Seven years on and still blonde

For no reason whatsoever, a thought struck me this morning. Seven years ago this weekend, I sat down in a cosy corner of a sitting room in a suburban semi in Streatham, South-West London and started to write a blog. And here I am still tap tapping away every Sunday albeit on a stool tucked under a kitchen island in an apartment attached to a huge house surrounded by palatial grounds in a little village somewhere in rural South-West France. I have that very first piece of writing in front of me as we speak; I titled it “What to do on a Sunday”. It was a short piece, I wish I’d added photos back then but then again, would I have wanted to take a snapshot of my world on that Sunday. I won’t bore you with repeating everything I penned on the 6th of January 2019 but there are a couple of sentences in the last paragraph that have always stuck with me on these anniversaries of sorts; “don’t make any changes in the first year. Don’t sell your house, don’t change your job, don’t move country” – all of which I did of course.

Mind you, if I had had a scooby doo of an idea for what lay ahead, living on my own in said apartment attached to a great big empty house entering the fourth week without heating would have been enough to make me turn the Mothership around . Yup, Max the chauffagiste still can’t figure out why the boiler doesn’t want to warm my frozen extremities so has decided to call in reinforcements of the specialist kind tomorrow. To be honest, I’ve gotten so used to the numb feeling in my footsies I’ve stopped shivering and just, well, got on with things. Indeed, my stiff upper lip grit mode has not gone unnoticed. Every time I venture out into the village, I am greeted like a warrior princess – skinny blonde English girl surviving against all odds kind of worship. It’s a bit embarrassing really, after all I do have a roof over my head and clothes on my back but it’s nice to be thought about. And I do have the fireplace downstairs although I still haven’t conquered the actual lighting part so poor Denis has to drag himself over here every morning to ashes to flame. It might seem a bit of a waste of a woodpile to keep stoking the stove but it does keep the ground floor of the main abode and its contents warm which in turn makes the place feel a little less abandoned.

Speaking of contents and venturing out, I went on a little recovery mission yesterday. Someone had posted a fauteuil on a local buy and sell site and I of course had to have it. Okay, I don’t actually need another chair but I couldn’t resist its plush red velveted cushion so I hopped into Bluebottle, that’s my car by the way, and whizzed off to Carcassonne. Now, I have often said that just because I’m blonde it doesn’t make me stupid but this was one of those moments in time, it did. You see, Bluebottle is a not built for carrying furniture on account of her small booty something I should have thought of before parking up in a very narrow cul-de-sac and paying for the chair. It didn’t fit. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the homeowners was uploading their social media with videos of my useless efforts to push and wiggle the thing around or my decision to drive home with the rear door open and half a chair hanging out the back. Doing a 10 point turn on a tiny street with an exposed boot was one thing but on entering one of the busier roundabouts in Carcassonne, my car’s contents started to shift in the wrong direction, outwards, so I did what any sensible person would do in this situation; put your hazard lights on and pull over. Ha, this is France and no sooner than I did, horns blasted and fists waved (I’m being polite) so I had to bump along precariously until I found a safer place to save my chair. Of course, if I had different colour hair, I might have secured my cargo before take off and not have to contort my aged body so I could find the seatbelts needed to strap it in nor would I have smeared my boot sole’s unseen dog poo onto the console in the process. Still, as I weaved my way through the mercifully short journey home, I couldn’t help but laugh at how unfazed I was about the whole shebang. Who’d ever have thought that widow plus woofers 7 years ago would be pootling across the country side in another land in a little blue car with a bright crimson armchair hanging out the back?..

” All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.” (Martin Buber)

Hello 2026

Well, hello 2026 and Bonne année et bonne santé à tous! We shall not speak of the one just passed but look forward instead to what, I hope for all of us, will be a bloody good year. After all, February will mark something rather significant for some of us – the Year of the Fire Horse no less, an event that only comes round every 60 years. Ah yes, THAT birthday. Best not dwell too much on that but rather the appearance of the Wolf Moon this weekend which, if you’re like me and believes in that sort of stuff, is connected with renewal and transformation. A more preferable thought for the beginning of the next 12 months I feel.

