Scheduling the unscheduled

As has become for a Saturday afternoon, Sherman and I spent yesterday’s over at our friend Jude’s house chatting over ice cold brews by her unfortunately very green pool. Sherbs comes along to discuss important matters with his mate Archie the Cavalier although most of that was done under chairs due to the current temperature setting. I’d passed the morning lying face up on a table having my eyelashes extended by D’s daughter Marina; a gift from her and one I couldn’t say no to and despite my reluctance to have spidery things attached to my peepers, actually look rather nice. Bit stingy at first but since sunglasses are obligatory at the present moment, the Dracula effect was thankfully short. Anyway, during our natter about inconsequential matters (unlike our panting pooches), I posed a question at my gal pal and fellow widow: “Have you found the transition from being in a couple to life toute seule difficult?” It goes without saying that anyone who loses their partner is going to find it hard and Jude is no exception but as she put it, being able to do what you want and get up when you want can be therapeutic.

I asked because there are times, even after 8 years, I struggle with the adjustment. It’s not that I haven’t gotten used to make my own decisions but throwing caution to the wind isn’t one of them (unless you count buying a huge motorhome and moving countries during Covid one). Admittedly, having 7 woofers, 5 of which are in their senior years, means one can’t just lounge in bed all day (although they’d probably enjoy that) but I do wish I could throw that infernal urge to schedule everything out the nearest fênetre and just go with the flow. Walking the short distant from Marina’s to home, I once more found myself looking down an empty road (well, it was lunchtime and no sane French person would opt out of a siesta in this heat). As calm and beautiful the view was, all I could think about was what needs to be done – like take a chill pill but the brain cell decided instead that I should panic about Monday being a holiday and therefore no trip to the supermarket. I don’t even know why I always insist on doing that the same day every week except that it’s generally less crowded on Mondays even with the current influx of English tourists who embarrassingly can’t seem to talk in whispers and have the entire contents of the wine aisle in their trolleys.

All that being said, I did manage to sneak one or two impromptu items past my temporal timetable on Wednesday. Having dropped some dusty old novels off at the monthly book exchange in Cailhau, the event run by the same charity that held the Midsomer Murders replica that was the garden fair a few weeks ago, I got an invitation to pop over and have a peek at the house my new friend Barbara from the Yak and Yarn group had bought. Now, Barbara and her husband own a very successful vineyard so have a bob or three but wow, talk about stately – the place was huge. Naturally, like almost all mansions in these parts, a bit of a doer-upper inside but some of the original features were in very good nick including the cast-iron windows that framed the idyllic green landscape outside. Apparently, it was a surprise purchase, them having been gazumped on a previous property; an wilful act which no doubt gave me the incentive to go out and buy an aquarium. I do not need nor have room for a fish tank but then again I don’t deal in domaines nor am I blessed with an eye-watering budget. However, sticking one’s fingers up to the dairy dieties has meant having to add in an unplanned pit stop to my planner at the pet shop so I can fill its interior with marine life ( I did think about an octopus having watched the must-see Remarkably Bright Creatures on Netflix but there’s only so much caution to the wind one should throw). I wonder if I’ve got space to schedule a lie-down…

“If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun” (Katherine Hepburn)

Arghs and anniversaries

Well, I’m glad that week’s over. Not only because the weather was pants and so bloody cold that I had to dig out my hot water bottle despite sharing the bed with Arry and Sherman but to add to the misery; if something went wrong, so did everything else. I suppose one could argue that such calamities tend to occur collectively but it felt like I was walking around with ‘can’t catch a break’ tattooed on my forehead. Thank the Gods the sun and the thermometer have risen once more and the forecast looks more than promising for freeing the funk.

