We had another viewing this week. The estate agent told me afterwards that the gentleman in question happened to be part of a certain very well-known Domaine family in these parts – actually you can get their Blanquette pretty much anywhere but I digress. Naturally, he loved the house and all its additions but as she put it, had one major issue – the view of the pool from the apartment terrace. No privacy. Now, admittedly the bloody thing is impossible to miss but, as I pointed out to the agent, you could always hide with a few giant oleanders or maybe just move the entire ensemble into the front garden. I was joking about the latter but I could see her brain cogs working.
Personally, if it had been me showing the gent around, I would have directed his gaze a little more to the left. That’s a view I never tire of. Okay, he may not have wanted to see the humungous steel grey vats of the winery below (not his after all) but it’s impossible not to let the eyes drift up into the hills beyond. It’s not that the landscape is particularly beautiful, quite bare really but there’s something incredibly peaceful about it. And of course, being an Englishwoman, one gets the weather forecast just by looking at the sky above it each morning. Today, gloomy with drizzle but at least mildly warmer than most of last week – flippin’ freezing. I’m not built for the cold, just putting a foot outside the door brings on frostbite. Still, it was a good excuse to stay indoors and finish the tableau for the billboard which I have but you’ll have to wait until Denis puts it in for a glimpse.
Yet, whilst it may be an eyesore to some, I’m hoping the pool is going to give me a different view in the coming months with the installation of a little present I bought for myself. Although I highly doubt that my camera trap will blow me away with the same nightlife little brother Moth gets on his – cheetahs and lions don’t tend to wander this way but the bowels of the piscine’s huge deck do provide a winter shelter for those out there in our bit of French wilderness. As per normal, I had to get nephew Maxime to figure out all its bells and whistles and set it to turn on in the middle of the night – no-one wants to see what the woofers get up to down there and nocturnal nature is so much more interesting. And speaking of my four-legged co-inhabitants, I managed to get them all in one place and eyes front for the annual Christmas photo so I can start ordering cards next week. Perhaps the nice gentleman might like one with a different viewpoint…
“The landscape belongs to the person who looks at it.” ( Ralph Waldo Emerson)
It goes without saying that, looking back on the nearly 7 years of writing this blog, there’ve been a fair few milestones inscribed on its stone. Admittedly, most etchings tend to be somewhat depressing so I am particularly proud to add a sparkly one today. Yup, it’s official, I am now a registered jewellery designer and licensed to bling. Actually, the exact name for my trade is ‘createur de bijoux fantasie’ which, by the way, does not mean I’m plying my wares in Ann Summers so keep your heads out of the gutter. According to the very nice man in the office, the fantasie bit separates me from those who work with real gemstones and precious metals as opposed to moi who twists copper wire and whittles wood. Anyway, suffice to say that I am absolutely delighted that the almost impossible to say in French, Witch Wackle, is now a legitimate microenterprise. Dead chuffed.
And Witch Wackle wasn’t the only start-up to open its doors this week, the pizza van fired up its ovens for the rumbly tums on Friday evening. It’s not the first time I’ve invested in a local business but I do love pizza and Christophe knows how to flip ’em. Charmingly gruff and built like a boxer (he was once Marie le Pen’s bodyguard), Christophe has become a good friend and is no stranger to running food trucks so I was happy to help and he did accompany me through all the government paperwork needed to get the bijoux signature. Between Le Jardin, Pizza King and now Witch Wackle, I feel like quite the business woman, which considering I failed maths, French, cookery and art at school, is an accomplishment in itself.
So here I am, proper suited and all, except in torn jeans and scuffed boots, making my own little marker here in this little village hidden amongst the vines in deepest South-West France – a place that brought everyone together on Tuesday to mark Remembrance Day outside the church. Although it wasn’t the sort of occasion where peeps dressed up to the nines, I did pin a poppy badge to my jumper which was joined soon after by a blue paper flower. These are the French symbols of commemoration so I felt very honoured to be given one and place the two side by side. The service was, as always, poignant and respectful, especially as most of the readings were down by local schoolchildren who also ended the morning with a rousing rendition of something unfamiliar but that might have been down to all the notes sung but not necessarily in the right order.
