Old habits, new views

A very good friend told me recently that one of my more admirable traits was the ability to do the opposite of what one would expect when faced with a problem; that and my bull-headedness to see my decisions through. Well, I’m not sure the first is an aspirational quality to have in life but the second has definitely been an asset this last week. I’ve given up smoking.

Dumping an old ‘friend and dependant’ after 40 odd years I have to be honest, was a bit of a spur of the moment thing but since I couldn’t get a follow-up appointment with Dr Lefevre until this coming Tuesday, I took it upon myself to get a head-start on a health kick. Despite Denis’ thoughts on just cutting down a bit, I know me and it’s all or nothing. Of course, I googled the possible effects of my rashness but apart from the hand trembles, the headaches, the dizziness, the need to have something between my fingers and not being able to concentrate for more than 30 seconds, I’ve hardly noticed the fact that every time I step outdoors I reach for an invisible pack in a pocket. Actually writing this blog today is an effort in itself as I would normally be mulling over thoughts whilst puffing on the terrace but instead I’m sucking a TicTac. But, and just in case having a stubborn streak isn’t enough, the headshot I took of myself the first morning after quitting was enough to scare Freddy Krueger so that’s motivation in itself. All that being said, I haven’t yet had the irritability everyone keeps warning me about; in fact I have felt oddly calmer and certainly less stressed. That may also have something to do with changing my eating habits too; sitting down and actually concentrating on a meal instead of doing 10 other things at the same time. And before I lose my trumpet, I’ve dropped the wine glass too. Or at least limited myself to one an evening as I was cautioned against too much cessation at once – the body can only take so many shocks at once apparently.

Luckily I have no shortage of distractions at present. After dropping into the notaire’s office last Thursday with big brother Simon so we could finally sign the last of Mumo’s stuff over to us four siblings, I got a chance for an update on my land purchase. The sale has been delayed due to the unfortunate demise of one of the three owners and the consequential hold-up with the succession. The ‘succession’ in case I haven’t mentioned before is how property is handed down in France to put it simply – generally speaking people don’t have wills so everything is just shared equally with the children and usually takes half the time than that of the contract kind. Anyway, I was reassured that the necessary sign-off for that is on the horizon which is a great mood boost and in my bid to keep the mind on the task ahead and not give in to the temptation twaddle, I’ve taken to popping over to my future little bit of Rouffiac daily. Not only does this give me a chance to breathe in the view, D’s daughter Marina’s new house is literally round the next bend so any excuse for a pop-in.

I suppose if I was going to choose a month to heal mind and body, February is perfect. For a start, most of the party crowd are still in hibernation so I’ve got a chance to build up my defences, then there are those hints to Spring popping up all over the garden. The almond trees are beginning their pinky-white bloom and my Mimosa is humming with the gentle sound of bees. There’s still not much to do in terms of actual work and the ground still resembles a river bed but at least its got a bit of colour now. Colour which is best seen from the inside of the apartment at present as the forecast is rain again, my boots have sprung a leak and we’ve still no heating. Positive vibes, positive vibes…

“Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.” (Mahatma Gandhi)

It’s in the way you see it

There is a saying, at least in our family, that, if you want to Google possible maladies, its almost always better to look at a French website rather than a US one. The former will tell you to take a Dolypran (Paracetamol) whereas the latter will advise immediate surgery. Which is exactly why, after this week’s visit to the doctor, I’ve got myself all in a tizzy.

It all started with the afore-mentioned appointment. To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of GPs including our local one – I don’t think he treated Mumo very well and let’s not go into what happened with Tony and the one in Streatham but since I hadn’t had a health check in five years, I thought best to go and get one done. Doc seemed to think I looked okay for a gal of my age and my vitals were normal so he booked the nurse to come and take my blood. Here, the infirmiere not only comes to your house but at the crack of dawn before you’ve had a chance to boil the kettle – mind you being half-asleep whilst she stabs a needle in your vein is an advantage. I hate needles. Anyway, she took her pint and a half of my precious fluid and popped it into the lab who, I have to say were very speedy and sent me the results the same afternoon. All fine except the one typed in bold and let’s face it, less than one minuscule point outside the box. Naturally, I hit the Google button and not the French one. Well, apparently I should take more care of myself (duh), give up the sinful pleasures (no kidding) and avoid stress (hah). The first two are a no-brainer but the last, well that’s easier said than done although the recent re-appearance of the sun is helping as the belligerent boiler isn’t.

