Pongy plums and precious pieces

Is it just me or has June been a ‘blink and you miss it’ kind of month? One minute we’re wearing woolies and the next, we’re already past the summer equinox. And if last week was anything to go by, it’s getting hot around here. Mind you we did have a cracking thunderstorm yesterday and I mean, cracking. The lightning was so loud even I jumped out of my chair and most of the woofers shot indoors as if someone had fired at them. I say most as Sherman pootled in after the rush wondering what all the fuss was about – probably too busy searching for hedgehog paw prints, he’s obsessed by the spiny species. and has the battle scars to prove it. There are an unusually high number of them around at the moment, I think a combination of May’s wet weather and the abundance of stinking, rooten plums lying waste under their trees might have something to do with it. Over the last couple of weeks, I must have picked over 10 kilos of the little red fruit and that’s just from one tree and only about a quarter cleared so far. Denis wants to make plum wine which judging by the freezer collection should keep us going until Doomsday and the garden has already got the fermenting process underway.

I for one, will not be indulging as I’m taking a break from alcoholic fruits for a bit. Between all the parties and dinner dates, I have been indulging a little too much so apart from the odd ‘lite’ beer which brother Simon refers to as ‘flaky’, I’m being a good girl. And now that we have finished the petanque area, a nice sit-down after work in the shade of the mini-pavilion with a cold brew is just the ticket. I started making the cushion covers for the seating yesterday, something that required a lesson from Mumo as to how the sewing machine worked – I haven’t used one since I was a teenager and that got me thrown out of Home Economics (yes kids, we really did learn things like that back in the day). Still, my first attempt wasn’t that bad although the finished product does have the circumference of a badly fried egg instead of a donut. At least my finished armchair looks better than how it started out and as usual, just as with the woofers, I have become a failed fosterer again. I just can’t bring myself to sell it so now it has joined the rest of my mis-matched furniture up in the apartment. I’ve begun re-upholstering another abandoned acquisition downstairs which of course will no doubt end up upstairs.

It’s just as well that this particular parlour piece will be the last for a while as I really have to start clearing up a bit before the family onslaught next month. The workshop still has a bits of wrought iron bench de-rusting in one corner and a dismantled mobylette in the other – the latter waiting for some very hard to find motor bits. Then there is the half-finished outdoor kitchen to complete and a bit of radiator painting in the newly-painted room at the top of the main house. With any luck, brother Moth will get out of Kenya safely tonight after the recent uprising there and arrive for his birthday on Thursday. I might have some special news to share with him by then but still staying schtum for now.

Speaking of birthdays, I just want to say a quick thank-you to those who messaged me on Thursday. Whilst I don’t see the 27th as his birthday anymore, to me Tony will always be a far too young 56, it’s heartwarming to know you all think of him too. I’m not sure he’d be thrilled about Liverpool being below Arsenal in the standings at present but he’d be happy his friends remember him each year. I really wish he was down here instead of up there, he really really liked plums…

“Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors.” (Mary Cantwell)

Gypsy for the day

Seeing as how I can’t really remember what happened at the start of last week, I shall devote today’s blog to the latter part of it. Working title: Sophi goes to the beach. Yup, for the first time since I landed in this part of France, I got to spend a couple of days away from it. I can’t thank my wonderful friend, Giselle, enough for looking after the woofers for me – all of whom apparently behaved impeccably. A rarity for which I shall thank them too.

Having packed up my car, Denis and I headed South-East on a sunny Thursday afternoon – destination, D’s niece’s house deep in the Camargue some 3 hours or so away. I still can’t get my head around how big France is although the hitch-hikers at the petrol station en route who were trying to get a ride to Berlin must have been even less familiar with the country. A compass might be handy I feel. Mind you, even with my GPS, we took a number of wrong turns although vaguely in the right direction before we got to the little town of Istres. As scenery goes, the Camargue is incredibly flat, filled with rice paddies and marshlands and on the horizon, the oddly-pink coloured beaches lining the Mediterranean Sea.

Anyway, have spent a lively, if not extremely alcoholic, evening with D’s relatives, we headed off to what we’d come to see. Le Pèlerinage aux Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer or the annual get together of Gitans from all over the world to celebrate their patron saint – Sainte Marie de la Mer. The Gitan people descend from travellers or Romany gypsies so unsurprisingly the town of St. Marie de la Mer was heaving with camping cars and caravans and traditional ‘Vardos’ – vibrantly painted, horse-drawn wooden wagons. The streets were packed to the hilt with people dressed up to the nines and guitars strumming on corners and in the middle of the town, a huge market. I have to admit, I wasn’t feeling all that well, probably down to the night before’s wine consumption but the crowds didn’t help either. My brain seemed to have forgotten all those years spent in London as I found it difficult to breathe.