Speaking of all things creative and community, the coming week will see me wearing yet another hat – it’s time to start designing the corner wall’s display and panneau. My artistic ability is hardly Louvre quality but me painting the seasonal scene on the signboard down the road has become a tradition, much like how much Christmas kitsch we can cram into the bit of garden over-looking it. I have promised Denis a little more taste this year and less luminosity although he did raise an eyebrow when I mentioned leaping reindeer and why not dangle Santa from the almond tree so we’ll see. After all, one should always have a bit of fantasie…
“If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities” (Maya Angelou)
Just in case we’d forgotten what month we were in, what with all the autumnal sunshine of late, November reminded us this week. Three days of non-stop rain and bullet-grey skies. The old kayak we had at L’Horte would have come in useful as getting across the driveway or out of the front gate became less about jumping puddles and more about navigating the rapids. That being said, the tempest has run its course and we are back under blue skies once more which perhaps could be a metaphor for my over-worrying self this past week.
At least the deluge waited until after Thursday’s pootle; running up those trails is not exactly fun when your trainers are squelching and, as I’ve mused many times before, sunrise over the vines is a spectacular sight but not when you’re to busy trying to remove chunks of clay from your soles. We almost made it home and dry and would have if it wasn’t for Arry’s very rare change in pace – he just couldn’t keep up. Hence the worry.
I shall explain. A couple of weeks ago, I got an email from the vet clinic to make a few appointments for my ‘senior’ dogs – Arry included. I ruled out Simi, Neo, Coco and Mo – Simi has only recently been checked over and there’s no way a vet could examine Neo or Mo without full body armour. Arry on the other hand is a German Shepherd, as most of you will know, one with only two gears – full steam ahead or fast asleep, the latter only taken when the lights go out. But he is 10 years old and after a minor trip one morning, he seemed a little unsteady. Naturally, being me and having far too much experience with the breed, I whizzed my gorgeous idiot off to be scanned from head to tail. Note, what I just mentioned – two speeds which meant any chance of lying still for one second was out of the question so he needed sedating. Now, Arry and I have been through a lot over our years together and he’s had more lives than a cat but seeing him just flop into a comatose state was terrifying as was waiting for him to come out the other side. As he snoozed peacefully on the floor post-echograph, bloods and X rays, he suddenly looked old – when did this happen? Thankfully, all is okay, sort of. Arthritis in his lower back which means lots of physio but no sign of any of the other evils that tend to be associated with Shepherds. And he can still run the trails, exercise is good for him although a few less kilometres I think.
At least now with that storm in a dog bowl over and the forecast better, I can get back to work with Arry and his cohorts underfoot. I have my next appointment with the license department tomorrow morning at the slightly more reasonable hour of 9 a.m. which if the Gods are playing nice will mean I can make the Christmas markets. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for clear skies ahead, kayaks make me seasick…
““The nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually.” (Eeyore)
So, after five months of rainless skies and sweat, Autumn finally decided to make an appearance in dramatic style with a cracking great storm on Thursday. I’m sure the land was grateful for the deluge but probably not the howling gale that came with it – one that brought down several tonnes of acorns onto the pool deck that I’d just swept. I did wonder whether a retrieval of car canopies from next doors garden might be in order, velcro is no match for a violent tempest and neither is trying to bang down pegs under water. Still, a change in season is as good as a rest or at least it’s certainly blown away the cobwebs.
Yup, this girl’s been busy clearing the decks and not just the one with the sound of constant pinging. It all started with my TikTok detox. I may or may not have spent far too many evenings in the company of tarot card readers and other dubious ‘ologists worrying about where Saturn was rising to next or whether Mars and Uranus were going to have a bust up as to who was going to be in Scorpio tomorrow. So I deleted the little icon and went to work on all things outdoors instead. I braved the inside of the neglected serre, thankfully devoid of spiders and replaced the wilted summer stock with fresh seedlings and the two potagers are once more neat and tidy. Brother Simon and wife Alba came over during the week having hired a van to move stuff to their new home which meant switching furniture around so the main house didn’t look like The Louvre. They timed their visit well as I’d planned a wee apéro with friends on Friday night which ended up being a dinner – such an evening much needed after the foggy last few weeks.