Surprisingly, my eyeballs are doing just fine. Doctor Lefevre’s office wasn’t my only tick off the list of must-do’s this week; I popped into the ophthalmologist’s too. That was a bit of a palaver in itself. For a start, I had to do several circuits of the hospital car park before a spot opened up, then I discovered that the clinic wasn’t in the main building but behind it, with several empty parking spaces right in front of it. Armed with my phone’s QR code message, I then attempted to negotiate my allotted time with the machine right inside the entrance which refused to acknowledge my wiggling screen in front of it so I had to put all the info in manually. The dalek then gave me a ticket to take the reception desk where I was asked exactly the same details that I’d just typed in. “Go to waiting room A” she said. I did. A few minutes later, I was ushered into a room where my eyeballs got a thorough look at before I was then told “go to waiting room B”. I did. Once again, name called and another room for another good peer at my peepers. Suffice to say that an hour later, I had made it through waiting room D and after a quick chat with a very nice optical expert, I exited with just a prescription for new glasses and the advice that I didn’t need to come back for a couple of years.

It’s not that I’ve become obsessed with my health all of a sudden; I eat well and work out regularly but watching a documentary about ways to make you live longer the other night made me realise I have to make some changes. Mind you, the idea that one should face one’s fears in order to boost your body’s defences isn’t exactly what I was thinking of. Since my biggest phobia is heights, Denis reckons I should hang my head out of the top floor window until the feeling of death disappears – not gonna happen. Nephew Maxime had a better idea, his opinion, saying he’d take me flying with him as long as I promised not to freak out and touch a button or three – whilst I trust him implicitly, I do not like aeroplanes either, particularly small ones. I prefer the other of the show’s suggestions – slow down a little and calm the mentals. After all, January’s but a memory and according to local lore, if the first month of the year is pants then the rest of the year is going to be hula skirts…

“Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.” (Mark Twain)

Hit the pause button

There are some weeks, like the one just gone, in which not a lot happens which, in a way, makes them rather pleasant. Okay, it wasn’t completely without the odd and very welcome surprise or two but, for once, having seven days that drift by slowly and mostly uneventful are much appreciated by yours truly. After all, when you get to certain age, time does seem to want to accelerate so those rare occasions when the clock hits pause, yes please.

Like I said, not totally a week with nothing out of the ordinary. With nephews Louis and Max returning last weekend, I got a phone call on Monday morning from Moth to expect him on Wednesday. Now, if you know my little brother, doing the unexpected is not out of the norm but considering I haven’t seen him since last summer – well, this was. Anyway, suffice to say it has been really really nice having him around and not just because he buys expensive wine, pays for pizza and fills up the fridge. Unfortunately for him, he chose the worst week for a visit – wet to put it mildly and the whole region has been on flood alert. And since getting out of the front gate without a rowboat has been pretty much impossible, you will be delighted to know that I finally got round to emptying that drawer of useless collectibles including a large number of expired store cards from countries I no longer reside in plus several dead pens, three balls of string and at least two dozen tea lights. I do feel my Doomsday list needs updating.

I’m not sure how much energy was cleared in the afore-mentioned chuck out but I did take advantage of one of the few dry days to remove the last of the Christmas displays – the one on the top of the corner wall. Frankly, I know Denis was all about keeping them up because twinkly lights in January brighten up the soul but I doubt anyone would bother to take a peek from under an umbrella and no sun means no solar. Mind you, as I was un-peeling the last of the strands off the street signboard below, a lady with three deliciously kissable pugs stopped to say how lovely the decorations had been and how sad to think I wouldn’t be there to do them again. Honestly, with the amount of time it took to cut off all the rope and tape D had used to secure everything and doing it all perched on top of a narrow pile of concrete bricks whilst ducking tree branches, I’m all to happy to hand over the task.

