Stormy spirits and shaky chakras

Driving the easily walkable distance over to the pizza van to grab a few for a pre-festival apéro at Denis’ daughter’s house, a few metres further up the same road, the thought struck me as to how far removed my life is now from the one I had with Tony. I know it’s not the first time my mind has wandered off into such contemplations but something happened to me on Friday or should I say someone did something to me which wasn’t what I expected and has left me feeling a little off-balance. Hence the introspectiveness.

Actually, most of the past week has been, for want of a better phrase, eye-opening. For once, Monsieur le météo was bang on when he mentioned a storm coming last Sunday – D and I sat under the parasol watching the the skies light up and the blessed rain come down. It’s funny the way such things can affect your mood; I find such summer spectacles weirdly relaxing considering how scary they can look. I’m not sure Neo is of the same opinion, the poor thing gets stressed by any loud bangs although most of the other woofers remain blissfully unbothered. Alas the downpour only lasted a couple of hours and it doesn’t look like we will see another one anytime in the near future. In fact, D and his brother Thierry had to spend a couple of days chopping down trees killed by last year’s chaleur which would have made me weep but instead has resulted in even more space in the garden and I’ve never used elderberry wood before. And speaking of whittling while you work, some of my pendant, pots and whatnots are now in Severine and Nicola’s shop in St-Hilaire and better yet, have been spotted by my friend Jude, at the town’s Thursday night market. I’ve yet to discover how things are going on the selling front, nerves perhaps but I have said I’ll pop over in the next few days. I still find it hard to get my head around the idea that I actually dabble in design instead of dog brains. Makes the mind boggle.

And that’s why I ended up having my chakras stabilised on Friday – unintentionally. You see, I’ve been having a little problem with my right hand cramping up every now and again which I can only assume is down to repetitive strain injury so I got myself an appointment with Michel Bougis. Now Michel is what you might call an ‘alternative’ practitioner who knows a thing or two about how the body works so I strolled down the same bit of road that D insists needs to be taken in four-wheeled style so he could maybe do a bit of manipulation on my malfunctioning main. Er no. I wouldn’t say I’m a sceptic by any means, people have the right to believe in what they believe as long as it doesn’t involve abuse but honestly, I’ve never really thought about my interior energy points getting blocked. But don’t knock it til you’ve tried it is a motto worth living by. Having watched his pendulum hover over a drawing with seven circles around a body, alarmingly wavering all over the place when it came to the torso area (deals with emotional baggage he informed me), Michel sat me on a chair with my bare feet on what looked like a mouse pad (the computer sort). I was told to imagine a light coming from above me and a vacuum going into the ground below; oddly quite de-stressing except for the fleeting sensation of not being able to move my legs when I opened my eyes. Then I got to lie on a table whilst Michel explained to me where and why I had shaky chakras, thankfully only two out of seven before he proceeded to realign them. I’m not great at being in one position for very long but being unwound left me almost comatose even if the glow of my ‘third eye’ did make me wonder if I was about to leave this mortal world for a second or two. But, excuse the pun, I’m not making light of my session with Michel. He knew things about the workings innermost psyche that no-one, apart from my bestie Rene and my Callum, know and as I walked back down the very short road home, I felt weirdly weightless and empty-headed (no blonde jokes please). Normally, as those of you who know me know, my mind is like a ping-pong tournament on speed play and I can’t say having all that suddenly stop has made for a particularly comfortable state to be in but I do feel calmer and it’s noticeable I’ve been told. How long this mellow me will last, who knows but as a good friend said recently: “Soph, you drive an automatic, you wouldn’t know where first gear was”. Maybe but my car’s stick shift has Park written on it…

“For fast acting relief, try slowing down.” ( Lily Tomlin)

Blissful bathing in barbecues

According to Monsieur le Météo, the insufferable scorch we are currently experiencing is nothing compared to what’s in store next week. Great. It’s not enough that I have to drag the infernal “I’ll kink when I want’ hosepipe across the barren landscape at dawn or that all my terrace flora shrivelled into nothingness despite the parasol shade overhead, you feel the need to crank up the celsius to cremate? Put it this way, I’ve replaced the balcony’s burnt offerings with cacti and put away any thoughts of sleeping past sunrise.

