A buried past and a new friend

For reasons that will come to pass, I found myself up in the attic this morning leafing my way through a ridiculous number of long-buried in the past photos. I say ridiculous because at least half of the box’s contents were of views unrecognisable, out of focus and still lying in their various ‘pockets’ up there instead of the bin down here. A job for another day; nobody in their right lobe would want to spend more than two minutes in a chamber more suited to a sauna than a storage space. And on that subject, I would like to point out to the Beeb’s weatherman that we, that is to say those of us living south of Paris (France is a big country, Mister) are not going through a third summer heatwave – we haven’t come out of one since May. As happens around this time every year, the sound of Canadairs and helicopters overhead has become the new norm as wildfires rip through areas where the word rain is a distant memory aided by the treacherous tramontane winds.

Anyway, I digress. Again. Over a conversation last weekend at the Prexain festival, I somehow ended up offering my services to a friend of Denis’ daughter, Marina. Anais had been feeling a little self-conscious about her size (gorgeously curvy in my opinion) and Marina, knowing that I have a penchant for exercise suggested I might be able to help. Of course. After all, long before I dabbled in dog dilemmas, I was a successful personal trainer even if I say so myself. Hence the photo fish around – I didn’t always used to be a beanpole you see. Naturally, no-one especially D believed me so evidence of a previous me was needed. However, in my quest for the truth I also happened to stumble upon a bunch of modelling shots which D has now purloined; a threat of slow death issued if they get a public viewing. It was a very short career by the way as I couldn’t maintain a size zero and let’s face it, I don’t have a face for fashion. Here’s funny thing and I’m not talking about 1980’s suits, not only had that brief episode of my life been totally forgotten about, the years in the fitness game had been too. But, all that being said, it’ll be fun to step back in time to help a friend feel better about herself even if it means proving there once was a larger me once upon a time.

Thankfully none of the dated data made its way over to Le Petit Bistrot on Friday evening and neither did my boots. On purpose. As much as I enjoy a good hip-shaking, toeing the line is not my groove. It’s not that I can’t do a decent impression of a do see doh, I just like to add in a few whoops and yeehaws whilst doing so – it was all a bit too serious although that didn’t stop me and my new gal pal Miriam from adding our own vocal additions including a bit of Jolene even if it wasn’t on the playlist. I absolutely adore Miriam. Aside from her Irish wit and natural ebullience, she is a woman of incredible insight and never fails to catch me off-side. I’ve told her I’d marry her several times if it wasn’t for the fact she’s been with her wife for 27 years and she’s not a man. Alas, France is their second home so they will be going back to the Emerald Isle in the coming months, post-Brexit rules and all that but at least there was time to come over chez moi yesterday along with a few other ladies I’d invited for lunch in the courtyard. Just us girls chatting about everything and nothing for a couple of hours over scrumptious salads, all home made and not by me although I did make mint lemonade as most didn’t drink – very civilised indeed. Sadly, I didn’t remember to catch the day on camera although the same couldn’t be said for the sorry sepias D ‘accidentally on purpose’ left behind which led to a discussion about how much I resembled a young Meryl Streep in the film ‘Sophie’s Choice’. I think not and this Sophi would rather choose to bury that part of the past back in a box in a stiflingly humid attic and hope the rats are hungry. Some chapters of one’s biography are better left buried where they came from…

“Old photographs are very deceiving, they give us the illusion that we are alive in them, and it’s not true, the person we are looking at no longer exists” (José Saramago)

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)

Early mornings and irritable pools

I’m often asked why I don’t peddle my wares around the numerous artisan markets in Aude. My response to the pleading populous that I can’t leave the woofers all day isn’t quite true; after all Denis is always here to help but I’m not about to admit that I am not one for leaping out of bed to greet the dawn. Be that as it may, me and the sun woke up together this morning so I could go and help my gal Jude make a few centimes – the Vide Grenier season has begun. Such village traditions are a great excuse to clear out the cupboards or in my case, try and get rid of the junk you couldn’t get rid of at last year’s boot sale although Jude’s pile was rather posh compared to my old tat – I ended up taking two of her very nice buffet platters home with me. Still, along with her Archie Cavalier and my Sherman who were very useful at bringing in the bucks what with their wagging tails, we made a decent pile of dosh between us and what we didn’t flog will end up here next Sunday for Rouffiac’s turn at the tables. I’ve promise to bring a large parasol to that event – it was so hot in Maigre today that you could have used our selection of pots and pans to make an oven-free four course meal.