I’m beginning to wonder if the whole caboodle was inadvertently all my fault; by that I mean that it was me that started the cannonball rolling in the first place. I shall begin with a visit from our girl Lisa who popped round for a jug of white wine (no sugar bowls round these parts needed). Now I may have mentioned that this Welsh lass is of the spiritual sort, the kind that believe in karma and all that – not that I’m being derogatory in any way, after all I go to sleep listening to tarot card readers remember. I digress as usual. Anyhow, in a nutshell, Lisa told me that to sell the house I needed to talk to it, good vibes and so on, so I did a complete Shirley Valentine even down to the floor rugs. Ergo, I must have upset the Hoo again hence the crappy week. The next morning my favourite coffee mug, the one Tony had given to me some 20 plus years ago (its Flake logo very faded but you can guess the gift) flew out of my hand and smashed to smithereens. Then there was the visit to my friend and sage-femme gynaecologist Antonia who I have to say was the calm in a storm except that a) she found an inflammation which needed meds and b) gave me the number of a specialist in Carcassonne should anything go wrong as per the MRI I was due to have the following day. I was forewarned. Not only did Denis drive me to the wrong hospital which meant a dash to the right one smack bang in the middle of Narbonne but after sitting me in the waiting room for two hours, the receptionist came over to say the scanner was broken and I’d have to reschedule. End of next month. I won’t go into details but suffice to say I have no intention of ever setting foot through those doors again and have made an appointment with Antonia’s doc pal instead – in a couple of weeks. In a clinic, not a hospital – me and those buildings seriously don’t get on. To cap it all off, Denis thought it was a good idea to add a few brushstrokes to a painting I’d just about completed – no I did not want a grey surround and I expect he didn’t want the earful that came with it. At least the last part of the week wasn’t a total a wash-out (yup more rain); my gal pal Saba and I managed to meld our diaries together and spend a few hours catching up – actually most of those ended up with us farting around phone shops trying to get her broken mobile screen fixed before we finally made it over to Le Jardin to celebrate its doors opening for the season and Abraham’s birthday. He loved his picture even with D’s unwelcome contribution.

With all that being said and done, perhaps my crooked circadian rhythm over the last seven days could be blamed on an anniversary of a different kind. It’s not that I don’t think of Tony almost every day but today is a poignant one, even after 8 years being apart. I had the weirdest dream about him last night; one so vivid I can recall all of it – I rarely remember falling asleep let alone what the unconsciousness does with itself. It wasn’t a nightmare but waking up this morning, for a second or two I didn’t want to let him go. I don’t suppose I ever will or should, memories and what might have beens forever etched in the mind but tonight, as has become the ritual, I shall be out on the terrace, looking up to his star as always. Mind you, our nightly conversation may include some frank suggestions about having a word or two with a certain Hoo about breaking mugs and hospital scanners…

“I work with spirits so if you see me talking to myself, I’m just having a staff meeting” (unknown but on Sophi’s kitchen wall)

Where the foot falls

It may surprise you to learn that, despite a childhood living all over the globe and my decision to move my entire life here, I’m not much of a traveller and have yet to see much of much of my adopted homeland. France is big country for a start and then there’s the not so small issue of having 7 woofers to take care of so any chance of someone minding them so you can have a short getaway is one not to be sniffed at. And as it was Denis’ birthday on Thursday, an invitation to spend a couple of days with Denis’ sister Patricia and her other half at his place wasn’t going to be turned down so off we went. Actually, we didn’t have to go that far – Olivier’s house only being 45 minutes or so down the autoroute towards Toulouse but you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise such was the change in landscape – nothing but fields around and lush green woodland to breathe in and enjoy. Apart from the wind, a lot of it and very gusty.