So, almost the end of the month and only one more until we are out of winter. The gardens are starting to stir which is a little worrying as I will have to move a lot of the plants soon if they are going to take to their new home. My Mimosa is looking particularly spectacular at present and wandering around the back plot this morning (a momentary stop in the deluge), I noticed buds on the Japanese bushes and the fruit trees. Such little surprises give hope to hopefully warmer weather and Spring. It’s not that I want to time to fly but it would be nice to have toasty tootsies again and who knows, we might have the heating back on by then…

“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.” (Marthe Troly-Curtin)

Practical procrastination

I popped over for coffee with a friend the other day. Sara is one of those people who, when you finally get round to saying goodbye several hours later, leaves you with a sense of positivity and go get ’em girl which, when you consider she’s living with the cancer bitch, makes her all the more special. Apart from a much-overdue catch-up over caffeine and biccies, I’d wanted her advice on selling some of Mumo’s jewellery or at least ask if her fiancée Adolphe knew anyone who would be interested. Adolphe, for those who haven’t kept up with the blog, is a wheeler-dealer of sorts, mostly furniture but has connections all over the place. It might sound a little cold, wanting to off-load such personal items but none of the family want them so the trinkets are just gathering dust in the back of my wardrobe. Now Sara is not only the sort you can chat with all day about everything and nothing, she’s also straight talking and practical which is why, when I got home, I decided it was time to start clearing more cupboard space. Blocks the energy I’m told. Except, I haven’t actually got round to actually doing, just thinking about doing.

I’d blame my procrastination on the weather but it’s actually been quite mild of late. Just as well as we still don’t have heating as Max chauffagiste is waiting for yet another part in the post. Judging by the recent appearance of daffodil buds, winter will probably be over by the time the wretched boiler’s fixed and my very large fuel cheque handout would have been for nothing. Still, at least I am now ‘on the system’ as far as being officially a micro entrepreneur, something that took a while since I had to do a whole lot of online form filling again – this time for the necessary revenue declarations, zero at present as I haven’t got round to setting up the Witch Wackle website. Amusingly, the reason for the process taking so long was because Mumo’s maiden name and married names were both Collins – obviously a bit too confusing for the person ticking boxes. I am vainly hoping that that’s the last of having to deal with documentation as I’m supposed to be getting rid of excess paperwork, not adding to the piles and I do so prefer to be whittling away with the wood it was born from.

As I mentioned earlier, the thermometer has kindly allowed my tootsies to thaw a tad. Unfortunately, for brother Simon and wife Alba having just got back from sunny Miami, the toe-numbing tundra has been replaced by rain this morning, the miserable drizzly kind. On our way over to dinner with neigbours Saba and Roy last night, Denis suggested I should grab an umbrella so I did, one of at least five sitting by my front door most of which I have no recollection of buying. I know what Sara would say, get rid of the rest which of course, I haven’t. Ah well, tomorrow is another day and I just haven’t got the energy…

“I never put off till tomorrow what I can do the day after” (Oscar Wilde)

Seven years on and still blonde

For no reason whatsoever, a thought struck me this morning. Seven years ago this weekend, I sat down in a cosy corner of a sitting room in a suburban semi in Streatham, South-West London and started to write a blog. And here I am still tap tapping away every Sunday albeit on a stool tucked under a kitchen island in an apartment attached to a huge house surrounded by palatial grounds in a little village somewhere in rural South-West France. I have that very first piece of writing in front of me as we speak; I titled it “What to do on a Sunday”. It was a short piece, I wish I’d added photos back then but then again, would I have wanted to take a snapshot of my world on that Sunday. I won’t bore you with repeating everything I penned on the 6th of January 2019 but there are a couple of sentences in the last paragraph that have always stuck with me on these anniversaries of sorts; “don’t make any changes in the first year. Don’t sell your house, don’t change your job, don’t move country” – all of which I did of course.