Bargaining with the locals wasn’t the only addition to the weekly diary; June being the start of all things summer brought the opening of Le Petit Bistrot on Friday night and the cover off our thankfully not green piscine finally. The first was not just to gather the masses for a right old knees up over a rather spirited punchbowl but also a chance for the event team to unveil their newest acquisition. Let’s be honest, the bandstand was a little smaller than most expected and due to it’s shape, made the noise coming from the accordion artists painful on the eardrums but everyone had fun. Including me, a bit too much of it thanks to a fair too many punches mixed with a body no longer used to large quantities of liquor. As headaches go, that one was a whopper and not just because of the booze. Nope, the bloody pool’s been at it again – this time a minute leak in one of the outlet pipes, naturally located under the deck so only a mouse can access it. Actually, Denis, being of a smaller stature than yours truly, did but we have to call in the man who fitted the liner to put it right apparently. Point to note, we have a second viewing of the property on Wednesday so please cross your fingers so I don’t have to deal with large basins of water anymore.

That being said the past few days have been somewhat brighter of late even if there was another rude awakening at the beginning of the week. Monday saw me and my man at the prefecture in Carcassonne queueing at 8 a.m so that I could sort out the renewal of my residency card. I had hoped the Mayor could do it for me but due to the idiocy that is French bureaucracy which stated one needed to make an appointment online only one couldn’t as the site took us round in several circles before saying you couldn’t do it online and needed to phone only you couldn’t as the telephonist said you had to do it – online. At least the office chap was very amenable to my issue and I’m now back in the system. And on a more serene note, I had my appointment with the gynaecology specialist who told me all is stable down there and Olive the cyst is quite comfortable so not to worry. I’m not going to especially as the following medical must-have; the mammogram showed zilch which is always a relief. Probably a relief for the poor clinician too who, being on the shorter height scale, found trying to squash my less than bountiful boobs into the machine a little strenuous whilst ticking me off for slathering on post-shower body oil. They slide around you see. Still, I’m feeling much more positive after all that prodding and pressing and ready to face a new dawn. Anyone want to buy an alarm clock?…

“Morning is wonderful. Its only drawback is that it comes at such an inconvenient time of day.” (Glen Cook)

sellers at sunrise (ours is the heaving one next to the white car)

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)

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)

Alone time and the art of Englishness

Considering I’ve spent most of my time toute seule, it’s been a surprisingly pleasant week. For once I had no appointments in the calendar and since Denis had purloined my car – no way to get to them if I had any. So with the weather mostly clement and a work top covered in what needs doings, I got on with fiddling and fining whilst the woofers flopped about in various corners of their palatial gardens. Admittedly, I did have to occasionally drag the vacuum cleaner around the big house and keep it presentable but that’s hardly an effort when Louis isn’t in situ – the boy has yet to learn what cupboards are for.

Actually, I did have D’s daughter Marina’s runaround if there was an emergency as she left it here whilst her father took her to Toulouse so she could complete her training in eyelash extensions – her car doesn’t have a fancy GPS like mine does. Luckily, her earlier idea on who to practise on was replaced by her bestie – I’m not sure I could cope with spidery things above my peepers and I have no desire to highlight the depressing sight of wrinkly skin surrounding them. I’m not sure I’ve got away completely scot-free, Marina has insisted she repays my kindness – honestly a pot plant would be just fine and much nicer to look at.

Speaking of floral fancies, I went to a garden fête yesterday over in nearby Alet-les Bains. My good friend Jude who I spend most Saturday afternoons with on account of her Cavalier pup and Sherman being best buds, had suggested the outing and since it was a sunny one, off we went. I am not joking when I tell you that the set-up was like the opening scene of an English television drama – the only thing missing was a dead body in the bushes. The event was run by a group of ex-pats complete with a marquee hosting various tables loaded with cakes and home-made things in jars plus several somewhat tired vegetables and naturally, plants in pots. Outside this perfectly picturesque display under canvas were little round tables decorated with teapots and plates of neat round biscuits – the only thing missing was a brass band. Utterly glorious. I wanted to take a photo or three but being glared by several well- coiffured and hatted ladies dampened that thought so I bought a jar of apricot jam, another of mint jelly and some pickled turnips to appease the looks and a line of raffle tickets for good measure. All the donations were for Cancer Research so I made a point of showing my generosity and Sherman behaved impeccably considering his normal leg-lifting activities in public.

To use a well-worn phrase, getting out and about yesterday afternoon was just what the doctor ordered; not only because a Friday night down at Le Jardin resulted in yet another hangover the morning after but I’ve also got a little niggle in my ovary area. Not a pain but still, something not right so I’ve booked an appointment with my newest pal, gynaecologist Antonia. I will say that the over-imbibing was not entirely down to too much of the stuff, rather more down to someone drinking my bottle of very nice non-alcohol Merlot. I’m assuming they didn’t notice what they were downing but my tolerance for the real McCoy is zero these days hence the headache. Still, it was a great chance to see what Abraham had done to the place since the end of last year’s season not least because it now has a proper toilet chalet and a new kitchen. All I have to do now is add a bit of a decor to the party palace before we re-open in May. Good job I still have this place to myself for the next few days, plenty to keep this girl occupied and out of reach of Marina…

“Without great solitude, no serious work is possible” (Pablo Picasso)

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)

Atmospheric additions

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

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

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

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

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