That being said, much of the horizon was familiar. Down here we are blessed with the views of the Pyrénées, the Corbières and the Montagne Noire mountain ranges although you don’t often get to see them all in the same panorama. But it wasn’t just about the scenery, being able to spend time as a couple with another couple and not extra family additions so to speak was a first for us and our hosts made sure we got the best out of it. Having plonked our stuff bedroom -side and stuffed ourselves silly over a delicious tagine (Denis’ speciality), we drove over to a nearby lake to stroll around and work off a few calories in the process. The reservoir that is Lac de la Thésauque is huge and surrounded by a stunning nature walk some 6 kilometres in total – perfect for for pootling around although it is advisable not to decide to wear the new boots you bought at a steal in the local recycling shop the day before unless you have a penchant for rubbed raw heels. Thankfully, after a night of talking into the wee hours over several bottles of wine (mine a very nice alcohol free Sauvignon Blanc you will be pleased to hear), the weather was warm enough the following morning for me to don my favourite footwear in the name of flip-flops for a more comfortable outing to a local market and a bit of sight-seeing in ancient chateaux style. Alas, as always happens, the visit passed all too quickly and goodbye hugs and kisses done, we were back in Rouffiac. Home.

It’s a funny thing, going away. As much as it does the soul good to have a change in scenery, there is a part of me that is relieved to be back in the familiar and with my woofers. They drive me crazy at times but I’d not be without them and their delirious homecoming greeting. Mind you, I can’t blame them for their frenetic fussing as I thought leaving them with nephew Louis for one night wouldn’t hurt – hah. I came back to what can only be described as a hovel. Despite my what I thought was a simple to do list, Mo’s nappy hadn’t been changed and their water bowls empty. Let’s not get started with the state of the outdoor terrace but it goes without saying, me and the mop bucket passed an hour or so together before I’d had a chance to unpack and the dog washing machine was on the hot cycle in a blink. Still, all that being done and beds changed, an evening spent chilling out under the stars with very happy hounds couldn’t have made for a better ending to a very nice mini stay-away, not least because it was our girl Alice’s 9th birthday yesterday. And whilst being a dog and therefore not one to count the years, I can’t help wondering what the little Border terrier that I bought for Tony as a 25th wedding anniversary present and one who became the most dutiful mother to 6 gorgeous pups including our Sherman, would think about the adventures she’s been on. Yes, it’s nice to get away and enjoy a different perspective every once in a while but these feet like having fur under them…

“Home, the spot of earth supremely blest, a dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.”( Robert Montgomery)

Intentional rejuvenations

If one was of a mind to believe what is written in the stars (something I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned in previous blogs), namely those online oracles, the Flower Moon that popped up in its entirety on Friday was all about reflection, rejuvenation and release. Apparently it was in Scorpio too for reasons I know not but I’m unreliably informed that I should set intentions and focus on transformation. Into what I haven’t decided yet. It’s not that I have anything against astrological augurs, in fact their fascinatingly flimsy forecasts make for a great way to fall asleep quickly but they do seem to repeat the same predictions every time we have a new lunar cycle.

Ah, May. The month when Mother Nature throws caution to the wind and chucks all manners of gloriousness at us. Well, she could slow down with the wind part, pollen is bad enough up your nose without having it blasted in your eyeballs too but new growth is all around. And not just in the garden. We have a new addition to the family, a four-pawed one. Sort of. I shall backtrack for a moment. As you all are aware, I’m a girl who loves her woofers and her man Denis so seeing him so broken after the death of Gaia and knowing him like I do and that he has a birthday coming up, I drove 600 kilometres to pick up a little surprise for him. Okay, my map reading isn’t great and France is much bigger than you think it is but having dragged D’s sister Patricia into being my co-pilot, I wasn’t going to let the distance get to me. Actually, the drive up past Toulouse and then towards the Andorra border was rather spectacular; eagles flying overhead and the Pyrénean forests rising up on either side of the autoroute impossible not wow at as we weaved across country but I digress. Suffice to say, the pick-up went smoothly as did the journey back mainly due to Friday being a holiday so the roads were traffic-free. Then, to hatch the plan. I dropped the package off with D’s daughter Marina who promptly burst into tears and returned to base just as D was just about to load my woofers into the camion on account of us having a house viewing. He thought I’d been to see a friend; gullible soul he is. Anyway, visit went well, thanks in part I feel to the afore-mentioned holiday so we had no car honking from the D118 below and the sun was shining so all a plus. All that was left to do was hope and pray my man wasn’t going to kill me.

