That lived-in feeling

Well folks, it’s the first of December and after a week of weirdly warm weather, the trees are finally starting to shed their plumage – colder days are looming. The morning runs are darker for longer now and I’ve found both a left and a right hand glove to keep the freezies away from my fingertips. I have discovered alas that my well-worn trainers are no longer waterproof so the same doesn’t go for my tootsies so I’ll have splurge soon. But at least now that we have a decent stack of wood under the remis for the winter months, the fuel reservoir isn’t being drained at warp speed – keeps the wallet happy.

The balmy temperatures couldn’t have timed themselves better as I spent most of the past 7 days juggling two houses and an extra dog. As much as I love the grand old lady that is the family maison , she felt a little sad without any residents. I would have moved down there but my woofers aren’t allowed inside the hallowed walls lest they create chaos or in Sherman’s case, lift a leg. This meant having Mumo’s canine companion up at mine which wasn’t ideal – Sappy isn’t a fan of my rambunctious rovers, that is except for Sherman. Thankfully, dogs can’t tell what day it is or how long they have to put up with pests as Friday heralded the return of our Mum. Yup, she’s back with her feet up on the sofa and the blazing fireplace – happy house and happy Sappy once more. And Mumo has had her first ‘super power’ treatment which all in all seems to have gone better than expected, the only side effect is extreme tiredness but sleep is good and she can have as much as she wants.

Strictly speaking, my woofers aren’t permitted to pootle in the courtyard either but seeing as I had the whole property to myself and to look after, I decided to leave the connecting door between the back garden and the inner sanctum open. Naturally, it didn’t take long for my three youngest; Arry, Alice and Sherman to join me in my creative space that is the garage attached and for Alice to discover that log piles contain more than just logs. Whilst Arry and Sherman took delight in destroying whatever kid’s toy had been thoughtfully left par terre for their enjoyment, our girl took to extreme sports to sate her appetite for hunting vermin. I have to say she’s yet to catch anything but her persistence has been ok’d by the family as it will hopefully keep the rodent population at bay – mind you, she’s going to need me to fit a tracking device if she keeps disappearing into or under ancient crevices. Still, she’s a fascinating diversion from all the stress the past month has given us all but the matriarch is back where she belongs. Hooray.

And our Mum isn’t the only one, younger brother Moth has returned and sister Bong will be flying in tomorrow for a few days. It’s just as well as Denis and I need to start our Christmas display for the top corner of the acreage. We’re going simple and sustainable style this year – I get the sustainable bit but D’s ideas of minimal aren’t quite what I have in mind. One set of lights he said, hah. There’s enough solar-powered strings of festive foliage in those store room boxes to blind the average passer-by – I might need a little help from Alice first though, I dread to think what’s sleeping in all that sparkle…

“Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” (Paul Theroux)

Sun, squeaks and a touch of sin

The road between Carcassonne and home is fairly busy and somewhat dull most of the working week as it snakes its way out of the populous and heads towards the calm of the countryside. But just before you hit Prexian (our neighbouring village), the snake-like single lane traffic gets a chance to hit the accelerator as the D118 opens up onto a short inclined dual carriageway. I love this bit of the tarmac, mainly for the view that greets you as you whizz upwards . And its best on a Sunday when you’re the only one looking at it. I never get tired of seeing the Pyrénées on the horizon, slightly dusted with snow now – a warning that winter is beckoning although the hills and woodland in their shadow are still lusciously green. Of course, it goes without saying that I’d rather not be driving back from the hospital still but at least today’s spectacular scenery was coated with sunshine and not half bad temperatures for almost the end of November.

Mind you, last week’s weather wasn’t exactly endorphin inspiring. When we weren’t under constant drizzle, I was digging through the back of cupboards trying to find the other glove – why do gloves always reappear with two right hands and never the left one? The finger-chilling conditions, however, did have their advantages. Me and The Second Book became friends again and I got to spend a fair number of hours getting re-acquainted my furniture in the workshop. It’s oddly refreshing to dive back into the opus after so many months away from my desk although I have come to realise how much of my story I omitted to add. Thankfully, Sally is a very patient editor and has just moved house so doesn’t mind having an empty mailbox at present.

