Apparently, we live in the windiest region of France and if I needed proof of such a fact, the past week has done just that. Under normal circumstances, one would get hit by either the Tramontane from the Alps, the Marin from the Med or the Autan which also from the same sea but we got the last two at once. Cyrelle, the owner of our local epicerie, told me that the Autan is also known as the Vent des Fous meaning the wind of the mad as it can send people loopy for days. Well, I might have felt like I was losing the plot but actually I spent 48 hours trying not to lose my breakfast – stomach pains, headache and serious muscle fatigue. I could have put it down to something else (I did do a Covid test just in case) but as soon as the winds dropped, so did my maladie. It gave a new meaning to the phrase “being under the weather”. I thank the Gods that the sun has now finally made a decent show of itself with just a mild breeze to make the woofers happy.

I had my last French lesson this week. I could have continued onto the next course but I think it’s time I found something with a bit more of a social vibe. Now that we are, let’s hope, out of the worst pandemic-wise, it would be fun to meet new friends and get a bit more confidence in being able to chat in groups. The Rouffiac workforce are endlessly patient in helping me form comprehendible sentences but most of our conversations evolve around pool stuff or building tools – not the sort of thing one generally chats about over a glass of wine at the nearest bar. Lionel is also trying to learn English so if I want to know what something is in French, he wants to know the opposite. This can get confusing since not everything is directly translatable in either direction and some words just change because you put an accent on them. Then there are some words which, when the French say them, sound just the same but mean something entirely different if you aren’t listening carefully. Last Christmas I was chatting in the epicerie to a friend and Cyrelle asked me if I wanted the seasonal special order for the usual Friday pick-up – I thought she said “truite” (trout) which sounded perfect but what I actually got was “huîtres” . I hate oysters and I had somehow managed to order two kilos of them. Denis got an early Christmas present much to the disappointment of the rest of the family but there was no way they were going to be on our table. Mind you, my culinary confusion wasn’t nearly as bad as Lionel’s recent question:

” How do you say Bonjour in English, Sophi?”

“Hello”

” Well, what does Happy Birthday mean then?”

“Joyeaux anniversaire“

Lionel had been greeting another English client with “Happy Birthday” every morning.

Speaking of Lionel and Denis, we would have finished the bloody pool this week but we are short of a few planks (stupidity aside) so I have to go and pay for another delivery tomorrow. Lionel assures me this is the last hurdle and he can pick them up himself, I’m not even going to think about how long all this has taken or hope that it will be finished next week. I’m just going to let them get on with it and concentrate on getting my Spring plantings in. And now that the hunting season is ending; Arry, Alice, Sherman and I can start exploring other routes on our morning runs as my poor legs are starting to suffer the consequences of all things vine and clay. One can always hope that in a few months a dive in the pool after a gruelling 10k won’t just be a dream for either myself or Arry…….

“There are three grades of translation evils: 1. errors; 2. slips; 3. wilful reshaping” (Vladimir Nabokov}

I think I might need to change the title of this blog to ‘thewidowpluswoofersandafatmouse’. Having finally come face to face with GusGus sitting happily in my recycling bin, I was a little shocked at the size of his girth (no I cannot sex mice but I feel he is a he) – how on earth he can squeeze through the hole in the back of the cupboard is beyond me. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t moved out, slim going in, too fat to go back. With this in mind and his penchant for chewing holes in the bin bags, I decided GusGus needed a health kick. Having put a piece of apple and a few croquettes (dry dog food) on the inside shelf overnight, I pulled the drawer open the next day only to find the uneaten fruit minus the biscuits and most of the bin bag. Oh well, as long as he’s happy filling his belly with plastic I suppose GusGus is here to stay. You’d think having four terriers in the house would be helpful but they don’t seem to notice him which is surprising considering how much time Alice spends hunting the same creatures outside.

Considering the weather, GusGus probably thinks staying in the cupboard is the best option anyway. I’m sure I have had what is known as Seasonal Affected Moodiness all week, that is except yesterday when the rain actually stopped. For one day. Bless Lionel and Denis, they turned up at dawn to carry on constructing the pool terrace managing to finish all but the main deck. Chatting over beers at the end of the day made me think how much I enjoyed having the two of them around with their constant banter and easy-going natures. Both are also incredibly patient French teachers, fine-tuning my accent and trying not to break into hysterics when I mis-pronounce my r’s. Denis has assured me that the sun will make an appearance next week and all things piscine will be finished. I’ve heard that before. They have to stick around for a while anyway as there is still much to be done before the summer hits and let’s face it, the woofers especially Arry, think the whole purpose of men working is to amuse them.