Naturally, what with it being almost the end of October, I’ve been well-occupied in the workshop too. No, not because of Hallowe’en; my birthday isn’t really a thing in these parts thank the Gods as All Saint’s Day takes a priority. Whilst a few shops may adorn themselves with headless ghouls and trails of wispy cotton wool, chrysanthemums tend to be the main attraction although I must admit some of those displays can be frankly scarier. Anyway, I digress, it’s the Christmas crowds I’m planning for. I have a meeting tomorrow at the Chamber of Commerce (at the ungodly hour of 8.30 a.m) which fingers crossed will be the final step towards my licence. I have no doubt in my mind that I’ll probably forget an important document or five knowing how the French bureaucratic system works but with any luck my Nöel nuggets will festoon the local markets in the next months. In the meantime, I just have to bear the thought that I’ll be that little bit closer to not being in my fifties anymore in the far to near future – let’s just hope Venus doesn’t poke her nose in…
“Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.” ( Friedrich Nietzsche)
Considering how much I had wound myself up about jumping into the fiery depths of land purchase in the previous blog, the events of last week turned out to be nothing more than a brief puff of smoke. That’s not to say nothing happened, we are talking about my life after all but between the meeting with the notaire and the following one with the architect, the gear stick is still firmly stuck in neutral. For a start, my lawyer discovered that the building permit bought back in 2012 needed to be re-applied for and the utilities turned back on again all resulting in having to write up another contract. Thankfully, none of these are my responsibility but they do take time. Having said that, the Mayor popped up to the terrain during my house planning rendez-vous and promised me he’d whizz things through the necessary channels. As we wandered around the precious plot, he told me how lucky I was to have the chance of being its proprietor – there is no better view in Rouffiac. Oddly, that made me relax and take the proverbial chill pill. Well, almost. The Hoo is back.
Yup, the pesky poltergeist decided it was time to make a re-appearance just in case I’d forgotten its existence. Getting out the automatic front gate became a race as to whether or not one could shoot through before the device decided to close and any attempt to use the sewing machine meant detangling copious amounts of thread from its underparts. As anyone knows, I am not the most patient when it comes to technology so any Zen derived from taking up running again was lost in a slew of never to be repeated expletives. Then there was that small matter of sorting out my L’identité Numérique for my work license which my dear friend Giselle had offered to sort out. By the time I had retaken numerous photos of my visage front side and back, I did feel like shouting ” I’m not a number! I am a free man!” what with the computer refusing to recognise my personage. I did eventually please the man in the machine and now I have to go to the post office to get my QR code scanned so I can be numerated.
As I said, we have once more taken to the trails although judging by the limping after the first run, Arry and I are definitely feeling our age. That and the architect’s comment about how a plein pied (single storey house) is probably the better choice for someone not far off sixty. That coming from a counsel who was off to have a knee operation the next day, mine are quite fine thank you very much, strapped to the nines but still operational. It will take a few weeks before my four-pawed cohort and I stop creaking and wheezing but hitting the pre-dawn alarm is the best way of clearing away the mental debris especially with Autumn’s paintbrush covering the landscape once more in red and gold as we hum our way through the vines. The Hoo better have a good pair of running shoes…
“Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
Considering how glad I was to be back under sunny skies and woofer snogs after my somewhat traumatic exit from the Motherland, you’d think I’d be raring to get on with things but no. I don’t know whether it was that phone call from the notaire to set a date for the signing over of my bank account for a piece of land or the next ping from the architect for a ‘let’s build a bungalow’ meet up that sent my mood skyrocketing south but something did. I should have been elated with the news but instead all I could think about was money. Or lack of which is stupid as I have no idea how much a house will cost yet but the brain bugs weren’t having any of it. My decision to rid the mind of such useless prattle by cleaning all the apartment windows was not a wise one either, nothing broken except my temper – the streaks are still there. Thankfully, such moue moments can never last long; between Denis’ eternal optimism about winning the lotto and a bed full of canine cuddles, a girl can’t stay glum for long. That and the afore-mentioned sunshine – October and we are in 20 plus degrees of warm.
Perhaps the funk was down to a short spell of PTSD of the getting out of England kind – I don’t cope well out of the driver’s seat, makes me nauseous. I got stuck in the airport hotel lift for 10 minutes going up and down all floors except mine which sent me into a blind panic, who knew you were supposed to touch your key card on that black spot on the wall? Between that and not knowing how the hell to find a way out of London to catch the plane, the control freak in me had a melt-down. I would however like to thank the Gods for not unleashing my belongings throughout the turbulent trip, it was only when I got on the plane that I realised my over-stuffed little suitcase was only partially closed.