I also managed to get the annual Christmas card photo done, the woofers all in one place ‘click’ shot. This was a miracle in itself as not only do most of them hide when a lens is facing them but the final frame also included Alice and Sherman. I say this because ever since the ‘mouse’ incident at beginning of the week, she and her son have turned into vermin vanquishers down in the tractor shed. It all started when I went to check on the serre seedlings only to come face to face with a hairy rodent. Denis said it was a Lerot but he didn’t see it and I can tell you that was no sweet looking dormouse. Anyway, I called Alice in but the thing disappeared before she could use her inner terrier but as I removed the box out of which it had made its escape, a second one made a bid for freedom squeaking right over Sherman’s head. Now, up until this point and unlike his mama, Sherman has never shown any interest in such pursuits except when it comes to hedgehogs and then he always comes off worse for it but something about a near-miss with a giant mouse has turned him rogue. They’ve yet to catch anything but days spent tail to nose twitching down the bottom of the garden keeps them happy and I hope, less likelihood of the strawberry-chomping so and so’s reappearing.

Speaking of reappearances, little brother Moth flew in from Kenya for 48 hours before taking off again to the same continent, different country. With the Collins’ family dotted about the globe, any chance of a quick visit to see Mumo is taken up, no matter how short the trip. And since I’m here alone most of the time, it’s a plus for me too. Moth naturally arrived laden with gifts for our matriarch as well as his sister. One might think books or chocolate but no, childhood memories in the shape of Kenyan bananas, paw paw (you probably call it papaya) and mangoes. Oh, and a dozen or so bags of macadamia nuts to fatten up the patient. D thought I was joking when I told him where the colourful collection came from, ” how did he get all this through the douane?” Knowing Moth like I do, he probably hid the illegal offerings in between whale-tagging equipment or up a camera lens in his usual array of over-weight luggage. But what with the sun shining as we drift towards winter, like those pilfering little pests, the fruitful feast will be long gone before the authorities can grab them…

“Time flies like an arrow – but fruit flies like a banana.” (Terry Wogan)

Pickled fruit and perfect distractions

Running across the frost-covered trails the other day, a random thought flickered through my barely-awake brain. Whilst such things are regular occurrences, half the point of dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn is to clear away the cobwebs from my cranium but food is not what one usually brings to mind. More specifically, Christmas cake. Or lack of. Under normal circumstances, this would have been made by Mumo sometime around the beginning of November and left to pickle in alcohol in some dark corner of a cupboard until the big day but she’s still incarcerated in the hospital so it’s up to me to try and make something vaguely similar. Well, the fruit is drowning in the remains of a Cognac bottle I found in the kitchen – hopefully I’ll remember to add the rest of the ingredients tomorrow.

I would have started the great cake bake earlier in the week but having my eldest nephew, Louis, here provided the best of distractions. Not only is he a wonderfully optimistic and enthusiastic soul but easy company too. When we weren’t off pootling around the old homestead that is L’Horte, we were dining with friends or laughing hysterically at bygone sitcoms over one of Louis’ bizarre supper creations. Tarte au citron brûlé being one of them – he put his lemon meringue pie under the grill. Alas, I deposited Louis at Toulouse airport yesterday complete with a hangover (both of us) gifted by a raucous night before chez mes amis. I miss him already as does probably the entire village but he’ll be back in a few weeks to no doubt sample my attempt at traditional Yuletide fare.

The other plus about having Simon’s first born around was being able to spend a few hours in the workshop whilst he visited Mumo. Oh and having an extra hand to help Denis and his brother finally get the railing that once resided in the smaller of the L’Horte houses up onto the remis’ upper floor. The old horse feeding station was hauled up onto what will eventually be a summer apero area by an ancient pulley and a lot of muscle. And since it wasn’t quite big enough to span the deck, my exceptionally talented pal Jonathon (he what made my lamps if you remember) knocked up an almost identical second section. Not only have the photos of the new addition made Mumo happy, the removal of the cumbersome piece means there’s one less artefact from the old life cluttering the garage. Mind you, I’m doing a great job of adding to it what with all my bits and bobs of half-finished furniture.