Lucky for me, D had decided to cook dinner over his place. We’ve had a running joke about the fact that I have never eaten either escargots or cuisses de grenouilles, something tourists to this country tend to sample on arrival but I’d never been asked to. So, having had a short repose and a bit of me time with my furry companions, I pootled over to his place and promptly told me to go to his bedroom and not come out until I said so before I whipped off a message to Marina. Let’s just say, Marina wasn’t the only one in floods that evening – one man who I love dearly is now a puppy Papa and I’m the woman of his dreams. Oh and snails are really really delicious if a bit fiddly to prise out of their shells and Capone (okay, kinda my fault that suggestion) the Jack Russell is a total babe.

So there you go. A new month and a new addition. My intentions worked out and I’ve transformed someone’s life – maybe not mine but upon reflection, everyone needs a bit of rejuvenation and there’s no better way to achieve that than with four paws and fur…

“There’s no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face ” (Bernard Williams)

Alone time and the art of Englishness

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)

Eyeballing the age

I know I’ve only myself to blame for the state of my internal organs at the moment but I did throw a flipping good party last night which didn’t finish until 3 o’clock this morning. I realise it has been a while since I’ve hosted such a soirée but judging by all the aches and pains and bleary sleep-deprived eyeballs, this body can’t do what it used to be able to do apparently. Still, it was the perfect way to introduce the latest addition, Lisa, to our social circle and a chance to show-off the bijoux collection in the now-completed showroom which in turn added a few euros to my piggy-bank. Oh and Abraham, under my insistence, bought his new ‘amie‘ Antonia with him who is not only fabulous but a gynaecologist to boot (I’ve yet to ask how they met) so we are already bosom buddies.

To be honest, apart from the small matter of thinking I could have a few drinks after being off the booze for a month and get away with it, I’ve been feeling quite well of late. Whilst I’m sure this is partly down to Spring’s sunny outlook and the blossoming floral abundance everywhere, getting the Witch Wackle wares out of my kitchen and into the downstairs space has kept me busy all week which always cheers me up. That and re-discovering the delights of the mini trampoline that hasn’t seen the light of day for at least a decade. Bouncing around to the groove blasting through my headphones does wonders for the mentals let me tell you even if Denis found the sight and sound (singing is mandatory) of yours truly bobbing up and down so hilarious, he repeated his observations to the entire village – you can imagine the number of winks and head wobbles I now have to endure. Mind you, he’s needed the mood lift – his beloved dog Gaia passed away suddenly on Monday night. She wasn’t a young dog and had had quite a few health problems lately but it’s never easy to lose your furry companion whether you expect it or not. He’s buried her in his front garden which shouldn’t be funny except that the outside space isn’t exactly grand and the burial plot is – with a nice top of sparkly white gravel and a wooden picket fence surround. Artemis II could’ve used it as a landing pad.

As mentioned, the weather is definitely on the up and now that I’ve finished what needed to be finished in the buy the bling department, the rest of April is blissfully appointment free. Nephew Louis is off on Tuesday to continue the renovations in his new house up in La Creuse, a mid-France region a good 7 hour drive from here and won’t be back for a couple of weeks so I once more will have the place to myself. Bless his young cotton socks, he’s kindly cut our very spacious lawns so I can enjoy pottering around the plethora of flora and fauna without worrying about what I might step in. I’m also going to get out my camera trap and see if I can snap a pic or two of a couple of returning residents to our shores; the Eurasian Scops Owls are back. I know this because, due to the warm night hours, I have to open my bedroom window and can hear their gentle hooting – a conversation they seem to prefer having at one a.m and finish at sunrise. I’m going to have to start taking siestas…

“Inside every older person is a young person wondering what happened” (Terry Prachett)