I’ve said it before but as I’m one to repeat myself I’m told (repeatedly), I’m not going to lay down New Year resolutions. Having said that, I did have a good talk to my inner self as well as a kick up the butt. It’s time to get out of all that ‘poor me’ malarky and stop expecting others to sort my life out. I’ve lists aplenty and appointments in the diary, admittedly most of the latter are to do with vets or doctors but I have had a tendency to put things off in the past. It’s not that I’m feeling ill or anything but my eyeballs haven’t had a check up in five years so my specs aren’t doing what they used to do and there is, of course, the dreaded annual trip to the dentist. One I hope will be just that, annual, ’cause these gnashers are expensive. I suppose I ought to go and visit the GP as well, I’ve lost a few kilos over the Christmas period but I think that’s more down to shivering than pneumonia due to the absence of heating. With any luck, the necessary doodad will be with us tomorrow morning and Max chauffagiste will be able to revive my frozen tootsies. And as mentioned, there’s the vet appointment for Arry (as usual) to restart his physio – the anti-inflammatories for his arthritic spine do tend to make him forget that he’s a bit wobbly in the back end so he needs some muscle therapy. Thankfully, he does like the coat I bought him; I know he’s a German Shepherd but he’s a ‘getting old’ one and personally I think he looks rather suave even if he’s never been sophisticated.

At least, the rain has stopped even if it’s still tundra temperatures outside (and in). We haven’t had any snow as yet, something Denis seems to want, why? but blue skies and sunshine to start the year off can’t be all bad. Makes one want to get busy. I’ve started dismantling the sapins and putting all the baubles back in their boxes. My flurry of activity has got some raised eyebrows from the locals however, in these parts one doesn’t tear down the tinsel until the end of January but I don’t see the point of hanging on to what’s been and gone and the fairy lights need time to re-tangle themselves before their next outing. I have however consented to leaving the corner wall display up for the moment, D says the village have to have something cheery to look at although one of the reindeers got so soggy it’s now bent over backwards and the fake snow has been reduced to a few blotches here and there. Mind you, since it will no doubt be the last of my seasonal spectaculars up there, I’m happy to observe such village customs – we’ve a new year ahead, things to do and places to be my friends…

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves” (William Shakespeare)

Cold comforts and apple sauce

Without, I hope, sounding too bah humbag, that has to have been one of my most miserable Christmases and not because I didn’t have Mumo or the rest of the family here. That in itself would be bad enough but the boiler decided to break down so I’ve had no radiators radiating warmth for a week and it rained non-stop for 6 of those days. Oddly enough, the last time the heat packed up was back in 2020 – a time when none of us could share our dinner with loved ones and Mumo and I ended up sharing a duck breast over a tiny hall table being only the two of us. On the plus side, thanks to her, we now have a lovely fireplace down in living room downstairs so I can remain partially de-frosted until Max the chauffagiste can fix the wretched reservoir.

Okay, it hasn’t been all bad. Despite our number being somewhat diminished by the usual winter arrival of the flu bug, Denis and I did get to host a decent spread on Christmas Day in the big house thanks to that lovely fireplace. And as I was playing lady of the manor, I treated my French famille to something more traditional where I come from. I’m not entirely sure everyone liked the pudding but the brandy butter was washed down well and I had several requests for my apple sauce recipe – honestly I thought we stole the idea from them but I’ll take the compliments for us Brits. Present opening with the Collins’ is always after lunch which was a little stressful for D’s grand-daughter Maria – such excitements are usually on Christmas Eve for les enfants but she lasted well and with the help of some of the woofers who I sneaked in (big brother Simon will never know )and gifts under the tree, gave a more than passable impression of a shredder on max speed.

Spending the holiday season on my own for the first time is, well, a little strange. Okay, there are my beloved woofers who have to be dislodged from from various parts of my body every morning so I can be all-Cinders like and rush down the outside staircase to clean the fireplace before attempting to set light to it. You would imagine by this time, my furry bedspread would be leaping around their palatial land but no, they don’t like the frigid wet stuff anymore than me so stay snug under the duvet. Then of course, there is Denis who appears like a scruffy angel at regular intervals to revive my pathetic offerings to the heat Gods and those friends who rallied round with various plug-in radiators having heard of my plight. Yet, and even though the sun has finally decided to make a break for it and Monsieur le météo has kindly turned off the tap, I’m still feeling selfishly lonely at times. I blame the weather, I’m still English after all even if I haven’t spoken my mother tongue for what seems like eons and my jaw aches from all the vocal yoga but there’s a New Year just around the corner and with that, let’s hope, a little home on the top of a hill just up the road and to the right. Without a boiler but definitely, most definitely a fireplace…

See you all in 2026!