With the weather getting colder and the heating systems kicking in, it’s just as well that the gardens haven’t needed much of me or D. Apart from the occasional peek at my growing veggies and picking up the last of the almonds and walnuts – the latter, you may be surprised to learn, made the wood stain for the railing. One of Denis’ findings, you soak them in water and then add linseed oil after draining off the nuts which is not only free but good for the environment too. Anyway, I digress. There isn’t much else to do outside except watch the grass grow even longer under the chill of clear skies. As much as I’d love it cut, the vegetation is probably housing all sorts of little beings and I’m not one to disturb nature. Still, there is much to be done in the cosy confines of the big house – little brother Moth arrives mid-week and I have a date with a cake and I have to make my annual Christmas cards which means trying to get all the woofers to face the camera in the same direction and at the same time. I wish I hadn’t poured all that Cognac into the fruit…

“In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures” (Cynthia Rylant)

Finding the normal in the abnormal

As I drove back from the hospital earlier today, I caught a glimpse of my friends Giselle and Jamel closing up after another, no doubt successful, vide grenier. Whilst I never have time to stop and say hello, seeing the two of them managing the car boot sale every Sunday adds a sense of normality to one’s weekly to-ing and fro-ing. Like Autumn leaves now squishing underfoot as I try not to use my arse as a sled running up the slippery trails through the vines or worse, pick my way across the over-grown lawn vaguely searching for the woofers’ little brown gifts – daily life is, well almost, back in it’s old routine. I say almost because hospital visits shouldn’t be included but Mumo decided to add a pulmonary embolism to her problems so is back in her suite with airport views.

Despite not having much time to devote to my fledgling new business or The Second Book, I did manage to squeeze in a few hours in the workshop yesterday and play with all my presents. Actually, one is still in its kit bag as I’ve never used a soldering iron before and Denis says I have to read the whole manual back to front if I’m to keep the garage intact. Considering he gave me a blowtorch for my birthday, he’ll be lucky if he still has a beard by the end of this week. Still, sanding down a couple of chairs with Callum’s Spotify playlist on full blast was the perfect medicine for this girl’s body and mind. It’s become a running joke in the village as to where to find Sophi – just follow the noise. You’ll be pleased to know that the dentist had a free half hour to put my tooth implant back in so I haven’t read the manual yet.

And since I haven’t had the chance to catch up with friends since the Great British Break, a couple of evenings spent chatting over dinner tables and little blues jam session down at Abraham’s has continued the sense of life’s steady rhythm down here. That and starting my French lessons with my gal pal, Saba. You see, as soon as I got back from my old stomping ground that was London, my language skills went out the plane window. My français was more franglais and my tongue refused to even attempt a sentence. Thank the Gods for giving me a neighbour who just happens to be a brilliant teacher and before you could say grignoter, the words started to flow once more. And speaking of little nibbles, the bio pet-safe slug pellets have been nicely munched by said gastropods who are now putting holes in all my lettuce. The edible dormouse has also raided the line of leeks, oddly random in its choice but D says if it hasn’t gone into hibernation yet he’ll help it on its way.

So normalcy is back in Rouffiac. Sort of. We’re all hoping Mumo gets her release papers on Tuesday so us serfs can cater to her every demand whilst she wiggles her toes in front of the living room fire. I’ve whacked up the heating too – Mumo cannot thrive in any environment other than a sauna even when she’s not fighting the cancer bitch. I wish I could say it was as warm in the apartment but there’s an empty bed in the corner. The woofers aren’t keen on curling up in it either but I just can’t bring myself to move it. The Bear that once lay there is now down by the potager with the plaque that Denis made marking his place of rest. There’s a blog I wrote way back in May 2019 called “Steering in circles” in which I describe widowhood as like being in a boat, chained to a dock and not having the key. Recent events have brought back that feeling of helplessness and frustration but at least this time, I’m better armed. Now where’s that manual?…

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.” (Robert Frost)

Past lives and unpleasantries

I can’t believe it’s been a whole week since Denis and I got back from London. Mind you, the amount of slings and arrows the Gods have chucked in this direction over the last seven days has made it one I’d rather pass on. I can only hope that they’ve exhausted their supplies up there and will give us a bit of peace down here. Between the death of my beloved Yogi Bear, Mumo in and out of hospital, me turning another year older and my very expensive dental implant falling out, I’ve had quite enough thank you.