Mind you, if I had had a scooby doo of an idea for what lay ahead, living on my own in said apartment attached to a great big empty house entering the fourth week without heating would have been enough to make me turn the Mothership around . Yup, Max the chauffagiste still can’t figure out why the boiler doesn’t want to warm my frozen extremities so has decided to call in reinforcements of the specialist kind tomorrow. To be honest, I’ve gotten so used to the numb feeling in my footsies I’ve stopped shivering and just, well, got on with things. Indeed, my stiff upper lip grit mode has not gone unnoticed. Every time I venture out into the village, I am greeted like a warrior princess – skinny blonde English girl surviving against all odds kind of worship. It’s a bit embarrassing really, after all I do have a roof over my head and clothes on my back but it’s nice to be thought about. And I do have the fireplace downstairs although I still haven’t conquered the actual lighting part so poor Denis has to drag himself over here every morning to ashes to flame. It might seem a bit of a waste of a woodpile to keep stoking the stove but it does keep the ground floor of the main abode and its contents warm which in turn makes the place feel a little less abandoned.

Speaking of contents and venturing out, I went on a little recovery mission yesterday. Someone had posted a fauteuil on a local buy and sell site and I of course had to have it. Okay, I don’t actually need another chair but I couldn’t resist its plush red velveted cushion so I hopped into Bluebottle, that’s my car by the way, and whizzed off to Carcassonne. Now, I have often said that just because I’m blonde it doesn’t make me stupid but this was one of those moments in time, it did. You see, Bluebottle is a not built for carrying furniture on account of her small booty something I should have thought of before parking up in a very narrow cul-de-sac and paying for the chair. It didn’t fit. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the homeowners was uploading their social media with videos of my useless efforts to push and wiggle the thing around or my decision to drive home with the rear door open and half a chair hanging out the back. Doing a 10 point turn on a tiny street with an exposed boot was one thing but on entering one of the busier roundabouts in Carcassonne, my car’s contents started to shift in the wrong direction, outwards, so I did what any sensible person would do in this situation; put your hazard lights on and pull over. Ha, this is France and no sooner than I did, horns blasted and fists waved (I’m being polite) so I had to bump along precariously until I found a safer place to save my chair. Of course, if I had different colour hair, I might have secured my cargo before take off and not have to contort my aged body so I could find the seatbelts needed to strap it in nor would I have smeared my boot sole’s unseen dog poo onto the console in the process. Still, as I weaved my way through the mercifully short journey home, I couldn’t help but laugh at how unfazed I was about the whole shebang. Who’d ever have thought that widow plus woofers 7 years ago would be pootling across the country side in another land in a little blue car with a bright crimson armchair hanging out the back?..

” All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.” (Martin Buber)

Hello 2026

Well, hello 2026 and Bonne année et bonne santé à tous! We shall not speak of the one just passed but look forward instead to what, I hope for all of us, will be a bloody good year. After all, February will mark something rather significant for some of us – the Year of the Fire Horse no less, an event that only comes round every 60 years. Ah yes, THAT birthday. Best not dwell too much on that but rather the appearance of the Wolf Moon this weekend which, if you’re like me and believes in that sort of stuff, is connected with renewal and transformation. A more preferable thought for the beginning of the next 12 months I feel.

I’ve said it before but as I’m one to repeat myself I’m told (repeatedly), I’m not going to lay down New Year resolutions. Having said that, I did have a good talk to my inner self as well as a kick up the butt. It’s time to get out of all that ‘poor me’ malarky and stop expecting others to sort my life out. I’ve lists aplenty and appointments in the diary, admittedly most of the latter are to do with vets or doctors but I have had a tendency to put things off in the past. It’s not that I’m feeling ill or anything but my eyeballs haven’t had a check up in five years so my specs aren’t doing what they used to do and there is, of course, the dreaded annual trip to the dentist. One I hope will be just that, annual, ’cause these gnashers are expensive. I suppose I ought to go and visit the GP as well, I’ve lost a few kilos over the Christmas period but I think that’s more down to shivering than pneumonia due to the absence of heating. With any luck, the necessary doodad will be with us tomorrow morning and Max chauffagiste will be able to revive my frozen tootsies. And as mentioned, there’s the vet appointment for Arry (as usual) to restart his physio – the anti-inflammatories for his arthritic spine do tend to make him forget that he’s a bit wobbly in the back end so he needs some muscle therapy. Thankfully, he does like the coat I bought him; I know he’s a German Shepherd but he’s a ‘getting old’ one and personally I think he looks rather suave even if he’s never been sophisticated.

