Having never been a "dropper-in", it is one aspect of life here with which I often still struggle.

It's not that I don't necessarily want to see the "droppers-in", but I like to control their arrival. Control it because most days I'm not dressed until lunchtime as, with nowhere to go, what's the point?

My younger self would look with ill-concealed disgust at the me who happily saunters around my parc wearing a towelling robe, waving at passing tractors. Occasionally, if the dog is desperate and I'm semi-ready, I'll be sporting velcro rollers as an added refinement.

I did swear I would stop doing it after the lovely vet Monsieur Daly stopped the car and hurdled over the ditch to check on Portia. His visits normally see me in full fig with an extra spray of Chanel for luck in case he'd like to check me for ticks; not in yellow-and-blue rollers.

After he'd gone I was mortified to realise I had a large hole in the robe's elbow and a smear of fag ash down my front. My inner Charlotte Rampling had been let down by my outer Nora Batty.

Robert, who is now bringing me plums and apricots, has been well warned to never arrive in the mornings. But I should know by now that 11am is considered almost the afternoon, as they all rise at 6am.

Apparently, so I've been told by Genevieve, my behaviour is accepted and considered rather charming because I'm "a writer". The locals have decided I toil through the night, gripped by the muse, searching for the perfect sentence as they all sleep.

I will not disabuse them of this, by telling them that actually I'm probably watching total rubbish on TV. I don't want them to know I'm not dressed because I simply can't be bothered.

A friend of mine, J, lives in a nearby village inhabited by two warring families. At first, two members of one family would occasionally drop in, but over the months it has now reached alarming proportions. Having been there for dinner with three others last week, I was shocked when J's neighbour, his father, brother and sister-in-law appeared on the terrace, plonking themselves down in chairs next to us, hands outstretched for the wine. With them were two flea-ridden dogs and a cat. The neighbour spent the next hour or so taking calls on his mobile while the old father studiously avoided making conversation with any of the women.

There was no apology for interrupting when guests were present. A line has been crossed since J comforted the neighbour in his hour of need when his wife did a runner. In the latest development, he has taken to arriving at 6am as soon as he sees the light come on in J's kitchen. They sit and watch the sun come up over a couple of strong coffees.

J finds it totally acceptable, as he says it is so good for his French. I would be putting the For Sale board up and stumbling around the kitchen in the dark.

People are always saying I should live in a village house like J's, and given my fear of the dark it seems a perfectly sensible suggestion.

However, my fear of "droppers-in" is marginally greater than my fear of the dark.

In one Glasgow flat I had to take my shoes off when coming in so the upstairs neighbour wouldn't hear me and come aknocking to bore me for hours.

It meant, of course, I had to sit bang in front of the TV with the sound low enough for her not to hear it. It is not a way to live. And I couldn't risk ordering a home delivery.

The French drop in on each other all the time, but as they're all related they've been doing it since infancy and would be shocked by my views. I think they have a different definition of personal space – witness the non-stop kissing they indulge in for starters, even with total strangers.

However even they have some rules for droppers-in. Well, two – first, never, ever at lunch or dinner time unless invited. Nobody comes between a French man or woman and food. Second, never after 10pm, as all decent rural folk are fast asleep, alarm clock set for 6am.

As most Brits here pick and mix what bit of going native appeals to them, many have picked up the "let's go see X" part. But they don't necessarily hold to the food rule. One woman has the knack of arriving just as a meal is about to be served, saying "Oh dear, is that the time?' Of course, she's pressed to the table to share whatever is on it.

One couple I know now whip the food back into the oven, turn it off and wait her out.

She's never dropped in here, my dislike of droppers-in having gained some ground. Plus no matter what time she arrived, the chance of there being something in the oven, or even fridge, is as likely as Monsieur Daly checking me for ticks. n

cookfidelma@hotmail.com