““There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.” (C.S. Lewis)

Christmas 2025

Well, here we are. The second to last blog of 2025 and on the winter solstice as well – I wonder what astrologists would say about that but then again, I’m trying to steer clear of that temptation. If I’m being honest, it still doesn’t feel much like Christmas without Mumo here or the Collins’ family crowding the kitchen and I’ll probably a total mess when Lou and Maxime the nephews leave for their Mum’s on Tuesday. For a start, I still haven’t succeeded in the roasting fireplace department – a job Denis is going to have to take on if I’m to have any decent heat in the apartment and having to look after that big old house all by myself feels slightly Dickensian for some reason. I did think about moving in there, briefly I might add; the thought of letting Sherman loose with all that furniture and his penchant for lifting a leg on new smells slammed the lid on that one. However, there is a plus side to all this aloneness – I can play Christmas music all day long without anyone complaining, not counting the woofers.

Actually, as weeks go and despite my grouchy approach to the season, the past one has been rather fun. Denis and I had the chance to pop back over to brother Simon’s and wife Alba’s place in Argeliers for a spot of lunch and to pick up the rest of what will eventually be my new kitchen. We nearly didn’t make it as, due to a French farmers strike blocking the main arterial routes, Denis decided to take the back roads – a lot of them. Through very tiny villages in our not so small camion. Thankfully, my man is a very good driver but unfortunately lacking much sense of direction so many of those villages were seen more than once until he eventually gave in to my request for good old Google. At least we managed to take the right turns on our return journey, an art in itself with so much cabinetry crammed in the van and the only thing stopping us from unloading the lot mid-way was a piece of rope holding the ‘couldn’t quite get them closed’ back doors in place. Mission completed, the garage is now bursting with cupboards and counter tops; all of which are desperate for renovation and a decent paint job but will have to wait until the weather gets a little warmer.

Mind you, we have been lucky in the temperature department and apart from one spectacular storm, all balmy and blue skies so much so that I got to see some impressive aerial manoeuvres over the gardens. Standing on a sun-drenched terrace one afternoon, I saw a falcon come in to land on one of the trees next to the pool deck. It’s not the first time this particular raptor has visited; the last time it nearly got chomped by Arry as it misjudged the weight of the dove between its talons and swooped a little too low but now was happily snoozing on a branch. It must have been sleeping as the falcon took no notice of Bert and Skirt’s (the resident magpies) dive-bombing – sensibly not too close. And if that wondrous sight wasn’t enough, Friday had me pointing my phone up to the heavens and Simon checking Flight Radar so we could catch a glimpse of a plane. No, I haven’t taken up a new hobby; this was a special bypass – Maxime flying solo across the horizon above. Okay, very far above but a proud moment nevertheless. And with Simon and Alba going off to Miami the next morning, we all sat down to a pre-Christmas celebratory feast that evening – pigeon casserole, I kid you not.

And with that, to all I wish you a wonderful Noël. May your stockings be full and glasses overflow. May your tables groan with the most delicious of delicacies and the sound of corks popping. Cheers everyone!

“Christmas is a baby shower that went totally overboard.” ( Andy Borowitz)

Snotty noses and soulful spirits

There are many things that I’m not very good at and dealing with a stinky cold is one of them. I don’t do illness well whether its being the nurse or worse, the patient. I spent most of last week under a black cloud of doom in full sneeze mode with only the occasional respite thanks to whoever invented Vicks. Feeling and looking like someone coming off a heroin bender was one thing but being understood in your non-native language, I discovered, was frustrating to say the least – try differentiating deux, dix or douze with a stuffed up nose. Still, as more than one in the village told me, it’s better to succumb now than in the summer or on Christmas Day and I am now, finally almost back to my normal festive self.

I say almost back because at this point in December, I should be busy wrapping presents and helping organise bedrooms for incoming family the week before the big day but not this year. There’ll be no-one here but me and the woofers over the holiday period so the spirit is a little off. In an attempt to bring out my inner Santa sense and since I am playing host for some of Denis’ family on Christmas Day, I dragged my man off to the local jardinarie to buy a big fat tree to liven up the main house. I have to admit that compared to my apartment which is twinkling merrily and despite the sapin for once being tastefully decorated with no tinsel in sight, the place still looks somewhat bereft without Mumo’s presence and that of my siblings. As my sister Bong put in her recent text, it’s a strange time this year.

