No, I’ve not been slacking off relaxing by our pool or frolicking down on the beach but hard at it in the office battling over some new software which is keeping me horridly busy and away from my blog. So busy in fact that poor old Freddy has had to contend with runs in our garden as opposed to the park and Nigel has had to wear the cook’s apron these past few days. Happily, the adage you can’t teach an old dog a new trick (or two) has yet to sink into my brain; I may still blunder about in the dark over a few technical problems but progress (albeit slow) is being made.

If I may have turned the corner on this particular knotty software issue, I also feel that this coming weekend is another turning point. The 18th Fête des Jardins is being held in Sophia-Antipolis as of tomorrow and throughout the weekend and marks for me the true start of spring and the promise of summer itching to start. For garden lovers everywhere on the French Riviera this flower show is the place to be whether you’re looking for a typical Mediterranean plant or something more exotic.

When I first arrived on the French Riviera I marvelled at the wonderful vegetation that grew so naturally everywhere. Only much later did I learn that 90% of it had been imported from different regions of the globe and was not native to these shores at all. For example, the first palm trees on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice were only planted in 1868 and came from other shores than these.  But when I learnt that the well-known Villa Ephrussi-de-Rothschild on St Jean-Cap Ferrat, one of the most beautiful and best known icons of the French Riviera had originally been yellow (it was only painted pink in 1960 when it came under the care of the Académie des Beaux-Arts and received a face-lift) my curiosity soon got the better of me.

In fact, it niggled away so much that I’ve taken the momentous decision to dedicate as much as I can of 2008 to uncovering the real French Riviera.  This also gives me a great opportunity to update and review everything that I’ve written and published on the website and bring subjects up to date as well. While Freddy will certainly be enjoying loads of walks with me (as will my pedometer), I fear that Nigel will be wearing the cook’s apron for a lot longer!

There’s much to be said for the joys of working from home and I for one applaud the use of computer technology to allow me to do just that for AMB Cote d’Azur.  I am also rather pleased to say that I have learnt a number of new skills (janitor, electrician, Mrs Fix-It Now) and, just recently, a new one: how to lie to Cold Callers.

Used by one of my other eccentric Belgian aunts quite successfully, (she pretended to be their Spanish cleaner), I have decided to reinstate this sneaky tactic for cold callers. I may be the President of AMB Cote d’Azur, but by George, I can metamorphose into a cranky old English charlady at the drop of a hat when “called upon”.

With the increase of annoying unsolicited telephone calls I’m finding that I’m honing my new skills to even greater heights and have them now quite polished.  After my unsolicited caller has rattled off their usual scripted spiel, I then launch into one of my own, stumbling around in badly spoken French, throwing in the odd word of English for effect, and generally pretending to be hard of hearing. This normally has the desired effect as they quickly come to realize that this tiresome woman hasn’t a clue what they’re on about and ring off pleasantly.

Yet there is a small band of more persistent cold callers who push their luck a little harder, some even daring to tell me that "Monsieur et Madame Barker" are  expecting their precious "pre-arranged" call and that we know all about it. At this point the devil in me simply can’t resist but flows into immaculate French, revealing that they’re actually speaking to the lady of the house and to basically, Fob Off. Which they do.

As I sit here at my computer and watch the number of spam emails tumbling into my Junk File, I truly regret not being able to use the same dastardly deed on them too  . . .

Worrying that I was fast becoming a “computer” slouch potato, I invested the princely sum of 10 Euros in a rather cute pedometer yesterday. As Nigel’s tatty old BMW needed a “contrôle technique” (compulsory test for roadworthiness and similar to the UK’s MOT) this morning, I took the opportunity to try out my new gadget by walking part of the way home with Freddy while it counted my steps.

I keep forgetting how fortunate we are to live in Chateauneuf-de-Grasse and how quite open country it is too. I also forget that it’s not really flat around here and that wonderful views are paid for by walking up steep hills and getting (and looking) out of puff. Naturally, I have found a way round this and stop to admire a leaf, a fence post, even my shoelace when the going gets tough. Passers-by naturally assume that I’m contemplating nature and their beautiful French countryside, greet me with a pleasant “Bonjour!” and continue on their way . . . sadly, out of breath, I can only manage a lop-sided smile.

By the time we arrived home I’d walked 8,256 steps (6kms). Such dizzying results started me thinking: how many steps is the Promenade des Anglais in Nice? La Croisette in Cannes or to climb up Eze? What if I walked from Nice to Villefranche-sur-Mer – how many steps would that be? While all these questions buzzed through my head I found it no use suggesting these fabulous walkies to Freddy; he was already sound asleep in his favourite armchair.