Over lunch the other day, my Mum asked me if dogs could tell the time. Now, I’m not going to go into a long-winded explanation of the dogs’ mind but it did occur to me how much of my life up until France was determined by the clock. The alarm was set for 06.45 every day except Sundays and the routine of walking the dogs, cleaning the house and going to work rarely changed. Whilst I loved my work, I can understand now why I needed to break away from everything I had become too familiar with. I still wake up at pretty much the same time every morning albeit a couple of hours later but the morning light coming through my bedroom window dictates this rather than a clock. I often forget what day it is. The only exceptions to my lazy awakenings are the days when Arry, Alice and I join my neighbour for a thigh-burning run through the local woodlands. Days drift into one another, the hours marked by the local church bells which ring every hour or vaguely near the hour. I think it depends on whether or not the bell-ringer is wearing a watch. Between bedroom painting and the garden restoration, I have never been busier and before I know it, the sun is going down and there is a welcome glass of the local red waiting for me. They say those who retire never sit still, I can believe it. For someone who thrived on routine, life without it is so much better.
Busying oneself with brush and spade however does not however mean one should put off necessary things like paperwork. I finally got a WiFi box this week although the joy of having internet access has been dimmed slightly by the need to sort out that which I have put off because of the lack of it. My passport needs renewing, this is not only obviously necessary for identifying oneself but is also needed for my residence permit application. Then there is the dreaded UK tax returns, hours upon hours of spreadsheets and numbers. Box filling is taking much longer than it ought to because the weather has been so good, digging holes and planting various shrubs purloined from L’Horte tends to take precedence.
My 54th birthday is coming up, Halloween for those who might have forgotten ahem. I don’t know what is in store as far as celebrating such an occasion – I don’t think Rouffiac goes all out for Halloween like London does but I’m looking forward to Callum coming home for a week or so. A passing thought occurred to me this morning that he has only been gone for six weeks but it seems longer. Birthdays aside, Tony hasn’t been very far from my mind. He was only 56 when he died which, when you are nearing such an age, seems far too young. I don’t know how one is supposed to feel when nearing one’s mid-fifties but I have never felt more alive than I do now. I just hope I remember what day it is then…..
“How we spend our days, is, of course, how we spend our lives”. (Annie Dillard)
Widow plus woofs 