Thank the Gods for the pool (note that I have removed the normal curse that precedes her title). In fact, anyone’s pool. The usual and not to be sniffed at invitations to pop over for a drink or lunch now have the addition of ‘and bring a cozzie’; Jude and I spent passed yesterday afternoon mostly submerged in her liquid luxury save the hand holding the bottle. Non-alcoholic I promise. As for our over-sized body of sheer bliss, it’s being well-used by yours truly and Arry of course since me and the woofers are the only ones in residence at the moment which has its advantages in that the big house is easier to take care of and I’ve gotten used to taking care of the outside toute seule over the years. I did have the company of brother Simon and wife Alba on Monday so she and I got to share a dip and a chat in the depths. They pootled off the following morning in car full of food stuffs as I rarely use the big fridge and I didn’t want to throw away its contents unnecessarily. I did suggest adding the larder contents to their load too although I was a little surprised that the upstairs loo rolls were nowhere to be seen. I am not aware such items have a sell by date. We did have a second visit by a French family that same afternoon which looked promising but alas, the mahoosive mansion turned out to be just that – too mahoosive. Don’t I know it. Mind you, there might be better luck in the months ahead as we’ve decided to drop the price a little; having a 4 instead of a 5 in front may just sway the prospective punters.

At least the evenings are still relatively bearable so one can don the glad rags (as little as you can get away with and still be decent) and do the social circuit. Mostly chez moi although Friday night down at Le Petit Bistrot was banging as the young folks would say. Festival de la Musique is an annual summer thing round these parts with villages and towns hosting local combos of varying styles. Rouffiac’s started out with a sort of pub rock group who got everyone on the dance floor shaking their parts to well-known grooves before we were treated to a traditional folk fest which in turn had the older generation singing along in fine tune. Kinda. And since spending one soirée partying with one’s people wasn’t enough, Denis and I threw together a barbecue yesterday for our usual crew. Thankfully, a sit down affair in the coolness of the courtyard – my body can only boogie so much, a fact it often reminds me about so a good old-fashioned gas over a table heaving with deliciousness and wine and if necessary, bathroom toiletries refreshed made for a comfortable chillout amongst friends. Speaking of cooking and all things fire weather, that pristinely perfect pool has my name on it…

““If summer had one defining scent, it’d definitely be the smell of barbecue.” (Katie Lee)

Summer sizzle and superwomen

I can tell you now that right after I have finished penning today’s words of wonder, I’m jumping straight in the bloody pool. Actually I shouldn’t put a swear word in front of her as a) we managed to get the little leak fixed quickly by Monsieur Martinez, he what put in the liner, and b) it’s flippin’ roasting out there and she’s a blessing. I would have been in those cool waters already but there was the small matter of Rouffiac’s annual Vide Grenier to get through this morning. I can’t say Jude and I raked in the euros and let’s not mention the ornate Moroccan birdcage on another stall that I just had to have but at least we managed to offload enough as not to bring embarrassment. No, I have no intention of adding an aviary to my zoo, I just happen to have a fondness for such objects.

We may well be under the force that is Mother Nature’s boiler right now but most of last week was unexpectedly cold. A bit of a shame as I had house guests but Heidi and her friend Simon didn’t seem to mind especially as they wanted to do the tourist thing around the Citié and the Canal du Midi – always more preferable when you aren’t sweating through sunblock. I always enjoy Heidi’s visits not only because she’s a patient listener but her own story is, for want of a better word, inspirational. To bring up three children; two of which were born with mental health issues long before such disorders were really recognised all whilst she dealt with domestic violence and single-handedly built what is now a very successful grooming empire, is well, just that. If she doesn’t write the book, I will.

Alas their stay was, as always, not long enough but we did manage to squeeze in a stroll up the road and to the right so I could point out where my next abode will be one day – it would help if potential big house buyers would stop finding stupid reasons not to add to the family coffers. Complaining about the terrain being too dry when you’re viewing property down here in June for a start or worrying about the amount of stairs (how do you expect to get to the third floor?) seems a little trite although the latter has booked a second look on Monday with her husband – perhaps he’s got strong shoulders.