At least, the rain has stopped even if it’s still tundra temperatures outside (and in). We haven’t had any snow as yet, something Denis seems to want, why? but blue skies and sunshine to start the year off can’t be all bad. Makes one want to get busy. I’ve started dismantling the sapins and putting all the baubles back in their boxes. My flurry of activity has got some raised eyebrows from the locals however, in these parts one doesn’t tear down the tinsel until the end of January but I don’t see the point of hanging on to what’s been and gone and the fairy lights need time to re-tangle themselves before their next outing. I have however consented to leaving the corner wall display up for the moment, D says the village have to have something cheery to look at although one of the reindeers got so soggy it’s now bent over backwards and the fake snow has been reduced to a few blotches here and there. Mind you, since it will no doubt be the last of my seasonal spectaculars up there, I’m happy to observe such village customs – we’ve a new year ahead, things to do and places to be my friends…

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves” (William Shakespeare)

Cold comforts and apple sauce

Without, I hope, sounding too bah humbag, that has to have been one of my most miserable Christmases and not because I didn’t have Mumo or the rest of the family here. That in itself would be bad enough but the boiler decided to break down so I’ve had no radiators radiating warmth for a week and it rained non-stop for 6 of those days. Oddly enough, the last time the heat packed up was back in 2020 – a time when none of us could share our dinner with loved ones and Mumo and I ended up sharing a duck breast over a tiny hall table being only the two of us. On the plus side, thanks to her, we now have a lovely fireplace down in living room downstairs so I can remain partially de-frosted until Max the chauffagiste can fix the wretched reservoir.

Okay, it hasn’t been all bad. Despite our number being somewhat diminished by the usual winter arrival of the flu bug, Denis and I did get to host a decent spread on Christmas Day in the big house thanks to that lovely fireplace. And as I was playing lady of the manor, I treated my French famille to something more traditional where I come from. I’m not entirely sure everyone liked the pudding but the brandy butter was washed down well and I had several requests for my apple sauce recipe – honestly I thought we stole the idea from them but I’ll take the compliments for us Brits. Present opening with the Collins’ is always after lunch which was a little stressful for D’s grand-daughter Maria – such excitements are usually on Christmas Eve for les enfants but she lasted well and with the help of some of the woofers who I sneaked in (big brother Simon will never know )and gifts under the tree, gave a more than passable impression of a shredder on max speed.

Spending the holiday season on my own for the first time is, well, a little strange. Okay, there are my beloved woofers who have to be dislodged from from various parts of my body every morning so I can be all-Cinders like and rush down the outside staircase to clean the fireplace before attempting to set light to it. You would imagine by this time, my furry bedspread would be leaping around their palatial land but no, they don’t like the frigid wet stuff anymore than me so stay snug under the duvet. Then of course, there is Denis who appears like a scruffy angel at regular intervals to revive my pathetic offerings to the heat Gods and those friends who rallied round with various plug-in radiators having heard of my plight. Yet, and even though the sun has finally decided to make a break for it and Monsieur le météo has kindly turned off the tap, I’m still feeling selfishly lonely at times. I blame the weather, I’m still English after all even if I haven’t spoken my mother tongue for what seems like eons and my jaw aches from all the vocal yoga but there’s a New Year just around the corner and with that, let’s hope, a little home on the top of a hill just up the road and to the right. Without a boiler but definitely, most definitely a fireplace…

See you all in 2026!