But we did have a luverly time in fair London Town. Denis thoroughly enjoyed his first plane ride even with white-knuckled me sitting next to him – amusingly, considering he’d never been in an airport before, turned out he and the passport control officer knew each other. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I don’t think there’s anyone around here D hasn’t met. And my former home turf welcomed him with open arms too, with only one wet day – I think the English must have liked having a Frenchman come to visit bringing the sun with him. With the temperature so mild, we walked everywhere – doing all the touristy things like the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, Downing Street, Marble Arch, Kew Gardens, a few parks, Kensington, Notting Hill, Oxford Street, Regent Street, Carnaby Street, Brixton Market and my old house. The familiarity of dodging cars because you couldn’t wait for the pedestrian light and the escalator’s descent into the abyss of the Underground came back to me as we took in the sights – I don’t remember there being quite so many ‘Oodle’ dogs it has to be said. Yet although it was a nice change to actually have the time to take in so much of what London has to show off – most of my life there was stuck in a traffic jam, I felt oddly disconnected to the place. Whilst able to catch up with old friends and hug my awesome mother-in-law after more than four years was lump in the throat kind of stuff, the city held not even one iota of emotion. Even standing by the front gate of Knollys Road was like looking at someone else’s home – as Callum once said, its only bricks and mortar. I did have fun though, seeing Denis goggle-eyed at all the historical monuments and the price of a bottle of wine. The latter, I think, has left him somewhat scarred, that and the price of a chocolate in Harrods. I bought him a tin of Heinz Baked Beans as he’s developed a taste for English cooked breakfast instead.

So a week of pleasant memories to one best forgotten. Except for my Bear, he will always have a corner of my heart. He rests now at the bottom of the garden next to the potager because he loved gardening. D made the most touching little grave. And thank you all for the rush of love for Yogi and the happy birthdays for me. It wasn’t a day I was in the mood to celebrate especially with Mumo not being well but I did get some lovely pressies – tools for a girl who now knows how to use them. Let’s hope I get some time to relax in the week to come and play with my new soldering iron, I might find a way to put my tooth back in…

“A person who is tired of London is not necessarily tired of life; it might be that he just can’t find a parking place” (Paul Theroux)

Sweet Dreams my little Bear

I know I’m a little late in writing what was supposed to be written on Sunday but a little after midday yesterday, Yogi Bear slipped away peacefully in my arms. He waited until I came home from holiday to say his farewell. To say I’m heartbroken is too simple a phrase – I’m just numb.

He wasn’t just any dog. In fact, according to Yogi Bear, he wasn’t a dog at all – he was a Norfolk Bear. Yes, he might have looked like a terrier but only a petit ours could have the depth of thought and empathy (I once wrote that in his bio) that he had. His capacity to just love without expectation or reward was his gift – he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Actually he had very few teeth either and spent most of his last years with his tongue permanently hanging out of the left side of his mouth. If you saw him strutting around the garden from the back, you’d be forgiven for the assumption that a wild animal was passing through but when he turned around, that lop-sided grin would melt the iciest of souls.

From the day I went off to ‘look’ at a litter of Norfolk Terriers and consequently emptied my wallet, I was sunk. Tony too and Callum. I named him Yogi Bear on sight, he had a spectacularly rounded tum and inhaled treats like a Labrador who’d been on a diet. But it was ability to just love that captured our hearts – he wore his on his paw. In the last days of Tony’s illness, Yogi rarely left his Master’s bedside, choosing to lie on the floor at the end of the bed with a look that no Disney film could re-create. After Tony died in my arms, my initial reaction was to find my little Bear – he’d been placed in the other bedroom when the emergency crew arrived. I remember just hauling him into my arms when I found him, I needed him as much as he needed me. The experience gave Yogi a canine version of PTSD – he was terrified that another one of his humans would leave and when Callum left, he moped for days. Still managed to eat though – a Bear needs sustenance. He never cried or howled, just sat by the door with a woeful look on his face.

Yet, out of trauma and a move to a new country came a new love in Denis. You see, the Bear loved gardening or at least, watching his favourite people tending to plants so Denis became his new and bestest friend. He’d sit between D’s legs and silently manage the digging and pulling – a Bear would never criticise out loud. And despite his pot-bellied form, he was transformed in the water – swimming with the grace of an otter in the river at L’Horte, his tail thwacking back and forth like a rudder. Some of his best times were spent helping the kids grow up at L’Horte.