I went to have a couple of biopsies on my lump mid-week at the radiology clinic in Carcassonne. I had thought they were going to cut my ganglion out but the radiologist said it was a bit too close to my boob (since I don’t have much in that department, a wise decision) but she took what she needed and I’ll get the results from Dr Lefevre in due course. As I left, the receptionist gave me a folder with some fetching pictures of my armpit to add to my growing collection of radiographs pertaining to ganglions – what does one do with them all? Perhaps I’ll frame them and hang them in the loo to confuse guests.

I haven’t written much of The Book this week mainly because my older brother is here and because I’m still improving the chapter that Carmen sent back. Annoyingly, my brain’s preference for writing in the middle of the night hasn’t dissipated so I’m suffering from lack of sleep hours. And since I tend to put ‘pen to paper’ best when I’m moving, I’m getting as much exercise pacing up and down the balcony as I do running up the hills – neither of which makes you want to doze off. At least GusGus isn’t too bothered about my nocturnal activities, he’s too busy crocheting bin bags…..

“Tonight I’m going to lay right here and look up. I like it.” (Of Mice and Men. John Steinbeck)

There’s a big grey cloud hanging over Rouffiac at the moment and if the météo is right, it isn’t going to move anytime soon. According to Louise next-door, it’s going to rain for the next two weeks but darling Denis thinks otherwise. According to him, one just looks out of the window every morning and then makes a judgement call because the weather can change in an instant around here. He’s right, of course. I drove back from Carcassonne yesterday and the rain was bucketing down but as soon as I turned the last corner for home, the skies cleared. Unfortunately it didn’t last although lovely Lionel and Denis did manage to get most of the margelles, otherwise known as the pool edging, into place before the heavens opened again. I’ve given up worrying about when the bloody thing will be finished and the fences and the landscaping. The ever-optimistic Lionel has a list and assures me all will be completed within the next few weeks. I’ve heard that before.

He’s not the only one to give me a boost of confidence over the past few days. I had an appointment with the doc on Thursday as I had a painful lump in my armpit. I told Denis who promptly declared that it was a ganglion, he knew because he had one in the same place so I shouldn’t get wound up about it. I didn’t think I was that wound up until Dr Lefevre suggested I get the bizarre (his words) bump checked out at the local hospital’s radiology department. I got an appointment the next day, it was a little concerning that I managed to get one so quickly but off I went. Trying to keep a sense of humour about being prodded about, I pointed out to the specialist that the last time someone used one of those ultrasound things was when I was pregnant with Callum so I was pleased it was under my arm this time. “It’s a ganglion” he said much to my relief, apparently if they are painful, they are almost always not serious. “But I would feel better if we did another couple of mammograms just to be sure”. So I was popped into the room next door to be scanned all over again. My positive vibes were starting to wane as the nurse and doctor discussed my underarm whilst I sat half naked pondering all sorts of outcomes but my wonderful specialist confirmed his first diagnosis, phew! On his advice, I’m going to have the troublesome ganglion removed next week just to be on the safe side.

I hadn’t realised how much the whole experience had affected me until later that evening. I had picked up my friend Pip’s son from the train station as she was away and after having deposited him at hers, I drove home with a headful of God-knows-what because as I turned into the driveway I took the wheel arch of my beloved Josephine Jeep off on the gate post. What is with me and wheel arches? I could have cried but honestly a) I was exhausted and b) two angels appeared by my side before the tears could flow. Denis and Lionel. I got hugged and fussed over whilst they attempted to get it back on but failed. A trip to the garage next week I think, maybe they can iron out the other ding I put in my poor car, at least it’s on the same side. Both heroes sent me messages the following morning to check on my mental state, I do love them.

I bought some sunflower seeds earlier in the week, my little bit to support Ukraine. I’ve never had much luck with growing things from seed but put them on my kitchen windowsill anyway in the vain hope they might sprout. And they have! I’m such a proud plant mum and will find a suitable spot in the garden when they are old enough to leave the tub. Of course, they’ll have to wait until the sun comes out but I love their optimism for clearer skies ahead. For us all…..

“Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see a shadow” (Helen Keller)

If March doesn’t start behaving itself, we are going to have a falling out very soon. I know the month has just started but its not very nice to throw glorious sunshine at us on the first day, then decide we ought to be miserable and wet for the rest of the week. Just as Lionel and Denis were making great strides in laying the pool terrace down, everything stopped because of the weather. It’s all incredibly frustrating but power tools and pissing skies don’t mix and I am rather fond of my guys. The only plus side is that I have gone on a bit of a plant shopping binge and the terre is much easier to dig holes in when soggy. Arry and Sherman take particular delight in anything that involves mounds of earth they can bury bones and rocks in whilst you are trying to make space for a rose or three. Mum turning over compost is even more fun especially when she’s trying not to wake up spiders. According to Yogi Bear, its a bit like going to a department store and trying all the different perfume testers. Less Chanel, more champignon I would suggest. Rain for them apparently, does not stop play.

Luckily the temperature hasn’t matched the skies, staying in the double digits as I forgot to check the oil reservoir so the heating went off. Bless Max the chauffagiste who answered my call of desperation and booked a delivery which arrived a couple of days later. Mind you, his ‘c’est pas grave’ meaning ‘it’s not serious’ was obviously not directed at Mumo. Anything under 25 degrees means freezing to her and the rising cost of oil (yes, we are hit like everyone else) made my cheque book faint. Roll on Spring and Max putting the solar panels on. I did have a visit from the diminutive force of nature that is Pauline, she who created the beautiful walls on the ground floor of the main house, I’d asked her to look at my space ‘upstairs’ as a renovation project. Pauline oohed and ‘oui’d’ at my grand plans and booked me into her diary. Next year. As much as I would have liked construction to start earlier, there is far too much to complete garden-wise, let alone the bloody pool. That and I have learnt that everything that needs to be ordered takes months to be delivered so better to stockpile than twiddle thumbs waiting.

I finally managed to get the first three chapters of The Book emailed to darling Carmen, after all it was her idea that I should put the last few years on paper. I have to admit they were very difficult to write, bringing up all those memories so I’m hoping the rest will flow a little easier. No doubt my first attempts will come back littered with red ink but I’m starting to enjoy being a ‘writer’. Penning the blog is so much easier, it’s short and you don’t have page numbers – who knew computers could do that automatically? Once I had put numbers at the bottom of each page, I discovered how little I’d actually written despite hours of tap tapping away. However, having changed my hours so to speak – no more falling asleep mid-sentence at midnight, I have a renewed sense of optimism that I shall finish before the next millennium , especially if the weather Gods have anything to do with it – that or it’ll make less smelly compost….

“When life throws you a rainy day, play in the puddles.” (Winnie the Pooh)

I once read a quote which went something along the lines of “write the chapter you want to read because you are going to have to read it 100 times”. No wonder I seem to spend as much time deleting paragraphs as I do writing them. The trouble is I feel most ‘author-ish’ at night which paradoxically is when I really want to go to sleep, hence the following morning spent with a digit on the delete button. But The Book is starting to flow in the right direction albeit more like a trickle most days but I’m still tap tapping away. A friend of mine whose book has just been published asked me when she’d get a copy of mine – I suggested she might want to look at getting a zimmer frame first, it’s going to take me a while. I am enjoying the challenge though and it does get easier to write as the years go down ‘on paper’ so to speak.

Of course, finding time to think of great paragraph structure isn’t easy when Spring is beckoning and the garden needs to get in shape. Denis and I make a great team, I have the ideas and he designs something vaguely along the same lines. We never argue because, let’s be honest, he knows better than me when it comes to planting and what suits the soil. The little waterfall fountain in my soon-to-be Zen garden is coming along nicely although my “let’s put lotus flowers in there” was met with a definite “non” as apparently their roots would clog up the filtration system. Faux flowers it is then. Not all my creative inspirations have been met with derision though, white gravel pathways resembling tree branches is definitely a “oui ” from our Denis. And having spent the whole of Friday morning picking out fence posts with Lionel (who knew there was so much more to just a wooden pole?), I can’t wait to see the back of all the wire netting next week. I would say I’m looking forward to the pool terrace being finished as well but experience has taught me to keep schtum on that subject. I have however veto’ed Denis’ plan to build a nuclear bunker under the stairs, I don’t think Rouffiac is really on Putin’s radar even if the covered piscine looks like a giant helipad at the moment.

