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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To midnight mass in a nearby village last night. There was incense, candle light, a giggling altar boy and wobbly benches. We had to carefully synchronise standing up and sitting down so as not to end up lying in a heap on a cold stone floor. According to Martine the benches are new and are already notorious for miles around. Meanwhile, I was amused to discover that Pontius Pilate is actually Ponce Pilate in French (it sounds much less threatening.)

Everyone was very dressed up - high heels and cocktail wear despite the glacial weather - and I assumed it was for Christmas. But no. Martine provided the inside scoop, explaining that since Claude, the handsome black priest from Guyana, arrived in the parish, attendance at mass has shot up dramatically for miles around. (He is also responsible for at least five other nearby villages.) And high heels and full maquillage are now the norm, adding a whole new meaning to the phrase endimanché (Sunday best).

Sure enough, a crowd of well dressed young women gathered by the nativity scene when mass was over, apparently hoping for a glimpse of Claude in his trendy leather jacket and jeans. (Claude is actually one of my neighbours, so I am privileged to see him in this ensemble, as opposed to his flowing white robes, on a regular basis.)

And so to Christmas day. The champagne is on ice, the turkey is in the oven and Biff is licking his lips. All that remains to do is to wish everyone JOYEUX NOEL.

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The house fairy arrived today - or rather house fairies - in the shape of two students from a nearby village. They blitzed the house from top to bottom, while Biff watched in awe from the sofa. As one of my French friends so charmingly put it, everything is now looking 'very spink and span.'

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Les pauvres marchands. Yesterday, was the marché de noel in my village but at 8.00am a mini blizzard was blowing outside the window. By 10am, there was a thick new layer of snow on the ground. And when I took Biff down to the river it had frozen over (see picture).

The surrounding countryside has been transformed into a winter wonderland by the snow. But it wasn't great for the Christmas market. Not surprisingly, given the treacherous state of the roads, many of the stall holders stayed away. As did most of the customers. So those poor people who did show up stood in the snow and glacial wind all day and from what I hear, takings were very slim.

But at least the local bookshop was busy as people picked up their home made Christmas cakes and took shelter from the icy weather. The other bright spot was the impromptu bar serving vin chaud, set up by Elsa, the proprietor of the organic épicerie. I have nicknamed this the 'hippy corner' of the square, as it is also home to Pascal, the local artist, who had set out brightly painted tables and chairs around the bar. Unfortunately, it was far too cold for anyone to sit on them.

The serial killer meanwhile, ever the opportunist, stood on his hind legs and was about to steal a very expensive cheese from one marchand's table, while my attention was diverted by a neighbour. Fortunately, Jon Wakeman (a character that those who have read Tout Sweet will know) was passing by with his local butcher, Jean-Michel, and spotted what my naughty dog was about to do. Otherwise, since the cheese cost €24 for 100g, it could have been a very expensive Sunday.

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The serial killer has a new hair cut (after the latest incident I'm hoping people won't recognise us when we're out and about.)

The phrase 'butter wouldn't melt,' springs to mind. But don't be fooled by those doe-eyes....

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