Having finally finished my ‘a la Jimi Hendrix’ chair, save a couple of minor touch ups, I’ve started the next restoration project. Thankfully, the piece is in fairly good condition although the fabric has seen better days and I don’t like the colour. Initially, I had dark blue in mind but Denis suggested I remove all the varnish as it made the chair look younger than it is so I did. And the pale wood underneath is gorgeous although a lighter shade of blue would look better – this one has boudoir written all over it. Hopefully, someone will fall in love with her as I can’t keep hoarding my work – the apartment already resembles a second-hand furniture store with added woofers lounging on whatever horizontal surface is available.
Speaking of woofers, I was back at the vet last week with Arry and a reluctant Simi (she prefers the lounging bit to sharing a car with an excitable German Shepherd) for their yearly health checks and vaccinations. The new vet at the practise was suitably impressed with my old lady’s self although Arry’s constant whining begged the question; “is he in pain?”. I reassured the concerned clinician that such chattering was perfectly normal behaviour for my insane companion. At least I’d chosen an appointment at the quietest time of day as I really didn’t want Arry to go full volume as is his norm on seeing another dog waiting in reception. In and out with the bare minimum of Arry’s antics is always a plus, a rarity but a plus nevertheless.
Apart from ringing the vet’s ears, the past week has been a pretty quiet one on the calendar. The only other must-do was a visit to the sage-femme for a smear test. Sage-femmes are midwives but here they also do most of the personal lady stuff too. I have to say, the whole thing was done within 5 minutes but filling out all the paperwork took another 20 – why one needs to complete several thousand forms with your address, birth date etc I have no idea, especially when the lady in front of you is plugging the same information into her computer. It’s definitely one of those unexplained French customs. Oh and the French translation for a smear test is a frottis which for some reason makes me want to giggle like a naughty school kid.
It’s just as well that the diary remained relatively clear as the weather man threw all sorts at us. Blue skies and flip flops one day and then lashings of the wet stuff and whistling winds the next. It’s still far too dry out there though, running through the vines the other morning I could have been forgiven for thinking I’d slept through two seasons and summer had appeared. As much as the warmth is good for the spirit, droughts are not and we’re going to have to refill the bloody pool as soon as we find the hidden leak. Mumo hasn’t even needed to light the fire in the main sitting room which says something although it was blazing on Friday night for a little get-together with the neighbours and our Graham. We didn’t really need the extra warmth – old friends and comfy chairs will do that. I did however give Graham a photo I had taken of the village from the hills above us, a sunrise one just in case he forgets what that is when he goes back to Scotland…
“It isn’t so much what’s on the table that matters, as what’s on the chairs” (W.S. Gilbert)
Widow plus woofs 