With the evenings getting longer and the promise of clearer skies as we head, hopefully, into warmer months, I decided that it was high time Pop’s telescope got repaired. There is some argument avec la famille as to what is actually wrong with it but in short, you can’t see the stars when you peer down the tube. My first thought was to email the company who made it and get a manual, only to find out they went bankrupt last year so I Googled possible repair shops instead. I found one in Toulouse which, thinking about it, I should have known would have such experts as it has the largest space centre in Europe so they should be able to fix Pop’s star-gazer.

I spent most of last week chez veto. Between Arry’s laser treatments (only he could pull tendons in both shoulders) and Gunner’s Imoove therapy – a computerised sort of wobble platform that stimulates his back muscles, I think I should have a VIP card and parking bay. Both boys are very popular though with all the staff and thoroughly enjoy the attention and the knowledge that I’ll drive them back home via L’Horte which is the equivalent of a funfair for the two. If I had written a book about the inner workings of Arry’s mind, I would have finished it the same day…..

“If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it” ( Elmore Leonard)

It may be mid-February but there are definite signs of Spring down here in our little corner of the world. The cherry blossom has started to sprinkle its colour and the iris are poking their heads out of the soil. Although we have had quite a wet week (much needed), when the sun has been out, the temperatures have pulled off the winter clothes – even the citrus trees have had their protective covers removed. And with the stress of getting Salome to her new home in Long Island and Callum eventually getting over his jet-lag Down Under dissipating, I’m settling back into the daily routine. Denis and I have been planting and planning which needless to say ends up with Denis shaking his head and redesigning my unrealistic ambitions.

With season’s change just around the corner, Mumo and I decided to attack the yet to be unpacked boxes of linen, curtains and suchlike. We found all sorts of random ‘Collins’ artifacts from beautiful Thai silk cushion covers (I have purloined a few) to her mother’s wedding pillowcases, now frayed with age. Sheets, curtains and duvet covers were reorganised into labelled containers and a lot ‘recycled’ (i.e. put in the garage because something will need protecting) or just thrown away. So much of family history lay in those boxes but sometimes we need to get rid of the past to allow new ones to be filled. As my precious Pip said when she came over for a natter this morning. “You’ll never wear 5 inch heels again, Sophi so you might as well sell them”, ” the 1980’s and ’90’s are vintage now” as I showed her my groaning shoe collection; “they’re just taking up wardrobe space which you could use for something else”. Like new shoes perhaps. She’s right of course, even if I could still balance in them, Rouffiac isn’t exactly nightlife central although some of those heels would be great for planting seedlings in the garden.

Throwing away the old can be a cathartic experience even if you have to bring it all out into the open first. As I finish one chapter and start the next tap tap tapping away all things The Book, I feel almost liberated. Running the other day, I was watching a stream flow alongside the path wondering where it was going when I noticed part of it had been blocked by a log. On one side of the log the water was covered in scum and old branches whilst the other side was clear and trickling along. As I moved the log (I’m a curious sort), the channel began to clear immediately and join the rest of the stream. That’s karma I thought to myself as Arry dived in and bounced along with the flotsam and jetsam now floating happily in the transparent waters. There’ll still be quite a few obstacles to move as we go forward with the seasons but the water is getting clearer…..

“I was still water, held by my surroundings. I am now a river, carving my own path.” (Scott Stabile)

It’s been a week of mixed emotions and time travel. Callum took off for one end of the world and Salome to the other, at least it felt like it. Naturally, like all mothers, I stalked my son for almost his entire flight on one of those radar apps and bombarded him with messages once he had landed “are you okay?”, “where are you?”, “please text me?!” . Poor thing was exhausted and just wanted to sleep without his mother’s continual tirade of panic. He is of course, fine but the 10 hour time difference will take a while for his body to adjust to. Talking with him this morning, the world felt that little bit smaller – he’s just a phone call away.