It’s taken quite a lot of self talking to and more than a few face slaps but I’m back to being a busy little bee. With the prospect of getting my licence in the next couple of weeks, the bijoux workshop has me buzzing with ideas – especially the wood kind. I can work with wood for hours on end, it’s as close to meditation I can get. And of course, there are all the other chores that come with living in such a palatial property (the estate agent calls it a luxury home which is a bit of a stretch but whatever gets it sold) – the gardens need weeding and the potager looks like the apocalypse popped by for a start. On the plus side, I can forget about the pool now it’s tucked away for the winter and despite the lack of rain, the whole place is blooming. It might be October but the flowers haven’t got that memo yet. And I for one am keeping my fingers crossed that next week will be coming up roses…
““You don’t always need a plan. Sometimes you just need to breathe, trust, let go, and see what happens.”(Mandy Hale)
When I said last week that this blog might have to wait until Tuesday, I meant it as a bit of humour but apparently someone up there took it seriously. I would have written yesterday but then, my musings about sleep or the lack of it were picked up too. In a nutshell, I missed my plane (not entirely my fault) and had to stay in an airport hotel overnight and buy another flight out Monday morning. I shall explain in due course but suffice to say I have no wish to visit London for the foreseeable or not foreseeable future.
Judging by the start of my trip across to the Motherland, I should have taken note – the signs were there. My casual descent into what would become the depths of hell otherwise known as The London Transport system was the first. Having made my way from Stansted to London in a leisurely fashion, I arrived at Victoria Station to catch the train down to my mother-in-law only to be greeted with an overhead display of delayed or cancelled departures and a station heaving with frustrated fellow travellers shrieking into their mobile phones. Storm Amy was apparently playing havoc with the lines which would be understandable if I hadn’t seen blue skies and sunshine outside. Four hours later I was in Jenny’s warm hug and after a bottle of wine and just what you needed pasta salad, I was passed out in all too familiar bed at the Stewart family home.
And as with most storms, there was a lull in its momentum. Spending time in a house I’d known for over 30 years, albeit with Tony, was beyond special. The memories flooded back; Callum on the swing under the giant willow tree, my father-in-law Jeremy pottering around his fruit cages and Jenny’s kitchen still smelling of delicious things to come. Nothing had changed which oddly gave me a sense of security – I don’t know why, perhaps it brought me peace knowing a part of T is forever there. Such could be said the same when, after a thankfully a stress-free train ride to Rene’s, the day ended with an almost perfect evening with the Coven (aka my girls). On a Friday night as always and being a Coven, we brought a little tempête just for fun. Far too much wine, a few topples on the dance floor and a little too much emotion in our gal pal Larrie’s home was like time had stopped and we were back in yesteryear.
I wish I could say the following day brought the same flood of days gone by but no. Okay meeting up with those I used to work for (including one who had a new Cavalier pup which I had thoughts about smuggling) and with those I worked with including my dearest friend Serena were warmly welcomed and much needed. As I said, the omens were there. Who was I to know that I had timed my little excursion to the capital on the same weekend that several thousand people decided to have a protest and the two most used tube lines; District and Circle were closed. Being herded down several escalators with enough people to start an epidemic, I headed for the exit and a bus. As did everyone else. I ended up taking a black cab as the chance of getting a cheap ride was slim to none which I wouldn’t have minded except the speed limit has been reduced to twenty miles an hour. I should have rented a bike – fast option. On the plus side, I did get the chance to pop into M&S, I hate to say it but the French can’t do affordable lingerie like what they do and I did buy a few other bits that weren’t on the budget but hey, it’s a British institution. On the minus side, my feet started to howl on account of the slightly heeled boots I’d decided to wear after porting flip-flops for the last four months and guess what, no bus. Actually not true, plenty of them, all in the opposite lane. Black cab to the rescue. Another expensive outlay and although I’m never one to talk politics, this one’s views on those of another colour were not mine. My London has changed. The city I spent more than half of my life in is not one I remember.
I might have mentioned earlier about lulls in storms and having lounged in the arms of Rene’s pug cross Pepper, eating sushi and watching Strictly, I packed up my teeny suitcase (Ryannair chaps) on Sunday morning and sauntered down for a cup of coffee with our Sophy (same name spelt differently). I was so relaxed that by the time I’d visited Rene’s parents and flopped into her local eaterie, my initial reaction to reading my departing ticket was, well let’s say, slightly hysterical. I’d got the time wrong. The ever afore-mentioned Rene aka the only person who can make me calm down, got me on a train in record time and yup, I was back at Victoria Station. On time. But no tube, no bus, no chance of getting to Stansted on time. I did try; my cab driver only got 200 metres before the traffic hit so I got out at the next tube stop but naturally, the Gods had made plans. We will close a few more tube lines; she ain’t getting outta here. So that’s why I ended up in an extremely expensive hotel room right next to the airport (I couldn’t trust the buses) and spending what I couldn’t afford to waste on another plane ticket. I don’t think I have ever been so pleased to see Denis’ face as I exited those doors on the other side and what made my return even more poignant was the customs officer telling me I didn’t need to join the ‘other passport’ queue as I had French residency. They say home is where the heart is which is why I called my architect this afternoon. Time spent with those I love the most was what I needed but also the realisation that there are some things that will stay forever in your memories but for a city you once loved, you’d rather forget..