““There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.” (C.S. Lewis)

Christmas 2025

Well, here we are. The second to last blog of 2025 and on the winter solstice as well – I wonder what astrologists would say about that but then again, I’m trying to steer clear of that temptation. If I’m being honest, it still doesn’t feel much like Christmas without Mumo here or the Collins’ family crowding the kitchen and I’ll probably a total mess when Lou and Maxime the nephews leave for their Mum’s on Tuesday. For a start, I still haven’t succeeded in the roasting fireplace department – a job Denis is going to have to take on if I’m to have any decent heat in the apartment and having to look after that big old house all by myself feels slightly Dickensian for some reason. I did think about moving in there, briefly I might add; the thought of letting Sherman loose with all that furniture and his penchant for lifting a leg on new smells slammed the lid on that one. However, there is a plus side to all this aloneness – I can play Christmas music all day long without anyone complaining, not counting the woofers.

Actually, as weeks go and despite my grouchy approach to the season, the past one has been rather fun. Denis and I had the chance to pop back over to brother Simon’s and wife Alba’s place in Argeliers for a spot of lunch and to pick up the rest of what will eventually be my new kitchen. We nearly didn’t make it as, due to a French farmers strike blocking the main arterial routes, Denis decided to take the back roads – a lot of them. Through very tiny villages in our not so small camion. Thankfully, my man is a very good driver but unfortunately lacking much sense of direction so many of those villages were seen more than once until he eventually gave in to my request for good old Google. At least we managed to take the right turns on our return journey, an art in itself with so much cabinetry crammed in the van and the only thing stopping us from unloading the lot mid-way was a piece of rope holding the ‘couldn’t quite get them closed’ back doors in place. Mission completed, the garage is now bursting with cupboards and counter tops; all of which are desperate for renovation and a decent paint job but will have to wait until the weather gets a little warmer.

Mind you, we have been lucky in the temperature department and apart from one spectacular storm, all balmy and blue skies so much so that I got to see some impressive aerial manoeuvres over the gardens. Standing on a sun-drenched terrace one afternoon, I saw a falcon come in to land on one of the trees next to the pool deck. It’s not the first time this particular raptor has visited; the last time it nearly got chomped by Arry as it misjudged the weight of the dove between its talons and swooped a little too low but now was happily snoozing on a branch. It must have been sleeping as the falcon took no notice of Bert and Skirt’s (the resident magpies) dive-bombing – sensibly not too close. And if that wondrous sight wasn’t enough, Friday had me pointing my phone up to the heavens and Simon checking Flight Radar so we could catch a glimpse of a plane. No, I haven’t taken up a new hobby; this was a special bypass – Maxime flying solo across the horizon above. Okay, very far above but a proud moment nevertheless. And with Simon and Alba going off to Miami the next morning, we all sat down to a pre-Christmas celebratory feast that evening – pigeon casserole, I kid you not.

And with that, to all I wish you a wonderful Noël. May your stockings be full and glasses overflow. May your tables groan with the most delicious of delicacies and the sound of corks popping. Cheers everyone!

“Christmas is a baby shower that went totally overboard.” ( Andy Borowitz)

Snotty noses and soulful spirits

There are many things that I’m not very good at and dealing with a stinky cold is one of them. I don’t do illness well whether its being the nurse or worse, the patient. I spent most of last week under a black cloud of doom in full sneeze mode with only the occasional respite thanks to whoever invented Vicks. Feeling and looking like someone coming off a heroin bender was one thing but being understood in your non-native language, I discovered, was frustrating to say the least – try differentiating deux, dix or douze with a stuffed up nose. Still, as more than one in the village told me, it’s better to succumb now than in the summer or on Christmas Day and I am now, finally almost back to my normal festive self.

I say almost back because at this point in December, I should be busy wrapping presents and helping organise bedrooms for incoming family the week before the big day but not this year. There’ll be no-one here but me and the woofers over the holiday period so the spirit is a little off. In an attempt to bring out my inner Santa sense and since I am playing host for some of Denis’ family on Christmas Day, I dragged my man off to the local jardinarie to buy a big fat tree to liven up the main house. I have to admit that compared to my apartment which is twinkling merrily and despite the sapin for once being tastefully decorated with no tinsel in sight, the place still looks somewhat bereft without Mumo’s presence and that of my siblings. As my sister Bong put in her recent text, it’s a strange time this year.