Another mum (our Alice) said good-bye to her child this week, Salome left our little nest for her new life with Corey and John in Long Island. Having left Denis in charge of the woofers, I headed off for Paris 700 kms North with Neo and a mildly perplexed puppy. After a small diversion in the big city (what’s a city without roadworks?), we arrived at the designated meeting point or at least what I thought was the place having diligently followed my Sat Nav and settled down in the car for the night. Unfortunately for me, I had been so focused on making sure Sal had all her necessary documents and bedding, I had forgotten to pack anything for me to sleep on or in save a thin dog blanket. It was freezing and my little car is no match for the wonders of the Mothership with all its creature comforts, I think I was lucky to get about 3 hours kip. As dawn arose, desperate for a pee and the surrounding gardens looking private enough, I nipped behind a bush unseen. Then it was the dogs turn and knowing that Sal had to empty herself (no breakfast), I took them out onto the nearest bit of grass – jobs done. Except we were at the wrong building. Ours was further down the road and as I backed out of our parking place I noticed that the pristine lawn of a tech company had been graced with a very large poo. I didn’t look back and having whizzed over to the ‘pet service’, said my tearful farewell to my little girl. She was, apparently, an absolute trooper especially as her flight landed three hours late (although six hours behind us – very confusing) and is now settling into her new life happily.

The last time I drove back South was 18 months ago and my body rebelled the entire journey. My legs cramped up and a sharp pain in my shoulder made the drive complete agony. But it was worth it as I whizzed down the last few kilometres to Rouffiac and saw the Pyrenees welcoming me in the distance, I was home. The woofers were pleased to see me although Alice did sit on the verandah for half the night slightly confused and Sherman kept giving me woeful eyes. Running up into the hills the next morning to see the sunrise and despite my legs still aching from the day before, I was happy to be back where I belong. And with Salome in her new home and Callum starting out on his own journey, maybe it’s not such a big world after all….

“Travel far enough, you meet yourself.”( David Mitchell)

I know it’s only February but I decided it was time for a bit of a clear out this week. Perhaps it was because I dropped Callum off at the airport Monday night that I had a hankering to go through all the boxes of photos he’d dumped in my loft space. Two huge binbags were filled up with out of focus or double prints, why on earth we kept them who knows but I now have a new-found appreciation for mobile phone cameras – you can download and delete. Hundreds of photos of people I don’t remember or of dogs I boarded names are long forgotten were tossed in the trash but then there were those that captured a moment at a wedding or on holiday that instantly take you back to that time. Somehow scrolling through your mobile phone just isn’t the same as looking through an album of slightly faded memories.

Aside from dusting off decades of historical memorabilia, I am slowly tapping the last few years onto the laptop. How do people find the time to get their books finished? As much as I have tried to schedule time for this masterpiece of literature, there always seems to be something else that needs my immediate attention or, I have to be honest, I’m just not in the mind-set to write. As much as looking through old photos can bring a sense of whimsy, recalling those early days as a widow is hard work. It’s not just that the memory side of one’s brain can be a little selective, it’s also because I sometimes feel I’m telling someone else’s story.

Thankfully, the weather has kept everything moving poolside. Denis and I went out and bought an array of bushes, trees and the odd rose to start landscaping. The lovely Lionel has done all the prep work for the terrace and once the concrete is dry, the beautiful wood planks will be laid. I can’t help but think the whole thing looks a bit like a gigantic tombstone at the moment which is not exactly what one wants to look at over coffee on the verandah. I know it’ll all look fabulous once finished and fenced in but it’s hard to picture when it looks like a mausoleum.

Next week I’m back off on the airport run again, only this time I’m driving 7 hours up North to Paris. After 8 months of French life, Salome is about to embark (no pun intended) for New York and her new life. Since her flight is early in the morning (why can’t I ever be at an airport at a halfway decent hour?) and I will have to kip up there overnight, Mumo suggested I take security with me. A girl alone and all that. Although a 36 kilo German Shepherd would be a useful deterrent, Arry isn’t exactly a calm passenger so I’m taking Neo instead who is quite partial to taking a bite or two out of an unsuspecting threat. Darling Denis is staying to look after the rest of the woofers which should keep them excited and him exhausted whilst Mum’s away. I just hope Sherman doesn’t get too upset over his sister’s departure but at least he will be happy I’ve left Arry behind and so will the rest of the drivers….

“What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.” (Karl Lagerfeld)

There are certain rules about what can be discussed over the family dinner table; dogs are a definite no-no as are the latest Covid statistics. Both are usually very boring especially for those who don’t hang around with the woofers. But we do love a debate so more often than not, my Mum will be the first to pose a question about one of life’s great mysteries. And so it was that we got on a conversation about how much of our personality do we inherit from our parents. Despite my belief that we are all born into our own individuality, having watched the puppies enter the world and grow, I can still see a lot of Tony in Callum. According to the man-child, we see what we want to see of ourselves or another in that person because we want the traits of the one we loved, continued. Thankfully the family ‘worry gene’ has eluded him so it’ll just be his Mum twisting her hanky as she waves goodbye and bon voyage tomorrow. The child becomes a man but a mum is always a mum.