Speaking of athletic ability and awesomeness, I would like to give a shout-out to my sister, known to us siblings as Bong for reasons we forget, who kept her poor brothers and I glued to the IronMan app last Sunday night. Despite getting two punctures during the cycling bit thanks to someone’s attempt to derail the race and her having to do the last kilometres with a protesting tummy, she can now call herself an IronWoman. I’ll not post her picture as she’ll kill me for that and I still think she was totally nuts to even consider entering the thing but so so proud of her for doing so. Me, no way. I’m going to take a gentle stroll across the arid lawns, walk up the three stairs to the deck before sliding indelicately into a large quantity of crystal clear, cool water…

“Teach your daughters to worry less about fitting into glass slippers and more about shattering glass ceilings.” (Melissa Marchonna)

Potty predictions and birthday pups

According to my snooze-inducing therapists; the tarot card reading ones I mean, I’m about to shed some skin. I know such prophecies should be taken with a bucket load of salt and I rarely get to hear the whole story before nodding off into dreamland but when two questionably qualified quacks say the same thing, the subconscious Soph sits up. Not literally, it’s practically impossible to change my sleeping position due to a large unwieldy German Shepherd whose frame fits the lower part of the bed and a slightly smaller Border terrier who has the ability to take up any remaining inches. Digression again, let’s get back to the prognosis. Something is about to shift big time and I’m not talking about eyelash extension glue. I’m not entirely sure what and I will retain my skepticism about financial gains, however there is something to be said for laying to rest mental ghosts – mine have been in situ for more years than I care to remember but it was the bit about unexpected recognition in the work department that got me all tingly.

Because oddly that’s happened. It’s my pots you see. I didn’t intentionally set out to add painting designs on terracotta to my CV but after having put a couple of posts on the ol’ social network, they’ve ended up in the shop so to speak. Honestly I’ve never thought of myself as one but I was rather chuffed on being told I was an artist – my Arts and Crafts teacher at school is probably rolling in his grave in hysterics having kicked me out of that class and Denis’ confidence in my creations is a lot louder than mine. Still, I’m a little bit proud of my paintwork even if my atelier now resembles a recycling centre due to the mountain of donations in dusty earthenware along with the idiotic acquisition that is the aquarium. It’s still bereft of life; can’t find the time to go fishing when you’re on the creative carousel.

Actually, let’s be honest, last week wasn’t that busy. Apart from another house visit (I don’t think it went well) and a visit from Ever-Reliable Roy who managed to successfully fit the new wotsit into the pool filter whilst I nattered with his ex but still friends on the pool deck, the diary was blissfully empty. Just as well really as it was so toe-scorchingly hot outside, no-one in their right mind would delight in going anywhere except under a fan or three (I spoil the woofers). Unfortunately for Arry, the pool is still under wraps until Roy can spare the time in the coming days to switch over the pumps to their summer setting just in time for the thermometer to drop along with the rain. We are desperate for the latter though, walking over to Le Jardin for a quick meeting with Abraham, what would normally be a view covered in the bright red hue of poppies looked more like a scene from a Wild West set; all that was missing was tumbleweed.

Still, here we are at the end of May and with that, another birthday – Sherman’s. It’s hard to believe it’s been 5 years since Alice did her brilliant mum thing and gave birth to her bouncing brood. Lucky for me, I defied the family and kept my gorgeous galumph who, as you all know, was born in the palm of my hand on the very same bed that he has become to spreading his sizeable self over. And whilst I doubt he pays much mind to the ramblings of online entertainers, he is an excellent listener to all mine. Doesn’t half shed though…

“If it’s the Psychic Network why do they need a phone number?” (Robin Williams)

Scheduling the unscheduled

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

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

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

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

Arghs and anniversaries

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

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

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

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

Where the foot falls

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

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

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

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

Intentional rejuvenations

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

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

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

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

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

Eyeballing the age

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

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

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

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

Turtledoves, tats and tough-talking

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

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

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

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