That being said, The main event was quite a spectacle. As the impressive cathedral’s bells rang out, a procession of beautiful, white Camargue horses came down the main street, their riders easily manoeuvring their charges through the throngs gathering to see their patron saint. After the first team of equine gentleness moved past, along came the lady herself, covered in what looked like silks and carried on a litter, six men holding the poles on either side as they were inundated with hands reaching up to touch their cargo. Denis told me that this was to make wishes for loved ones, I’m not of the religious persuasion but I did mentally throw a few her way – one might have been about the bloody pool which is by no means a loved one which is probably why it didn’t work. Followed by her congregation, Sainte Marie was then led down to the sea, the horses going in with her to make a circle as she is dipped into the waters (from whence she came I was told) before being transported back to the safe confines of the cathedral. The whole ceremony took about two hours, thankfully under a clear blue sky so it was just as well that D’s niece had booked a restaurant in the town square. And there, with the accompaniment of a Spanish guitar- playing quartet, the festival goers sang and danced the night away. All very rowdy and loud but not once was there any trouble despite an undeserved reputation placed on Gitans. I might not be one who wants a life on the road but being amongst those effervescent and happy souls did make me think we should all be a little bit more gypsy

After all the hustle and bustle of the day before, it felt good to come home to the quietness of Rouffiac. Naturally the woofers were thrilled to see me, hah! when I returned chez moi. Obviously Giselle must have treated them like Gods considering the lukewarm greetings I received. That is apart from Yogi Bear who snuggled into my arms. I should worry about leaving them less often. And I won’t be, leaving them that is, for a while now – June is just around the corner and there is much to do before the summer guests arrive. Like trying to find out how to keep water in the bloody pool…

“Walk like a Queen, Love like a Hippie, Speak like a Sailor, Travel like a Gypsy, Garden like a Witch and Work like a Warrior” (Unknown)

Night life and nifty wheels

Standing out on my terrace the other morning, averting my gaze from the bloody pool, the thought struck me as to how much my life has changed in such a relatively short time. It’s not something I make a habit of, looking backwards but where I am now compared to then does seem a little surreal from time to time. Perhaps my reminiscence was risen knowing I have only two and half chapters to finish for the first draft of The Second Book or perhaps because next weekend will mark 6 years since Tony passed away. And whilst I have been incredibly lucky to find a new love with Denis and a wonderful home in this little French village, never an evening goes by when I don’t have my nightly chat with him on same said terrace before bed.

Considering the monsoon that stayed with us for the most of last week, I’m amazed I was able to stand out there at all without needing a wetsuit. Thankfully the Gods were gracious enough to turn the tap off and let us have a dilapidated’ glorious weekend. Especially as Saturday was the big re-opening of Le Jardin. Abraham got us into the summer vibe in grand style with DJ’s spinning the decks with a romping reggae night. And what was once a somewhat charming but chaotic mess of a club now had a proper bar and seating area along with an updated stage for all those music makers. Having been a part of the great renovation, I was a little bit nervous about how the event would turn out but Abraham did himself proud. Even if I still have to give him a few lessons in getting the food out before midnight.

Speaking of food, Denis and I stumbled on a little treasure Friday night. We’d decided to go out to the local pizza place for dinner only it was closed due to the owner wanting to take a holiday so we ended up popping over to Pomas, another village ‘next door’ and found that their once tired table-top bar had been taken over and transformed into a restaurant. Fabulous food and a really enjoyable atmosphere. Between Le Jardin, the Diner, the pizza parlour and Abis tros denas (took me a while to get round that name), we’re becoming spoilt for choice down here tucked away in rural South-West France.

It’s just as well that Mumo finally bought another car, what with all the choice eateries. Yup, she is now back behind the wheel of a bright blue Renault Clio. The two of us zipped over in Giselle (my speed loving Toyota Rav 4) to the showroom in Limoux and after having signed three gazillion documents and given a tour of all the car’s internal bells and whistles, Mumo followed me home at a pace even the snails would see in their back-mirrors. I thought my accelerator foot was going to cramp up. Still, she’s done it and is back in the driving seat again after last year’s hillside hiccup in the Yaris. And I know, if like me, Mumo has her nightly natters with Pop in her patio garden, he’d say how proud he was of her. Of course, he’d probably remind her that there is a second gear…

“The direction you choose to face determines whether you’re standing at the end or the beginning of a road.” (Richelle E. Goodrich)

The strength within

It’s been an eventful week, to coin one of my son’s ‘scare Mum’ phrases, and not just because of the number of soirées attended. Once again I managed to injure myself running, only this time it wasn’t down to clumsiness – I got bitten by a dog saving one of my own.