As for me, it is hard to explain just how much one little brown Bear meant. He was my cuddle bug wrapping himself around my chest like a teddy, he was my confidante listening to me rant on about all the unfairness whilst regarding me in a sagely fatherly sort of way. He taught me patience when he ambled up the stairs like a Sunday afternoon stroll when I was trying to make a deadline and no matter how hard your day was, a ‘woo woo’ greeting on opening the door left your troubles on the doormat. But above all, he taught me and all those who knew him, how to just love. No conditions attached…

Yogi Bear (Nordalset Gotta Be) May 5th 2010 – October 28th 2024. May you sleep once more at your Master’s feet. Je t’aimerais toujours.

I will leave you with a quote that says it all:

If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.” (Winnie the Pooh)

If you’d like to hold the line

I’ll make this short and sweet. After a two and a half hour delay sitting on a very crowded plane on London Stansted’s tarmac, I am finally back chez moi. If you don’t mind, I’m going to curl up with a very nice (and decently priced -more of that later) glass of wine and my much missed woofers tonight. Therefore, the usual Sunday blog will be for once, on a Monday – tomorrow. I’m just too tired to think.

But we did have a luvverly time in Old London Town…

Perspectives

If the recent article published in The Times last month was anything to go by, I am surrounded by gorgeousness. Apparently, according to research, physical attraction is so much more than skin deep – it’s kindness and humour that knocks the socks off. Like I said, I have stunning friends. Between hospital visits or trips to the vet, I haven’t had any time to say thank you to everyone but Mumo, my family and I really do appreciate you.

As I mentioned, Mumo is still in hospital, nicely tucked up in a private room now with a nicer view – this time a car park but at least she can see the hills beyond and it’s quiet. I can’t say much except that she is due a procedure on Tuesday and then has several weeks of treatment ahead of her, that we hope will be able to be done at home. Lucky for me (and her), little brother Moth is here and has taken charge of dealing with all things doctor and specialist. It’s easier just having one person asking the questions and relaying all back to his siblings and his French is so much better than mine. He’s pretty wonderful my brother. Mind you, I did sort out Mumo’s meals with the dietician. If they want her to fatten up, they need to give her food she’ll actually eat so lashings of custard and ice cream are now added to her repas. And now, between that and what Moth calls her ‘happy drugs’, she is a little more comfortable. I’ve promised her that I will bring over Denis’ sister Patricia to give her a hair and facial day – its funny how things like that can make such a difference to your mental well-being.

And of course, I have my darling Denis to lean on when my mood is less than appealing. And the woofers although a certain German Shepherd did leave me hiding my head in embarrassment earlier in the week after a visit to the vet for a limp. Considering the terrain he manages to cover on our runs, such injuries are common place but at 9 years old, bumps are better looked at. Well for me anyway, judging by the noise I could hear from the waiting room as he had an x-ray, the vet might have wished she had the day off plus the three nurses who had to hold him still. Arry does not like being away from me so howled his head off. Thankfully, apart from a slightly swollen elbow and a touch of arthritis in both shoulders, he’s fine and laser therapy is in the diary – I don’t know if that’s for him or the nurses.

What with the worry about Mumo and having to take little Yogi Bear to have a heart scan tomorrow (they better have a big machine ’cause he’s got the biggest heart), the early morning runs have never been more appreciated. With the vendange practically over, the hills and vines are silent once more save the thump thump of my trainers and the jingling of dog collar bells. And with Autumn almost upon us, Mother Nature has once more doused the landscape in reds and golds – put that with the sunrise and you’re a gonna. As I said to Mumo the other day, such times are just a temporary blip and soon forgotten but the beauty of the land around us and that which lies with the friends we have come to know in our lives will forever be set in our memories. Pretty sure the vet is still having nightmares though…

“To friendship every burden’s light.” ( Aesop)

Calm amongst the chaos

As I drove back from the hospital this morning (I shall explain in due course), I was greeted with the familiar sight of the Pyrénées rising above the sun-kissed vines that spread across this area of France. Denis thinks it’s all a bit samey and rather boring to look at every day but I could never tire of it. There is something so peaceful, grounding perhaps, about being surrounded by such luscious greenery especially on the morning run as the sun rises. And if the past week was anything to go by, I’ve needed a bit of nature’s nurturing.