Turtledoves, tats and tough-talking

That pause button. It’s still feeling weird and, if I’m being honest, not something I am completely comfortable with as yet. As I sat out on the terrace sipping coffee the other morning, I had to internally slap myself out of making lists as to what needed to be done that day. Nothing urgent but my annoying brain can’t seem to kick the habit and my body wants to get moving and do. Even now, as I write this blog, I am surrounded by bits of jewellery and half painted tableaux as I’m currently overhauling the ‘showroom’ downstairs for the ‘big’ sell season which is practically finished anyway but I like to create more work for myself apparently. All that being said however, I am enjoying the ‘me’ time – life by oneself albeit with a very lovely boyfriend living round the corner and a bed full of woofer fluff every night, all really quite nice.

Making decisions without having to compromise with someone else is also a novelty I’m learning. For example, the go to bed early as one is curbing the bottle and curl up with a good book just because I can. My current read has been a bit of an eye-opener for want of a better word – “Likeable” by Fearne Cotton. I hadn’t ever thought I really cared about the need but so much of what she pens has struck a chord especially when you’ve spent a lifetime wanting the approval of others. With that thread in mind and our girl Sara’s words of ‘do something for yourself’, I went and got a third tattoo – discreetly above my left ankle just in case Mumo is looking down and shaking her head. As I see it, such inks ought to be symbolisms and mine are no exceptions – this time a Fire Horse with a Scorpio’esque’ tail, me in a nutshell some might say but I refrained from adding a pointy hat into the design. After the master artist finished his work, he suggested that I should go and see if the waiting Denis liked it to which I replied that it was for me not him. Mind you, I doubt the girl adjacent to me in the ‘operating’ area would be asked the same question – she was having her back covered in what looked like giant angel wings and I mean, the entire skin. It’s not that it was ugly, far from it but I couldn’t help musing that the only people that were going to see the whole thing were likely her other half, her mum and her doctor. Even a skimpy bikini would partly hide the work and bless her, she had to keep looking in the mirror to see how the tattooist was getting on so can’t admire it either. As I lay on the table next to her getting stamped, I happened to notice an earlier ink above her bottom, “Born to Die”, for the coroner’s eyes I thought amusingly; all that needle craft above it had to be an excruciatingly painful process. Anyway, I’m very happy with mine and yes, D does like it.

Trying to getting to grips with winding down one’s internal psyche cycle is a challenge I’ll admit but, in my humble opinion, such battles are much easier under blue skies with a hefty oomph in Celsius degrees. I know it’s only April and we’ve a couple more months before the official summer begins but it doesn’t half feel good to put the flip-flops back on again. I might have pushed my luck too far in unearthing a bikini as the sun retreated back under rain clouds and chill this morning but we are assured by Monsieur le météo that this is merely a temporary blip in the radar and all will be fine and dandy once more next week. And I’m not the only one to appreciate Winter’s departure – nesting season has begun in full birdiness. Bert and Skirt, the resident magpies have moved into a new abode in a neighbouring cedar – the last could only take so much wind-blasting and the current one is not only well-protected from the elements but predators too. I wish I could say the same for Mr and Mrs Pratt the tourterelles’ estate agent’s offering; a ridiculously unsafe bundle of twigs under the terrace eaves right above a load of dog and in perfect view of passing egg-snatchers. Luckily for the missus who is stuck up there unable to leave her brood, I’ve taken watch and so has garden guardian Bert who chased off a falcon the other evening and judging by his after the event strut, has “Born to be Boss” tattooed on his feathers. I expect Skirt approves…

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past ” (Jack London)

A Pause in Conversation

If I could sum up this past week in more than a few words, I’d say it was one in which I talked myself into exhaustion. In two languages. I know what you’re thinking; Sophi tired from too much gabbing impossible but such rarities can happen. It got to the point where the muscles in my jaw starting seizing up and my tongue felt like it had done five rounds with a sander. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a thoroughly enjoyable one but perhaps should have been paced a little better. Coffee toute seule on the terrace this morning was absolute bliss.