So there I was, huffing and puffing along our usual Tuesday morning route preparing to take on the first of many inclines when suddenly the humungous hairy hound appeared and launched its 90 plus kilo body at Arry pinning him to the ground by the throat. So I pulled him off. Easy yes? Nope but us Mums have inner power when it comes to saving our precious ones. I wrapped my hand into the choke chain around the attacker and hauled him across to the opposite fence. It did cross my mind to hook the chain loop around said fence but I didn’t want to hurt the dog – weird I know but I didn’t. Thankfully, for once in his idiotic life, Arry obeyed me and backed off to a safe distance but Alice and Sherman, terriers they are, weren’t going to let the beast get away lightly. As Sherbs glued his fangs to one hind leg, Alice went into full tigress mode, snapping at every available limb and its sizeable neck. If I had had time to admire her ferocity at this dog’s brazen attack on her beau, I would have but in the process of swinging for one of the diminutive devils, the dog bit me in the leg. The whole episode was over in a matter of minutes – the exhausted assailant giving up and plonked his large behind on the road, long enough for me to grab the two tenacious terriers and make for the hills. Now, before you think I was being foolhardy and putting myself in danger, I wasn’t. I know this dog although he is normally behind an electrified fence protecting his owner’s flock of sheep and said owner has been in touch with profound apologies and offers to pay any vet bills (no woofers were hurt mercifully) and an invitation to go and meet his animals, including the fluff monster. Having spent more than 20 years as a behaviour consultant and trainer, I know enough that it wasn’t the target and frankly Arry does look a bit like Wile E Coyote. I do wish I’d stopping scarring my knees though, I’ll need a GPS to find them soon.

Anyway, I’ve been ‘tetanused’ and loaded with antibiotics, thankfully those that don’t require you to abstain from alcohol (I don’t think such medication exists in these parts) which was just as well as the rest of the week was all about dining and wining. Mumo, having celebrated her xx birthday on Monday, held a little party for close friends on Friday. Denis and I bought her one of those outdoor braziers as she doesn’t do cold very well – the little fire pit blasted out lava-like temperatures the whole evening keeping everyone warm and toasty if not a little smoke-scented. My sister-in-law Alba, made a fancy spread of finger foods and I kept the flow of wine going. And I managed to behave myself and keep the dancing under wraps.

Hip-shaking however, was mandatory last night – my man on the barbecue and his brother, Thierry, on the decks as I was treated to a night of traditional Catalan cuisine and music at his Mum’s house. She hasn’t been well of late so the brothers decided to cheer her up with their presence. D’s other brother, Bruno, is her main carer so having a bit of riotous company was for him too. Yet another thoroughly enjoyable evening even if my body said differently when I woke up this morning. I relish Sunday mornings when I can stay in bed and cuddle the woofers but alas, I had another engagement – an early one. My first French baptism held at the church here in Rouffiac, mercifully a two minute walk round the corner as neither Denis or I would have had the stomach to drive anywhere. To be honest, I’d only met the parents once and my tired self would have rather forgone the invitation but in a small village like ours, well you can imagine what the neighbours would say. It was the first time I’d been in the church too and after the previous two nights, I was grateful for the quiet sanctuary within its walls. The service was beautiful and blessedly short with the most genial baby who never cried once and no hymns were involved so no-one needed to hear me ruin a momentous family occasion. Luckily, D and I also managed to escape the after-party after a small glass to wet the baby’s head and return to our own abodes for a bit of down time after the week’s events – I haven’t mentioned that D fell off a wooden plank whilst trying to put shelving together and bruised ribs and shoulder. At least next week with any luck will be slightly less dramatic I hope but I have started to fill the bloody pool…

“Your responses to the events of life are more important than the events themselves” (Virginia Satir)

What once was

I suppose it was inevitable but it was still hard to see the last house at L’Horte pulled down last week. What once stood proudly for centuries, over-looking the land that started out as the market garden for the Abbey in St-Hilaire, is now left with nothing more than its foundations. All that is left is there for the archeologists to poke around in, everything Pop had renovated – gone in a matter of days. Still, sad as it is, at least now that the digger and excavator crews have left, the place is peaceful once again and doing what it’s supposed to do. Be a market garden with Nicolas and Severine taking care of it all. Nicolas has promised me he’ll try and save Mumo’s peace rose that used to climb up the terrace, my brother Moth asked me if I could grab a few of the building’s cornerstones. I might be fit but I’m not a weightlifter thank you very much.

The old homestead at L’Horte hasn’t been the only receptacle to be drained of life these past few days. Despite Roy and I fixing the probable cause of the bloody pool’s leak, the algae has refused to budge. Running the pumps for several hours at a time and adding diluted chlorine hasn’t fazed the diabolical sludge so I’ve given up trying and the water plus its contents are now draining over the garden. I dread to think what’s living in those murky depths and it’ll be me getting in and cleaning the damn thing. Then Roy and I will fill the vast space with nicely spiced chlorine concentrated eau and put the cover back on until the summer. Another job ticked off the list.

