Unless, perchance you are the man with the vin.

My heart sank as the silver car nosed to a halt outside.

With the glass doors I am as visible at my table to anyone arriving, as they are to me.

There is no place to dive to, out of sight and therefore, as far as they'd know, simply out.

In the covered courtyard my car gives away my presence and anyway, even this late in November, the windows are open to the gloriously still warm midday sun.

It is not that I don't want to see Eric - for the tall, leather jacketed outline is unmistakably his - but rather that I'd prefer he didn't see me.

Everyone knows not to come near me on a Wednesday as it's column writing day; and as I take procrastination to its highest art form, no temptation may be put in my way - for I will not resist.

Mind you, they also know not to come near me until at least 2pm on any day, and even then there are no guarantees of the state in which I may be found.

Field living, particularly French field living, changes one's attitude to style and well, the whole concept of dressing, actually.

Today, as Eric approaches the door, I am wearing a once favourite Max Mara blue and white vertical striped jumper.

I still love it, although a washing machine mistake has turned it into a shapeless tunic with sleeves that reach to the knees unless rolled up and up…and up.

Underneath, an old prep school rugby shirt of my son's (he's 32) and baggy linen trousers which slip dangerously rapper-style down my new almost skinny frame; now revealed in the absence of the daily vin.

And the hair, ah God, the too-long hair, is pulled tight in a scrunchy thing with bits dribbling around the, sadly, still double chin.

In all the years of his visits to LM, the darkly handsome, nicely muscled, suave 40-something Eric (with an acute accent over the E) has never seen me properly dressed or made up.

His timings are such that really, today, is a bonus for him, or rather for me.

Usually I'm still in the towelling robe, the hair on end, the fag ends mounting by the Mac.

He cares not. After the double kiss - OK, some I permit - he looks at me as if I'm the most desirable creature he has seen in months and waves a hand over my "forme."

"Superbe," he says, gently grasping my wrist to exclaim how tiny it is in his masculine grip.

I decide not to go into graphic detail of the gastro-enteritis that began this transformation.

Some beauty secrets a 'girl' just has to keep to herself.

His eyes follow me in admiration as I flip-flop (yellow, embossed with a daisy) to make his strong espresso.

He sighs in contentment, admiring again my books, the silver 'tablescape,' the scent of the candle I burn constantly to cover up the nicotine fog.

I mentally park, for now, my thoughts of writing my column on the planned Christmas GP and hospital specialists' strike over major health reform cuts.

I can still make the deadline.

Eric says he's here to ask me to lunch. I express regret, gesture to my clown's outfit and tell him I must write.

He asks why I didn't answer the calls he left on my answering machine inviting me to a friend's art exhibition.

I apologise saying I was in hospital.

I swear his eyes water with concern. Again I avoid the gruesome details, merely shrugging and muttering about 'a bug.'

He takes my hand, asking quickly if I permit it. I agree and slyly check the clock wondering how soon we can draw this agreeable so-French interlude to a close.

Eric, as you may remember from a long while back, is my dealer.

He knows that if I have the money, no matter if I'm in a period of abstinence, I will not be able to resist.

Eric is a 'formidable' merchant des vins. He hooked me with his Bordeaux vins one memorable afternoon: a solo tasting with him when we bonded over a couple of bottles, or so, of La Pissotiere de L'Imperatrice.

Bonded. Such a lovely euphemism for got rat-arsed.

I eye the clock again. We've now been chatting about this and that for an hour and a half with brief moments of praise to my re-emerged cheekbones.

I need to bring this to an end - I have a health service to examine and anyway, my sleeves are starting to unravel.

There must be a French equivalent to: "OK, get your coat, you've pulled" but not in the pull market these days, I wouldn't know.

Instead I tell him he's lucky. I have people coming so I'll take two cases of my old favourite.

"Non, non," he cries. "I'm not here to sell you wine. I just came to see you. But….of course, if you insist."

I quirk an eyebrow (sort of). He grins and goes to get the wine.

He leaves me with a hug and a large cheque. He also leaves me with the fond memory of a clever, charming, so French game. What health service?