Well, I doubt there's been as much excitement in Lavit since the last world championship nut-blowing day.

I went to the first and, frankly, that was almost enough excitement to last what's left of my lifetime.

After a certain age you can only take so much heart-lepping action. However, I do regret missing the unveiling of the little and large fibre-glass squirrels holding hazelnuts that sit on the first roundabout into the village.

They cement our global status as nut-blowers but, sans plaque, you'd have to be a local to understand their awesome significance. To be fair we've had our moments.

I was there when workmen unveiled the spruced-up First World War memorial soldier statue. Then, polite interest turned to tittering horror when we saw the sombre figure reduced to a cartoon by a paint job straight out of Disney. That kept us going for weeks until the mayor finally saw sense and sent him back for stripping.

Next up was the daubing of the new baker's shop that had the mayor sprinting from his office to berate the old baker who was not, unsurprisingly, fingered as the perp.

If you recall, the graffiti was such she might as well have added her name. (The handsome new baker is still keeping us all in a state of mild frisson every time we buy a bun. I've bought a lot of buns recently during these long grey days. I don't eat buns.)

Since then I can't say there's been anything to get us, me, going en masse – in that I exclude the monthly bingo and tea-dancing sessions. I'm not good with numbers and I will never, ever, ever foxtrot with another woman even if I could foxtrot. And please don't even mention the line-dancing classes.

But then out of the gloom, out of the mists, came a rumour that set all our hearts and tongues a-flickering. It seemed that the young couple who ran our laughingly called mini supermarket (the eight-to-eight which never kept those hours) were calling it a day.

From Brittany, they had never settled here, finding it too hot in the summer and too far from the sea. By all accounts they weren't too enamoured by us either and our southern ways, but that could just be tittle-tattle.

Week by week the goods on the shelves dwindled, and the butcher's counter with its purple-encrusted slabs of tissue and sinew was reduced to a few scrawny chickens, slabs of enormous livers and massed coils of toulouse sausages. Then the butcher disappeared but his meat lingered on.

Gaps appeared in the ranks of the overpriced wine and, quelle horreur, there were now only 50 types of cheese available instead of the usual 100. When the incredibly expensive Cathedral Cheddar disappeared, I knew the rumours were true.

As is the way here, we decided to focus on the worst-case scenario.

The pre-fab, tin-roofed building would be bulldozed and the final nail in Lavit's coffin hammered in – no pub, no restaurant, no cafe and now no shop. Doomed, all doomed.

Imagine then the frenzy when word went around that we would be getting a Carrefour Express – think Tesco Metro. Under interrogation Monsieur Huit a Huit simply smiled enigmatically, but Roslyn had heard it from Denny and he'd heard it from Agnes, so it had to be true.

And, lo, one day two weeks ago all was shut. The following day the car park was packed with tradesmen's vans, important-looking men in suits carrying clipboards marched in and out of the sliding doors, dismantled shelving piled up outdoors and even the facade was stripped bare.

I'm told a few of the older inhabitants took to sitting in canvas chairs to watch the developments – baguette and flask in hand, naturally.

Me? Don't be ridiculous – I just happened to swing by once or thrice, that's all.

Not slow off their marks when the big news beckons, the local paper started to build up the excitement by revealing all in two paragraphs on the front page. Yes, Carrefour Express. Hurrah.

The mayor spoke of his pride and the new franchisees were photographed arm in arm welcoming us to opening day.

I went the next day. The car park was full. Bright new yellow trollies stood in a line. Inside I joined the throng, our jaws slack, corn sticking out of our ears as we stared at the bounty before us. Glory be, Fortnum & Mason has come to Lavit (let's not split hairs here – it's all relative).

Unfortunately my son Pierce phoned that night. I took him through every aisle, every piece of meat, every bottle of water until finally I said: "Hello? Hello? Are you there?"

Not for the first time here I heard his worried sigh: "Mum, what's happened to you? Listen to yourself. You've got to get out of there."

I know. I know.

cookfidelma@hotmail.com