Having said all that, the property wasn’t totally devoid of bodies this week – we had another viewing and this time by a young couple and their kids. Having off-loaded all but one of the woofers on Denis and the camion, I left the estate agent in charge and took myself and Alice up to what will be our new plot up the road and to the right. If you are wondering why Alice wasn’t with the others then you’ve never been in a car with her – she’s very loud, painfully so. As we took in the view of the Corbières and the ambient surroundings, okay she was paying more attention to the Goldie across the road, it dawned on me how quickly this last year has passed and how much has happened within those 12 months. Walking back a little time later down the lane to the back of my current home, I saw the two children playing on our front lawn. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that Alice had seen a cat on our wall and was trying her best to get in a bit of extreme rock-climbing but it felt vaguely reassuring that hopefully, in the not too distant future, the place would have a family again.

And it’s not just the big house that feel a little off at the moment, the poor garden doesn’t know which season it’s supposed to be in. With the weather deciding that blue skies and high teen degrees is perfectly normal in wintertime, half the foliage is on the floor whilst the rest is in full bloom. On the positive side, this does help charge up the solar lights illuminating our reindeer display but I do worry about my plantings as I will have to move them in the next few months and they really should be asleep by now. Still, one can’t deny that a little bit of sunshine does the spirit and the snotty nose a world of good and with only so many shopping days left until Christmas, I am determined to bring a little bit of Sophi magic to the party. And now, with my new television courtesy of a priceless pal, it’s time to switch on the Disney classics, put on the dancing slippers and get out the wrapping paper don’t you think?…

“December, being the last month of the year, cannot help but make us think of what is to come.” (Fennel Hudson)

Boredom goes in the back seat

Unlike my darling Arry who sees any trip in a car as a chance to unleash his inner puppy at full volume, being driven instead of being the driver gives me a chance to silence the mind bubbles and just enjoy the passing countryside. Such occasions are rare, mainly because I’m a bit of a control freak and Denis’ excitable chatter does tend to lead to missing exits off roundabouts – I once told he’d make a fortune as a tourist taxi what with his ‘scenic routes’. However, an opportunity to pop over to brother Simon’s new house to pick up some goodies for my yet to be built abode needed the camion and since I’m not a fan of a stick shift – D took charge and I got the window seat. Taking the back roads was, for once, worth it as the journey between here and Argeliers winds across flat plains covered with vines over-looked by the impressive Corbières mountain range which you don’t really get a proper view of when you’re bombing down the autoroute at 130 kms an hour. It was a lovely day out, not least because I managed to add a very large water tank and a slew of kitchen cabinets to my bulging storage space that used to be the carport but it also broke the monotony of what was a rather boring week.

Okay, it wasn’t like I didn’t have work to do, just that I was getting a bit tired of tedium that comes with end of November but not yet December days. D and I did drag out all the Christmas decorations from the loft which appeared to have multiplied since last year, probably due to the number of lights which no longer work but I’d stuffed up there anyway. And yes, the fairies had been at it again and I had to spend an entire day unravelling strands of wiring which I’m sure I’d neatly arranged before packing them but as boredom-busting activities go, getting tangled in tinsel isn’t one of them. Still, at least the picture is now up in the signboard’s frame, not that anyone’s probably seen it due to the depressing weather of late and I have made a start on our idea for the corner wall display so hands have not been idle.

Having said all that, it wasn’t all blah. Knowing my nephew had a guest staying for the weekend meaning endless piano talk over what, I can only describe as on odd choice for dinner party food; soup, Denis and I elected to share take-out pizza with friends down the road last night. Michel and Frederique are one of those couples that, no matter what hell has hit them in life, see the rainbow and make you want to look out of the same window. After all, it’s December next week and we all know what that means. There’s a tree to buy, presents to think about, cards to be written, a pudding to make and a corner to decorate. Time to get back in the driver’s seat me thinks…

“Stop looking at the walls; look out the window” (Karl Pilkington)