the meantime, the glowing woodburner is but a distant memory.

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Everything seems to be falling apart chez moi. The gas bottle has run out (it's bread and cheese for dinner rather than Gordon Ramsay's homemade lasagne), the washing machine cannot be used as it releases a tsunami of soapy water over the bathroom floor, and one of the thin panes of glass in the bedroom casement window has broken. As I don't have time at the moment to sort this out properly, I've patched it up with a Jiffy envelope, which is a bit of an eyesore when Tout Sweet readers drop by to see the house and/or Biff (only two so far but it's best to be prepared!)

Even Biff has had to be patched up, as he's got a mushroom on his head (at least that's what the vet said.) It's a horrible sore that he won't stop scratching, caused by fungus in the lake where he likes to swim. Also in need of repair is the leaking garage roof: there is a river of water coming in where the woodpile would be, had I actually planned ahead and ordered some wood. (I was gambling on global warming so didn't bother this year = big mistake!)

None of this is a disaster or life threatening, of course - just the stuff of everyday life. But it could be a while before I get round to sorting it out....

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Honestly, just when you think it can't get any better and you've got six bags of watercress in the boot of your car, what do you find but cresson everywhere. Browsing in the vegetable section of Monoprix (the French equivalent of Waitrose) yesterday - after lunch with a friend in Poitiers - what should I see on a top shelf but bags and bags of the stuff. It just proves my theory that when you stop looking for something you find it in spades.

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Just as I'm taking a break from writing Toute Allure to answer my fan mail (god, I love typing the phrase 'fan mail' so much, I might just have to type it again) my friend Travis calls. He's on the TGV with - oh joy - six bags of watercress for me. 'It's puffed up my luggage so much that there's no room in my bag for my laptop,' he complains.

Travis is coming out especially for a party on Saturday night - the infamous Disco D'Hiver - that Mitch, a mutual friend is organising in the local salle des fetes. We have all organised ourselves into tables, and each table is responsible for its own decoration, food and wine. I'm doing my signature - some might say predictable - goats cheese and onion tart (thank you Nigel Slater!) with a green salad, while Travis is making beef bourgignon and Anita is rustling up a a dessert. Martine has promised to make - and I'm so looking forward to this - an aperitif that translates as 'champagne soup.'

Most of all however, I'm looking forward to that watercress or cresson, a 'wonder food' that's impossible to find in my region (I'm so hoping some one will contradict me on this). I'll be driving over to Travis's first thing tomorrow morning to pick it up and spending the afternoon rustling up several batches of Liz Hurley's delicious watercress soup. I never ever imagined that the thought of six bags of watercress could make me so happy.

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It wasn't easy getting back to London recently for The France Show. In fact, it took three days and three attempts and I missed the first seminar on the Friday. The day before I was supposed to leave, I set off to drop Biff with Eileen and Wally, the owners of La Grande Galerie but had to turn back as the roads were so slippery. The following day, I missed my Eurostar - probably a good thing as it was via Lille and it was a Brussels/Lille train that broke down in the tunnel - but I delivered Biff to La Grande Galerie, by doing the 60km round-trip at 25mph all the way. (I'm beginning to see the point of 4WD's.)

On Friday, I managed to drive to the station and get on a TGV to Paris, not even sure if the Eurostar was running. But I'm going to be controversial here and say that the E/star staff were brilliant, changing my ticket, pas de probleme, and putting me on the next train.

And so to the seminar, the first day of which was terrifying. I followed on from Kate Mosse and Carol Drinkwater who both spoke seamlessly and without notes for 45 minutes. I hid behind a lectern and delivered some general observations on life in Frane with frequent references to my prompt cards. It didn't help that I was drowned out by Jean-Christophe Novelli, extolling the merits of slow-cooking on the stage behind me; and had, at various points, to compete with the stirring strains of the can-can.

It also put me off kilter that three of the audience walked out in the first five minutes. ( Carol Drinkwater told me later that this is normal in exhibitions, but I think she was being kind.) On the second day, Sunday, I changed tack, ditched the cards and just spoke about how I came to find myself in France. This seemed to go down a lot better (at least no-one walked out.)

The good news is that I wasn't talking to an empty room (about 40 people showed up to each seminar), Tout Sweet sold out at the bookshop and I met some lovely people, including a fashion designer who had come all the way from New York to attend the show, and who is also thinking of moving to France. (See, everyone is at it!)

Now I'm back home. And I've realised that I'm much happier in front of a computer than an audience .

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When I received an email from atasteofgarlic.com, I assumed that it had been sent from the garlic marketing board as part of a PR initiative (I get sent a lot of this sort of thing.) So I ignored it. I opend the second one by mistake and I'm so glad I did because it was request for an interview; and when I looked, I found a great little site, reviewing French blogs (there are many of them) and the latest books about France. Atasteofgarlic.com was set up by Keith Eckstein who previously worked for Gardners book wholesalers in the UK and is now based here in France. Anyway, his questions were among the funniest I've been asked and can be seen here: http://www.atasteofgarlic.com, along with interviews with fellow authors including Joanne Harris and John Dummer, author of the very amusing 'Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette' (the story of a roguish antique dealer and surely one of the best book titles of the year?)

So far the year has got off to a cracking start. News reaches me from one central prestigious London store that Tout Sweet is their No1 besteller in travel writing paperbacks and No30 bestseller in paperbacks (general fiction), which might not sound like a big deal, but it's ahead of bestselling authors Jodi Picoult (No 33) and Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love fame (No 36).

Even more exciting was the news from Waterstones HIgh Street Kensington that a famous actress bought a copy of Tout Sweet before Christmas and went back to buy five more copies for her friends. She has since passed on the message that they are now all eagerly awaiting Toute Allure. That piece of news has just about made my year. It's so nice to be writing a book that someone is actually waiting for.

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In my village I'm known as 'la femme avec le petit chien noir.' (Yes, as per the Chekhov short story.) But now I'm not the only one. Patricia, who owns the tabac with her husband has acquired a little black schnauzer (or schnau-zehhhr as it is pronounced in French) called Emile.

Emile is extremely cute. When he is not prancing around the village with Patricia, he can be found curled up in front of a gas heater in the newsagents. Sometimes, I find an excuse to go in there just to look at him. Unfortunately, Biff is not at all pleased about this development. When Patricia tried to introduce Emile to him the other day, he growled aggressively at the newcomer. He's not happy that he has a rival in the villagers' affections.

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