Having said all that, the property wasn’t totally devoid of bodies this week – we had another viewing and this time by a young couple and their kids. Having off-loaded all but one of the woofers on Denis and the camion, I left the estate agent in charge and took myself and Alice up to what will be our new plot up the road and to the right. If you are wondering why Alice wasn’t with the others then you’ve never been in a car with her – she’s very loud, painfully so. As we took in the view of the Corbières and the ambient surroundings, okay she was paying more attention to the Goldie across the road, it dawned on me how quickly this last year has passed and how much has happened within those 12 months. Walking back a little time later down the lane to the back of my current home, I saw the two children playing on our front lawn. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that Alice had seen a cat on our wall and was trying her best to get in a bit of extreme rock-climbing but it felt vaguely reassuring that hopefully, in the not too distant future, the place would have a family again.

And it’s not just the big house that feel a little off at the moment, the poor garden doesn’t know which season it’s supposed to be in. With the weather deciding that blue skies and high teen degrees is perfectly normal in wintertime, half the foliage is on the floor whilst the rest is in full bloom. On the positive side, this does help charge up the solar lights illuminating our reindeer display but I do worry about my plantings as I will have to move them in the next few months and they really should be asleep by now. Still, one can’t deny that a little bit of sunshine does the spirit and the snotty nose a world of good and with only so many shopping days left until Christmas, I am determined to bring a little bit of Sophi magic to the party. And now, with my new television courtesy of a priceless pal, it’s time to switch on the Disney classics, put on the dancing slippers and get out the wrapping paper don’t you think?…

“December, being the last month of the year, cannot help but make us think of what is to come.” (Fennel Hudson)

Tablet traumas and mislaid mushrooms

Somehow, and over a single weekend, I’ve managed to crack my mobile’s screen (luckily only a minor scratch), smash my Ipad, lose the television sound and break the on button on the washing machine. The latter is not a critical problem as I have two even if this one is used for the dog bedding which means rinsing the ‘human’ one constantly and I rarely watch the TV but for some reason I was ridiculously upset at the state of my Ipad. It was my fault; too much excitement after trouncing Denis at Monopoly and the tablet flew off the table but my mother-in-law, Jenny, bought it for me just before I left the UK so a bit sentimental. And my TV won’t air the BBC so there was the issue of not being able to have my Strictly fix, although thankfully, the thing is still working – I just can’t turn it off. At least, my phone still works as sharing my technological tantrums with Callum, I hope lifted his gloomy mood – relationship hiccups need a Mum’s ear and a bit of humorous distraction. I hate that he lives so far away but when it comes to essentials, my portable is just that.

Mind you, there’s been more than enough to keep me busy outside for the last week as Denis and I started and finished getting up all the outside Christmas bling. Unlike my usual desire to throw everything on to the corner wall, this year’s theme is a little less garish and a little more classy. The only problem is where D put all the lighting; I really don’t care for leaning over a wall at height to irradiate the reindeer every evening and then turn them off in pitch dark before bed. Still, the village seems to be pleased with the outcome and now that the street illuminations have been installed, everything is feeling a bit festive. The only thing that’s missing is a tree in the main house but that will have to wait until after Wednesday as we have another viewing and being poked by pine needles is hardly an incentive to buy the place.

And, what with us now being in December and all, I dragged D off to a Christmas market in nearby St-Hilaire yesterday- Le Marché aux Truffes. Generally, I’m not one for crowd containment but since this one was local and I do like truffles, a chance to savour the delacacies over a few glasses of Blanquette was not to be missed. Except we did. Me, being me, had missed the small print neatly written under the headline – the fungi feast was in the morning not all day. The number of parking spaces outside the Abbey St-Hilaire should have been a give away. Still, we did end up having a glass whilst perusing round the remaining artisan merchandise and I came away with a very cute Baker Boy hat to add to my collection and a decent bottle of wine from a Domaine I’m well-acquainted with. Neither of which were in my budget but cheaper than a dug up mushroom. Or a new Ipad or a new TV or a new washing machine. Santa’s list is getting awfully long…

“Once again, we come to the holiday season, a deeply religious time that each of us observes, in his own way, by going to the mall of his choice.” (Dave Barry)

Boredom goes in the back seat

Unlike my darling Arry who sees any trip in a car as a chance to unleash his inner puppy at full volume, being driven instead of being the driver gives me a chance to silence the mind bubbles and just enjoy the passing countryside. Such occasions are rare, mainly because I’m a bit of a control freak and Denis’ excitable chatter does tend to lead to missing exits off roundabouts – I once told he’d make a fortune as a tourist taxi what with his ‘scenic routes’. However, an opportunity to pop over to brother Simon’s new house to pick up some goodies for my yet to be built abode needed the camion and since I’m not a fan of a stick shift – D took charge and I got the window seat. Taking the back roads was, for once, worth it as the journey between here and Argeliers winds across flat plains covered with vines over-looked by the impressive Corbières mountain range which you don’t really get a proper view of when you’re bombing down the autoroute at 130 kms an hour. It was a lovely day out, not least because I managed to add a very large water tank and a slew of kitchen cabinets to my bulging storage space that used to be the carport but it also broke the monotony of what was a rather boring week.