I suppose I should blame myself – I have a tendency to go hard or go home but the fault does lie partly with others; my mate Sara and Monsieur le Météo. After all, it was the former who said I needed to do something for myself and the latter wasn’t going to let us forget March winds until that month finally passed. And it has. The sun has got its Ray-Bans on and hip hip hooray – just in time for the long Easter weekend. Anyway, back to taking advice from my straight- talking friend ( I have many) and me time. First, a lesson from Jacqui who hosts the Friday ladies chat on how to get to grips with Mumo’s sewing machine. Who knew, I could do so many different stitch patterns in a straight line without breaking the thing? Puffed up ego sorted, I then took myself off to have my nails done and by that, I mean pamper and paint. It took a while, after all something I used to pop down to the local salon in Streatham for regularly before Covid and my big move across the water was well overdue and my cuticles, I was told, were in bad shape. And naturally, it goes without saying for anyone who has ever frequented such establishments, conversation flows non-stop – a free French facial workout added to my now very pretty nails which are now mostly hidden by Marigolds lest I put a run a drill across them. All those people with jewellery tutorials on YouTube never seem to have that problem but well, me and mechanical objects usually end up with less skin on fingers. Still, its nice to wiggle one’s digits and not grimace at the grime underneath them even if the woofers find it a little strange to be served dinner by their butler wearing bright orange gloves.

Taking a personal pause is an odd feeling. You don’t know how much you needed it until you actually do it. Driving home from the above-mentioned Friday afternoon ladies natter after spending a morning doing the same over coffee with our Welsh lass Lisa, I found myself looking out on a totally empty country road going straight ahead towards the horizon. I stopped Bluebottle (my faithful runaround) and just sat for a few minutes going nowhere; I can’t remember the last time I took my foot off the gas and just breathed. Between running Dog Hollow and all that has happened since T died, I’ve spent 30 something years on ‘lit’ mode but in that moment, I felt the switch turn off. Sounds a bit weird I know and I’m not going lulu I hope but maybe, just maybe, that engine has finally put itself in neutral (all puns towards The Book intentional) – a kind of peace if you like. Of course, the last bit of that sentence is unlikely to last long – I mean have you ever known me not to talk?…

“Sometimes you need to press pause to let everything sink in” (Sebastian Vettel)

Atmospheric additions

It may amuse you to learn that yesterday, the day before daylight savings declared the end of winter, the heating finally came back on. Yup, Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraordinaire has managed to get the bloody boiler de-clogged and boosted up once more just in time for us to turn it off again. But not just yet; it’s blowing a hooley out there at the moment and not a warm one so being able to tuck up indoors with a roasting radiator or three is bliss for the woofers and me.

Not that I would have had time to appreciate the defrosting of my digits had the heat come on any earlier in the week as its been one of those spent everywhere except indoors. A busy few days indeed including another house viewing which I think went fairly well, probably because the tramontane decided to take a break that afternoon – in other words the noise from the main road was less obvious. I must say that the gardens are beginning to look fabulous thanks to Denis’ expertise and Spring springing up everywhere. If only one could actually stand outside and enjoy it without having facial features remoulded by 45 kilometere gusts or incur tinnitus by wind chime. Apparently we should see the back of the arctic blast by next weekend which bodes well for D’s annual family get-together Easter Monday. I of course shall bring my non-alcoholic Merlot of which I’ve developed quite a taste for.

Like I said, a whizz around kind of week. Simi, bless the old lady, had a vet visit since her infernal scratching has been keeping everyone up at night which resulted in a course of antibiotics and eye-watering expensive shampoo. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I hadn’t decided to buy the woofers new tick collars at the same time what with warmer weather hopefully on its way but then again, remember cigarette savings – very handy. And speaking of furballs, I popped round to strip out Contessa Louise’s pup’s coat next door, aka Alice’s other son who goes by the inappropriate name Slim; too many biscuits in that Border terrier belly. It’d been a while for a catch-up on all the village gossip from my well-informed neighbour who had just returned from a trip to Miami and was about to hotfoot it over to Lyon – she’ll be 90 in a couple of weeks.