Those who are regular readers of this here blog know how much I dislike getting out of bed in the morning especially if my hours of slumber total less than 10. In fact, apart from the dawn run up the hills or the sound of a woofer puking (always on either the above bed, a cushion or the sofa but never on the tiles), I can’t think of much else one needs to be awake early for. Yet, today was an exception – the annual village vide grenier. It’s not that I was expected to arrive anytime before 9 a.m as Denis (who also knows me very well) had put himself in charge of setting up our table and he annoyingly sees the day starting at 5 a.m but sorting the apartment, changing Mo and Coco’s nappies and feeding the woofers takes a good hour and that’s before I’ve had the standard three cups of coffee. Hence the alarm. The alarm which, by the way, was set to rouse me with an old-fashioned ring tone otherwise Alice would go nuts and think we’re off running and her yapping can break glass.
Actually, considering the reduced numbers of vendors due to what is either a current outbreak of flu or Covid down in these parts, it turned out to be quite and enjoyable start to a Sunday. Okay, I didn’t sell many bijoux as boot sales rarely bring the dosh for that sort of merch although I did off-load a set of reupholstered by me kitchen chairs and a few pairs of shoes but I enjoyed the banter between us punters and a poke through their bits and bobs. For once I didn’t empty my wallet, remember the budget girl, even if I did spy a lovely copper tureen but D said I’d never use it and it’d end up on our table next year.
As I mentioned, Rouffiac has not been well of late, Denis included. Since neither of us knew which malady he’d been contaminated with and he didn’t want to take a test, I wouldn’t let him come anywhere near me all week. I’m off to the motherland on Thursday and the only gifts I’ll be bringing with me are of the food kind. It’s not surprising so many have come down with something what with the weather having shifted the dial several degrees downwards. The woofers’ normal snooze under the stars has been replaced by a snuggle on my duvet – thankfully not all of them at once, it’s hard enough with Arry taking up the lower half. The man did come and fill the fuel tank but I’ve yet to call Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraodinaire to turn the radiators on as the flippin’ forecast is predicting an upturn for the thermometer in the coming days. Typical. Not only am I not going to be here, I’ve switched the season’s wardrobe and decided to put the winter bâche over the pool. Mind you, I highly doubt a spell of scorching sunshine is going to make the depths any warmer – even the algae have fled.
So, in case you missed the brief, I’m soon to be England bound even if for only a few days. I can’t wait which may seem odd to some as I love my adopted home but I do need a break from all this buying and selling stress. And I get to spend time with my mother-in-law, catch up with my Coven girls and old collegues. I have no doubt sleep will not feature heavily in such a busy schedule and since my return flight is a disgustingly late one, next week’s blog will have to wait until the following Monday. Or maybe Tuesday…
“Morning is wonderful. Its only drawback is that it comes at such an inconvenient time of day.” (Glen Cook)
Waking up this morning to the pitter patter of raindrops followed by a cracking thunderstorm was one thing but did the temperature have to drop by 10 degrees overnight? For the first time in months, I dragged out my boots such was the shock for my poor tootsies. I did shove the vacuum down their insides first, brother-in-law Steve’s tale of getting bitten by a spider when he put his arm in a long unworn jacket uppermost in my mind. But really? I mean I know we are heading into Autumn but I would’ve preferred the change in season to have come a little more gradually – I’m going to have to call the tanker man tomorrow so he can top up the oil reservoir. It’s almost time to switch on the radiators.
At least if summer was going to go out with a bang, literally, we had last week to be thankful for. Especially as I got to enjoy an albeit too brief visit from sister-in-law Frannie and the afore-mentioned Steve. I can’t say we did much except converse over a fair number of bottles followed by an evening of over-consumption of the food kind but there was the obligatory walk up the road to see my bit of Rouffiac terrain and a nip round to the épicerie to view my bijoux and top up the disappearing wine collection. And the sun stayed out for us so we could idly chit-chat up on my balcony whilst gazing down at the pristine but polar piscine. As I said, the stopover was far too short but for them, the last time they’ll pop over to the Collins’ family abode.