Okay, it wasn’t like I didn’t have work to do, just that I was getting a bit tired of tedium that comes with end of November but not yet December days. D and I did drag out all the Christmas decorations from the loft which appeared to have multiplied since last year, probably due to the number of lights which no longer work but I’d stuffed up there anyway. And yes, the fairies had been at it again and I had to spend an entire day unravelling strands of wiring which I’m sure I’d neatly arranged before packing them but as boredom-busting activities go, getting tangled in tinsel isn’t one of them. Still, at least the picture is now up in the signboard’s frame, not that anyone’s probably seen it due to the depressing weather of late and I have made a start on our idea for the corner wall display so hands have not been idle.

Having said all that, it wasn’t all blah. Knowing my nephew had a guest staying for the weekend meaning endless piano talk over what, I can only describe as on odd choice for dinner party food; soup, Denis and I elected to share take-out pizza with friends down the road last night. Michel and Frederique are one of those couples that, no matter what hell has hit them in life, see the rainbow and make you want to look out of the same window. After all, it’s December next week and we all know what that means. There’s a tree to buy, presents to think about, cards to be written, a pudding to make and a corner to decorate. Time to get back in the driver’s seat me thinks…

“Stop looking at the walls; look out the window” (Karl Pilkington)

It’s in the way you view it

We had another viewing this week. The estate agent told me afterwards that the gentleman in question happened to be part of a certain very well-known Domaine family in these parts – actually you can get their Blanquette pretty much anywhere but I digress. Naturally, he loved the house and all its additions but as she put it, had one major issue – the view of the pool from the apartment terrace. No privacy. Now, admittedly the bloody thing is impossible to miss but, as I pointed out to the agent, you could always hide with a few giant oleanders or maybe just move the entire ensemble into the front garden. I was joking about the latter but I could see her brain cogs working.

Personally, if it had been me showing the gent around, I would have directed his gaze a little more to the left. That’s a view I never tire of. Okay, he may not have wanted to see the humungous steel grey vats of the winery below (not his after all) but it’s impossible not to let the eyes drift up into the hills beyond. It’s not that the landscape is particularly beautiful, quite bare really but there’s something incredibly peaceful about it. And of course, being an Englishwoman, one gets the weather forecast just by looking at the sky above it each morning. Today, gloomy with drizzle but at least mildly warmer than most of last week – flippin’ freezing. I’m not built for the cold, just putting a foot outside the door brings on frostbite. Still, it was a good excuse to stay indoors and finish the tableau for the billboard which I have but you’ll have to wait until Denis puts it in for a glimpse.

Yet, whilst it may be an eyesore to some, I’m hoping the pool is going to give me a different view in the coming months with the installation of a little present I bought for myself. Although I highly doubt that my camera trap will blow me away with the same nightlife little brother Moth gets on his – cheetahs and lions don’t tend to wander this way but the bowels of the piscine’s huge deck do provide a winter shelter for those out there in our bit of French wilderness. As per normal, I had to get nephew Maxime to figure out all its bells and whistles and set it to turn on in the middle of the night – no-one wants to see what the woofers get up to down there and nocturnal nature is so much more interesting. And speaking of my four-legged co-inhabitants, I managed to get them all in one place and eyes front for the annual Christmas photo so I can start ordering cards next week. Perhaps the nice gentleman might like one with a different viewpoint…

“The landscape belongs to the person who looks at it.” ( Ralph Waldo Emerson⁠)

Adding the fantasie

It goes without saying that, looking back on the nearly 7 years of writing this blog, there’ve been a fair few milestones inscribed on its stone. Admittedly, most etchings tend to be somewhat depressing so I am particularly proud to add a sparkly one today. Yup, it’s official, I am now a registered jewellery designer and licensed to bling. Actually, the exact name for my trade is ‘createur de bijoux fantasie’ which, by the way, does not mean I’m plying my wares in Ann Summers so keep your heads out of the gutter. According to the very nice man in the office, the fantasie bit separates me from those who work with real gemstones and precious metals as opposed to moi who twists copper wire and whittles wood. Anyway, suffice to say that I am absolutely delighted that the almost impossible to say in French, Witch Wackle, is now a legitimate microenterprise. Dead chuffed.