And Louise wasn’t the only lovely lady I got to gas with. The newest member of our little spot deep in rural South-West France, Lisa (the Welsh one) invited D and I over for an aperitif on Friday evening which ended up being held at her next-doors – a beautifully eclectic and very large house owned by her landlords who are also recent additions to the flock. The same house that our Mayor had suggested I might be able to rent if needed. Hmm, those polished oak floors, antique tables and cream sofas I don’t think so and there was the small matter of a very large hissing feline in situ. I’d had plenty of time to take in the less than woofer-worthy aesthetics as it was at least an hour before we were offered any form of sustenance, liquid or solid – something a little odd for the French but it turned out we had to wait for the butter to soften enough for man of the house to spread on his bread. I kid you not. At least last night’s dinner with pals Sara and Adolphe was a much heartier hot pot affair in their ‘still doing up’ little abode. I shall miss Sara as she is off back to Scotland until the Autumn as her meds don’t mix well with summer down here and well, it is nearly April. A month when, I hope, will finally send a gentle breeze in the right direction for yours truly…

“March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb” (Proverb)

Mellow fruitfulness

We had another viewing today. An English couple; I know that as they asked me what the large vine that trails over the big red door was just as Alice and I were about to leave them to peruse our beautiful house. It’s a Virginia Creeper I told them, absolutely amazing in early Autumn. I did add a few comments about how most of the houses on the street had the same and wait til you see the marronniers in full blossom and had they noticed all the irises but then cut short my lyrical waxing less eyes glazed over. That and my Border terrier’s insistence on dragging her owner off to take in the Daily Woof otherwise known as verge sniffing. I haven’t had any feedback from the estate agent yet but the prospective peeps were here for over an hour and did throw a cheery wave at me as they drove off afterwards. I don’t know if it was because the sun was out today or that the blasted wind has decided to take a momentary pause but I have a tingle of optimism about this one.

I have no doubt that, like most of us, a decent spell of balm in the weather department, has given rise to this upbeat mood of mine and passing a week gassing with gals and getting on with all sorts in the workbench department. That and an appointment with Dr Lefevre which should have sent a frisson of unease down to my nether regions but oddly didn’t. I’d gone in to ask for what I thought would be a straight forward yes we’ll do that request to remove my ovarian cyst – a cyst I have come to refer to as Olive for no reason whatsoever. Anyway, doc said no, as unless the little blighter was causing pain, I should just let it be for now. I did reiterate the point that 5 centimetres seemed a little big to fit down there in but apparently they can get to the size of oranges before surgery is on the cards. As I said, weirdly okay – a head state probably boosted by spending so much time with female friends who don’t fuss unlike Denis who is worse than me when it comes to reading too much.

I suppose I should thank the arrival of Spring in terms of its Equinox for lifting the spirit too and making one just want to get on with things. The afore-mentioned Alice got a good going over with the clippers and her son Sherman a couple of hours with yours truly stripping his winter coat out. He’s always gorgeous but more so now and not just because he no longer resembles a bog brush but also behaved impeccably when I took him over for a play date with my mate Jude’s little Cavalier puppy – he didn’t once cock his leg on her pristine cream sofa suite or dig a hole under fence. The woofers do like to surprise me. Oh, and I finally finished the snake pot. I have to be honest, I wasn’t overly thrilled with the result at first but as I have had a fair few wows and requests for more custom designed terrace terracotta, its grown on me, or coiled itself. Mind you, I’ve still got a load of ex-chandelier pieces to finish wrapping and a gratefully donated lilac branch to whittle into something whimsical so plenty to keep the mind mellow. Might also have some news next week too, fingers crossed…

“Spring is the time for plans and projects” (Leo Tolstoy)