With Denis in quarantine over at his house, me and the workshop became one. Frankly, Callum would probably faint if he saw the chaos in his once meticulously arranged space but having most of my projects in one place means I can potter from one to the other happily whilst blaring out a few decent grooves. The only downside to being at one with wood is that the building is on the opposite side of the property from the garden so I spent half the hours rushing across the courtyard to tell the woofers to quieten down. Yup, that neighbour’s not happy again and gave me a right rollicking the other day when me and the now-Covid free Denis came back from a fungi-less mushroom hunt to find I’d accidentally left the loudest member of the pack out back. I would like to say I’m happy that they have all been very polite since, including the mouthy Mo but that might have more to do with my emotional state than a lesson in obedience. As much as it isn’t always a calm existence living with 8 canine misfits, when you need a cuddle they are right there hogging the bed with you.

So back to the start of this here blog, hospitals. Mumo is in one. Denis and I had taken her down for a pre-ordered scan on Friday so that someone might have a better idea of what’s going on with her insides when, after the short procedure, we were ushered in to a side office and told that she had to be admitted – en urgence. So we ended up back in the emergency section once again. After a couple of hours of rehydration liquid being dripped into her arm (I call it gin), a doctor arrived to say there was no room at the inn that night but she would have one the following day. So that’s where she is and that’s why I was at the hospital this morning. She has a load of investigative stuff coming up tomorrow so best not to speculate too much at this stage but hopefully, she’ll be released mid-week. I know such buildings are vital but I do hate those corridors. Too many less than ideal memories associated with them. But our Mum’s a tough cookie and she’s much better off in there than here and has plenty of visitors to exhaust her. And she has a room with a view. Of the hospital roof…

“There is no Wi-Fi in the forest, but I promise you will find a better connection.” (Ralph Smart)

Lists and little treasures

If I’ve learnt anything from the past week its not to do all your to-do list at the same time because if you do, you’ll reach a point where you don’t have anything to do. What is even more frustrating than boredom is the fact that most of the projects aren’t actually finished as I am either waiting for a piece of something or other or somebody else to add whatever. And to top off the mind-numbing state, the wind is back – the one that gives you a headache and turns your brain to mush.

Well, at least that’s over – last week I mean. The grey clouds and frankly, November like temperatures of the past few days, have given way to blue skies and sunshine once more and the forecast is looking upbeat. Now that the kids have gone back to school and the vendange or grape harvest is just about over, there is a sense of peacefulness within our little village nestled down here in the French countryside. Alas for the poor residents, it’s not going to last very long as me and the younger woofers are about to take to the hills again – my running shoes are ready even if my body probably isn’t. Still, I can’t think of a better way of getting rid of all my excess energy (and Arry’s) and for clearing away the cobwebs from my cranium. Okay, there’s the new plantings to go into the newly-extended potager too but Denis does all the dirty work, I just tell him where to stick the seedlings we purchased during a recent spree at our favourite gardening emporium.

Considering once upon a time there was a city girl who swooned at the sight of a pair of sky-high heels in a swanky shop window, it’s hard to believe that that same dame would now be doing the same ogling over a line of Brussel Sprout plants or whilst sifting through rails of clothing in a second-hand store. Knowing that I was going a little loopy indoors, Denis decided we should take a drive to nearby Alet-les-Bains (famous for their supposedly cure-all waters) to visit a brocante recommended by a friend. Disappointingly, we were in and out of those doors in minutes – the place was over-priced and far too neat, I prefer those that have bits and bobs strewn everywhere which was where we ended up. A piled to the brim chaos of a veritable treasure chest flea market. The additions to my wardrobe came to a total of 6 Euros.

I might have said in the beginning that I was a bit lost for things to do but next week’s list should keep me buzzing around quite nicely. Apart from the veggie plot, the old liner needs to be taken out of the bloody pool so that the concrete bottom can be re-screed before a new one is fitted. I’ve got a number of dining chairs in the attic to ‘chic up’ but they’ll have to stay up there for the moment as I don’t have any room what with all the almost-finished stuff and then there’s the small matter of the hole in the stairway wall – a result of my attempt at drilling through concrete only to find that I couldn’t go more than 2 centimetres, wrong drill I’m told. Then there’s the Second Book needing my attention, Sherman to hand strip as he looks more like a Yeti than a Border Terrier right now, the village map is without the business additions and the walnut trees have to cut back before the solar panels end up in darkness. And all shall be done one at a time and in well-worn discount denim…

““A bee is never as busy as it seems; it’s just that it can’t buzz any slower.” (Kin Hubbard)