And Witch Wackle wasn’t the only start-up to open its doors this week, the pizza van fired up its ovens for the rumbly tums on Friday evening. It’s not the first time I’ve invested in a local business but I do love pizza and Christophe knows how to flip ’em. Charmingly gruff and built like a boxer (he was once Marie le Pen’s bodyguard), Christophe has become a good friend and is no stranger to running food trucks so I was happy to help and he did accompany me through all the government paperwork needed to get the bijoux signature. Between Le Jardin, Pizza King and now Witch Wackle, I feel like quite the business woman, which considering I failed maths, French, cookery and art at school, is an accomplishment in itself.

So here I am, proper suited and all, except in torn jeans and scuffed boots, making my own little marker here in this little village hidden amongst the vines in deepest South-West France – a place that brought everyone together on Tuesday to mark Remembrance Day outside the church. Although it wasn’t the sort of occasion where peeps dressed up to the nines, I did pin a poppy badge to my jumper which was joined soon after by a blue paper flower. These are the French symbols of commemoration so I felt very honoured to be given one and place the two side by side. The service was, as always, poignant and respectful, especially as most of the readings were down by local schoolchildren who also ended the morning with a rousing rendition of something unfamiliar but that might have been down to all the notes sung but not necessarily in the right order.

Speaking of all things creative and community, the coming week will see me wearing yet another hat – it’s time to start designing the corner wall’s display and panneau. My artistic ability is hardly Louvre quality but me painting the seasonal scene on the signboard down the road has become a tradition, much like how much Christmas kitsch we can cram into the bit of garden over-looking it. I have promised Denis a little more taste this year and less luminosity although he did raise an eyebrow when I mentioned leaping reindeer and why not dangle Santa from the almond tree so we’ll see. After all, one should always have a bit of fantasie…

“If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities” (Maya Angelou)

Storm in a dog bowl

Just in case we’d forgotten what month we were in, what with all the autumnal sunshine of late, November reminded us this week. Three days of non-stop rain and bullet-grey skies. The old kayak we had at L’Horte would have come in useful as getting across the driveway or out of the front gate became less about jumping puddles and more about navigating the rapids. That being said, the tempest has run its course and we are back under blue skies once more which perhaps could be a metaphor for my over-worrying self this past week.

At least the deluge waited until after Thursday’s pootle; running up those trails is not exactly fun when your trainers are squelching and, as I’ve mused many times before, sunrise over the vines is a spectacular sight but not when you’re to busy trying to remove chunks of clay from your soles. We almost made it home and dry and would have if it wasn’t for Arry’s very rare change in pace – he just couldn’t keep up. Hence the worry.

I shall explain. A couple of weeks ago, I got an email from the vet clinic to make a few appointments for my ‘senior’ dogs – Arry included. I ruled out Simi, Neo, Coco and Mo – Simi has only recently been checked over and there’s no way a vet could examine Neo or Mo without full body armour. Arry on the other hand is a German Shepherd, as most of you will know, one with only two gears – full steam ahead or fast asleep, the latter only taken when the lights go out. But he is 10 years old and after a minor trip one morning, he seemed a little unsteady. Naturally, being me and having far too much experience with the breed, I whizzed my gorgeous idiot off to be scanned from head to tail. Note, what I just mentioned – two speeds which meant any chance of lying still for one second was out of the question so he needed sedating. Now, Arry and I have been through a lot over our years together and he’s had more lives than a cat but seeing him just flop into a comatose state was terrifying as was waiting for him to come out the other side. As he snoozed peacefully on the floor post-echograph, bloods and X rays, he suddenly looked old – when did this happen? Thankfully, all is okay, sort of. Arthritis in his lower back which means lots of physio but no sign of any of the other evils that tend to be associated with Shepherds. And he can still run the trails, exercise is good for him although a few less kilometres I think.

At least now with that storm in a dog bowl over and the forecast better, I can get back to work with Arry and his cohorts underfoot. I have my next appointment with the license department tomorrow morning at the slightly more reasonable hour of 9 a.m. which if the Gods are playing nice will mean I can make the Christmas markets. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for clear skies ahead, kayaks make me seasick…

““The nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually.” (Eeyore)