Considering I’ve spent most of my time toute seule, it’s been a surprisingly pleasant week. For once I had no appointments in the calendar and since Denis had purloined my car – no way to get to them if I had any. So with the weather mostly clement and a work top covered in what needs doings, I got on with fiddling and fining whilst the woofers flopped about in various corners of their palatial gardens. Admittedly, I did have to occasionally drag the vacuum cleaner around the big house and keep it presentable but that’s hardly an effort when Louis isn’t in situ – the boy has yet to learn what cupboards are for.
Actually, I did have D’s daughter Marina’s runaround if there was an emergency as she left it here whilst her father took her to Toulouse so she could complete her training in eyelash extensions – her car doesn’t have a fancy GPS like mine does. Luckily, her earlier idea on who to practise on was replaced by her bestie – I’m not sure I could cope with spidery things above my peepers and I have no desire to highlight the depressing sight of wrinkly skin surrounding them. I’m not sure I’ve got away completely scot-free, Marina has insisted she repays my kindness – honestly a pot plant would be just fine and much nicer to look at.
Speaking of floral fancies, I went to a garden fête yesterday over in nearby Alet-les Bains. My good friend Jude who I spend most Saturday afternoons with on account of her Cavalier pup and Sherman being best buds, had suggested the outing and since it was a sunny one, off we went. I am not joking when I tell you that the set-up was like the opening scene of an English television drama – the only thing missing was a dead body in the bushes. The event was run by a group of ex-pats complete with a marquee hosting various tables loaded with cakes and home-made things in jars plus several somewhat tired vegetables and naturally, plants in pots. Outside this perfectly picturesque display under canvas were little round tables decorated with teapots and plates of neat round biscuits – the only thing missing was a brass band. Utterly glorious. I wanted to take a photo or three but being glared by several well- coiffured and hatted ladies dampened that thought so I bought a jar of apricot jam, another of mint jelly and some pickled turnips to appease the looks and a line of raffle tickets for good measure. All the donations were for Cancer Research so I made a point of showing my generosity and Sherman behaved impeccably considering his normal leg-lifting activities in public.
To use a well-worn phrase, getting out and about yesterday afternoon was just what the doctor ordered; not only because a Friday night down at Le Jardin resulted in yet another hangover the morning after but I’ve also got a little niggle in my ovary area. Not a pain but still, something not right so I’ve booked an appointment with my newest pal, gynaecologist Antonia. I will say that the over-imbibing was not entirely down to too much of the stuff, rather more down to someone drinking my bottle of very nice non-alcohol Merlot. I’m assuming they didn’t notice what they were downing but my tolerance for the real McCoy is zero these days hence the headache. Still, it was a great chance to see what Abraham had done to the place since the end of last year’s season not least because it now has a proper toilet chalet and a new kitchen. All I have to do now is add a bit of a decor to the party palace before we re-open in May. Good job I still have this place to myself for the next few days, plenty to keep this girl occupied and out of reach of Marina…
“Without great solitude, no serious work is possible” (Pablo Picasso)
Widow plus woofs 