I told you not to talk about the guinea fowl!
I'm not going to ruin the ambiance here but my advice to you as a woman of experience, is never try to cook a fancy Christmas dinner for, or indeed form a meaningful relationship with, a supposedly aristocratic, financially ruined, languid, skinny French type with a multiply barrelled name like Bastard de Bourbon de Biscuit dit Pas de Pot de Pisse. (Not his real name but not far off.)
Who fancies himself as an artist, has never done a hand's turn in all his born natural and lives in a pile of stones hanging desperately to a mountainside only sticking together to form a dwelling from six centuries of accumulated dirt, grease and the dilligent efforts of woodland creatures to colonise it as their own.
He will be apt to wake on Christmas morn, unequal to the situation, get upset that you have moved things in his hoarder's paradise and turn funny.
I called a friend and absconded. I had to leave the guinea fowl behind. He probably turned the gas bottle off and threw them away. He was happiest living on 'les biscottes et confiture' anyway.
It was a pretty insane and punchy thrown row. I won't get into it here but he phoned me a week later and said, "The lock that you kicked off after I left you in grand-maman Napoléone's bedroom to calm down was 16th Century. You have destroyed the fabric of the building."
I like being common, me. Turkey all the way! Got meat on it. Like my DP now! Ha! Ha!