No, the grand old lady has not been sold yet but the latest immobilier says that October onwards is the best time for off-loading our fabulous property. I hope not too quickly as I’m still waiting for the lawyers to send me a bill for my plot. I’m told the delay is down to a newish government mandate about needing to analyse the soil – if they hit oil, I’ve already signed the papers and I should be going broke sometime in the next few days. I still can’t get my head around the fact I’m buying a third of a hectare with nothing on it or how I’m going to pay for it all but lucky for me, I have an army of friends in this little bit of France who’ve offered their expertises. Because I’m planning to do most of the interior myself much to Denis’ horror. Hah, if my Pop could build L’Horte, little brother Moth the same at Badens and I have a rising construction king in my son, something must have surely rubbed off in the genetics and I’m nothing if not stubborn.
Speaking of the man-child, it’s his birthday today. My world that is Callum has entered his 27th year which makes me feel ancient, not helped by sister-in-law Alba’s constant reminders about me turning 60 next year. I’m still 58 for another month thank you. I know both Frannie and I would agree that Tony’d be so proud of Callum and his achievements, not least of all taking himself off alone to the other side of the world and successfully finding a new life. And even though I know I’m no longer numero uno, him being happy equals ditto for this mum. I guess it’ll me soon who flies the coop and jumps into a world unknown (again) except mine is only a stroll down the main street and turn right. Good job I cleaned the boots…
“I’m steel-toed boots in a ballet-slipper world.” ( Richard Kadrey )
Summer’s last stop overwith a bit of plottingand a birthday boy
Marie-Claude, resident of Rouffiac, has Covid and at the time of writing this; the internet is down. Thankfully, we don’t need the internet to find out the former’s malady – that’s what the épicerie is for but according to Orange, there’s been a rupture in the line and we might have to wait until tomorrow for a connection with the outside world. A rupture does sound pretty dire. At least the news of poor Marie-Claude waited until after Friday as that would have been disastrous for Le P’tit Bristrot and its team with it being the final knees up of the season. Almost everyone in the village turned up complete with silly hats and wonky wigs (odd Rouffiac tradition) to share the evening with friends and boogie to an impressive set by Nothing Concrete. No, I haven’t heard of them either but according to my gal Suzy, they just got back from playing a gig in Devon so they had to be pretty good. Less could be said for the dining fare although Suzy’s husband Bruce became even more popular than usual having brought Tabasco to liven up his chilli – queues forming at our table for a drop or two and to munch down on the pizza I always make just in case. The same as Mumo always did.
Mercifully, I’ve had enough time to recover for this morning’s visit by the latest estate agent else my head would have been still buried under Sherman. Photos were the order of today which for me meant hurrying around to get the apartment looking less like a factory and the pool looking vaguely clean before corralling the woofers out of sight lest they moon to the camera. Brother Simon told me such brave feats are unnecessary these days what with AI and fancy apps but 7 furry beasts could be stretch for any computer boffin. I did leave my latest creations on display though including the freshly-pimped up flower pots I found in the old chicken shed. That and the artfully displayed bijoux in the room downstairs. Well, they are after all, an international agency so you never know.
The above mentioned pool is still open by the way. We had considered closing it after the pictures were papped but Monsieur le Météo has decided that we aren’t quite ready for Autumn just yet and is sending a little heat our way in the coming week. You could be forgiven for thinking it’s Spring in September looking out at the garden foliage. And my pasteque is growing bigger by the day. Denis says I should use it as a Halloween decoration instead of the traditional pumpkin but at this rate it might end up in a Christmas pudding. Still, I am not going to complain about the daily chores deck-side; sister-in-law Frannie and her hubby Steve are popping through on Thursday so the barbecue will be pulled out once more and not too long after that, I’m flying off to the Motherland for a few days. A catch-up with my mother-in-law Jenny is much needed and of course, the mandatory lunches and dinners with friends. It will be as always, a short trip as leaving Denis with the dogs and their dietary requirements is never a comfortable thought and there’s the little thing called a plot of land that would look much nicer with a house on it. And fancy plant pots…
“September days have the warmth of summer in their briefer hours, but in their lengthening evenings a prophetic breath of autumn.” (Rowland E. Robinson)
Widow plus woofs 