We take our weather very seriously in La France Profonde.

You can see that at a glance from the numerous websites devoted to the Midi-Pyrenees alone. And after the initial ritual of "bonjour monsieur, bonjour madame" at every stop and shop, we'll spend a happy ten minutes discussing the temperature.

The locals never say the equivalent of our "it's bloody freezing," but always "it's not hot." Sometimes, if it's the middle of a summer heatwave they add a frown and say "it's not cold."

I told you, they're thrawn.

Remember also, never translate literally "I'm hot" ie "Je suis chaud."

Always think "I have hot," or "J'ai chaud."

Should you say the former you're saying you're hot as in, say, "she's a hot babe" but with an even racier context that would mean you were basically offering your throbbing body to the waiter who just wants to serve you a coffee.

(Mind you, waiters are used to it. To excuse my often-uneaten meals during the house search, I would smile and say: "Je suis plein," meaning "I am full."

(They always smiled in a pitying way. I presumed it was sorrow because I couldn't finish such a delicious meal. It was a while before I discovered I was telling them I was pregnant. )

If it's really horrible they call it "un temps de chien," dog weather. Apparently that goes back to a time when dogs were considered the lowest of the low.

My favourite for describing torrential rain is: "il pleut comme vache qui pisse." Vache is cow and I think you can work out the rest, particularly if you have ever watched a cow urinate.

Another is: Un temps a faire se pendre un canard; weather to make a duck hang itself.

Since ducks are impervious to water - water off a duck's back - it must be pretty hellish to make one want to hang itself.

Now you wouldn't think we'd have all these expressions in SW France where all we do is lotus eat while lounging around our pools in a constant 30 degrees.

Well, according to the UK Government that is, who fiddled the average French temps to take in the overseas, often tropical territories, to do expat pensioners out of their cold weather allowance in the future.

As I am not of the school that begins sentences with "I paid my taxes all my life so..." I couldn't give a toss about the paltry allowance, only the cynical gerrymandering.

It is not something I would ever claim but the majority here sees it as a right whether in need of the cash or not.

Strangely they're usually the ones most vociferous in their denunciation of the immigrants "flooding" the UK demanding benefits.

Oh, would those be the reciprocal EU benefits they bang on about?

Anyway, I've meandered off again - puppy brain; don't ask.

So, this week all our constant vigilance of the weather forecasts finally paid off.

Snow was coming, moving in a monstrous swathe from the north to threaten our famed, and non-existent, microclimate.

I swear there was singing and dancing in the streets of Lavit with the bounty of such misery to impart.

The sullen girl who serves at the mini-market was a positive sunbeam as she recounted the snow's progress to each individual customer.

Even my rolling up of my sleeves to show her my bitten arms could not compete with the weather that day. "You'll need more wine than that," she said, ringing up the two bottles. "The roads will be impassable. The ice will come in the night. After the snow. C'est pas normale." She shuddered with delight.

I added another two bottles to the checkout, plus a family size bag of Maltesers.

At the tabac, I listened to the three prophetesses of doom as they commanded the owner's attention. "Old people will die," said one. "No, no," said another. "It's good. It'll kill off all the germs."

Another nodded in agreement, adding: "That's why so many were ill last year. The winter was too good. C'est pas normale."

Clutching my three cartouches of fags for the siege I passed Miriam on the way out. "Good," she said, eyeing them. "You're prepared. It's going to be bad."

I gave her my worried face and added for good measure: "C'est past normale."

The snow was to hit overnight. TV and radio warned all the schools would be closed, public transport in Toulouse would not be running, electricity would probably go down and all should travel if only vital.

With some trepidation I went to bed.

Snow has its own silence, and I knew before I opened my shutters, it had come with the stealth of an assassin.

It was beautiful. The outline of the fields with their white covering were Rubenesque - voluptuous mounds, dipping and rising all the way it seemed, to the Pyrenees. Even they had appeared on the southern horizon that morning - the jagged outline a natural encasement to our region.

On line, La Depeche confirmed the chaos it had brought. All was at a standstill, the roads deserted; cars nose down in ditches.

How deep? Ooh, a good 3 inches....