The bar table is back. Yes, Callum took my pathetic effort at carpentry and redesigned it so it actually looks like a bar table and doesn’t wobble. With all this glorious sunshine January is bestowing on us, there’s nothing better to sit at with a post-run coffee over looking the budding garden. Actually I’m a little worried about the ‘budding’ bit as it’s far too early for any plantling to think about such things (that gene again) but darling Denis assures me all will be fine come the Spring. On this thought, he and I are going shopping tomorrow so we can start landscaping the pool area. Finally. There’s only so much one can do indoors before mind-numbing boredom sets in although I did make a quick trip to the Troc (second hand emporium) to get a desk stand but came out with a charming little cabinet instead. My newly-purchased meuble is now tucked beautifully against a corner wall and since it faces East, a Buddha sits serenely on top. Perhaps his calm aura might flow into the woofers and stop them ambushing anyone who dare walk past the gate.

Speaking of woofers, they have been a little agitated over the last few nights – something is creeping around below the garden staircase. A couple of evenings ago, I was having my usual chat with Tony and Pop up there in the stars before locking up when I heard ‘it’. ‘It’ was trying to open the little gate. I grabbed my torch and pointed it at the intruder but whatever ‘it’ was, was gone. Luckily none of the woofers had been alerted to my mild hysteria at being broken into, that is until sometime during the wee hours and all wee hours since, becoming the time to suddenly jump out of bed and bark. But ‘it’ isn’t anywhere to be seen and frankly, I’m getting a little cranky over all this nocturnal activity. Perhaps the hedgehogs have got as confused about the weather as the plants have? Mind you, ‘it’ must have been a flippin’ strong hedgehog to push that gate.

I know what tonight’s dinner debate is going to be…..

“A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other” ( Charles Dickens)

The problem with January is that there isn’t much one can do garden-wise, for a start the sun may be shining but it’s bitterly cold which drains your enthusiasm somewhat. Having spent this time last year clearing the undergrowth from the long-neglected terrain and re-planting, it’s a question of waiting to see what comes up in the Spring. The lovely Lionel and darling Denis have prepped the pool area for the terrace construction so that area is out of bounds for me and the woofers, meaning the landscaping will have to wait. Of course, me being me, decided to keep boredom at bay by moving half a ton of firewood logs from the far end of the garden into the remis to keep them dry. My Herculian effort ended with a strained muscle somewhere around my elbow and half an hour trying to catch a displaced salamander in the kitchen. Thankfully with a bit of ingenuity and a lot of help from Callum, we managed to get the highly poisonous little reptile back where it belonged with a log to keep it warm over winter. That being said, I think I must have also disturbed the resident rodents of the woodpile as Alice is now obsessed with sticking her twitching nose in there instead of my kitchen cupboard (mouse still in house).

Having put myself out of action in the physical labour department, I’ve spent most of the last week trying to find things to occupy the mind instead of the muscles. I took up knitting which I was actually enjoying until my elbow started to protest (is there such a thing as ‘knitters elbow”?) and the subsequent attempt at doing a book of crossword puzzles was short-lived after I discovered that particular ability that runs through my family’s DNA, has not reached mine. And then there’s THE BOOK. Well, it’s being written albeit a little slower than I would like mainly because I like to walk around whilst I’m thought-processing and the woofers assume any movement means playtime. I need to buy one of those thingumajigs that allow you to stand up and tap away at the keyboard – that way I can fool Arry and co. Some parts of this crazy journey of ours are very hard to write, especially how it all started. The mind goes into some sort of protective amnesia about those early days and I didn’t start writing the blog until several months after T died. Yet, pulling the bandages off barely-healed wounds however painful, is also strangely cathartic – as though the scars need air to rejuvenate. I think T approves.

Speaking of T, our boy is leaving soon and has been busy getting the workshop shipshape so that us clueless people will be able to find necessary bits and bobs in there. I have been banned from touching anything remotely fascinating as, in his words, “Mum, you’ll just make a mess of it”. He has however been giving me a basic tutorial in how to plaster and has grudgingly allowed me to practice on a little bit of crumbling wall in the garage. I just hope it’s only the brickwork I have to mend and not my poor heart when it comes to taking him to the airport…….

“It’s not forgetting that heals. It’s remembering.” (Amy Greene)