Said list is getting shorter by the day. Denis and I have been toiling all hours of the day to get through it. The carport is cleared and brother Simon has got his car in it without hitting the sides, the tractor shed wall is now painted, I cleared all the weeds from the outside verge and the pool deck now has a fresh coat of preserve. Annoyingly, I only noticed the bit I missed after I’d cleaned the brushes but since the spot is on the margelle otherwise known as the under edge of the deck, I’m not going to say anything. And it wasn’t just the two of us making a difference, Paula, also known as the ‘Oven Queen’ came over for her yearly visit to sparkle up our stoves and catch up on news. Not only is Paula a genius but great fun to be around too and she doesn’t mind the woofers underfoot either.

Just as well as the apartment is getting more crowded by the minute. I’ve brought up one of my armchairs so I can finish the upholstering and I’ve got two saddles waiting to be returned to Le Jardin. I spied them lying dejected and dried out on one of the tables in what will soon be the refurbished bar and restaurant. With a lot of elbow grease and saddle soap, they are now ready to ride. Or as I have decided, become bar stools. I’ll be back down at Le Jardin in the coming week to help Abraham split and replant the seedlings I carefully poked into little pots of earth last month. He’s got enough to do and I weirdly like the work – it’s peaceful and doesn’t require stressing out the brain cells. Not that my life is that stressful except the evening tap tapping away at The Second Book. I’m so close to the end and my muse keeps going to sleep. It doesn’t help that this opus has a lot more factual information than the last one and trawling through pages of research isn’t my idea of fun. And with Spring arriving as the clocks have gone forward, I’d rather be outside talking to my tomatoes than banging my fingers on a keyboard. They are sprouting nicely in case you were worried, better than Denis’ – he’s managed to burn half of his because he put them too close to his barbecue. The same barbecue that will be the star of attention at tomorrow’s Maybon family get-together (D’s family that is) on the petanque ground down the road. The same one, if you remember last year’s, that the giant omelette is traditionally made for. The one laced with sugar and rum. Thankfully D had come to terms with my feelings about this curdled cultural congelation and I won’t have to eat it. The thing looks like a paler version of what I’m emptying the pool. I’m no fool…

“April prepares her green traffic light, and the world thinks: Go (Christopher Morley)

The wheel of life

It’s been a week of catching up with old friends and sadly, the loss of a little one too. Willy, my tiny Roborovski hamster passed away quietly on Wednesday night. I can’t say we had a very tactile relationship in the almost 3 years we spent together but he knew my voice and I had gotten used to the monotonous sound of his exercise wheel squeaking throughout the sleepy hours. Denis and I buried him in the new flowerbed under the apartment frontage – his little house marking his grave. I didn’t add the wheel, his spirit might wake the neighbours.

Speaking of neighbours or should I say, the neighbourhood, everyone’s been out in their gardens over the past few days to soak up the glorious early Spring warmth. Mowers humming and beer caps popping as shorts were pulled out of drawer depths – they’ll be returned to their winter lodgings tomorrow however as we are set for a wet and windy week ahead. Just in time for the Easter Weekend. I have to keep reminding myself that March winds and April showers are to be expected and we still really need the rain but I do prefer flip flops to work boots. The short burst of sunshine however has given my tomatoes a boost – they may be tortoises but slow and steady they rise. And I managed to make a start on painting the tractor house wall, luckily I’m taller than D so he’s only got the top of the wall to do – unless I sneak out the ladder whilst he’s not looking. We’ve shot through our to-do list mind you, ambient temperatures and blue sky abundance tend to get the work done – I just wish I’d decided to the pool leak last Thursday instead of the one coming. Ah well, wetsuit it is.

And with the nights more on the cool than chilly side, I hosted a dinner party out on the terrace on Friday evening. Denis cooked a traditional chicken and olive stew and I provided the vegetarian tatin de tomates. Sixteen were very well-fed and equally, well drunk and all had a thoroughly good evening. I only wish that I could have had everyone over last night instead as my good friend and once grooming mentor arrived yesterday for a stopover on her way to her holiday home near Málaga in Spain. It’s been wonderful to see Heidi again after almost 9 years and to meet her stunning Standard Poodle Tiffany and travel gal pal Lindy. Naturally they’ve had a guided tour of Rouffiac d’Aude, which takes all of 15 minutes and a drive around Carcassonne to see La Cité and St-Hilaire to see the Abbaye de St-Hilaire. We didn’t do any actually walking around as Tiffany is a little on the shy side but the views seem to impress her human counterparts. I do love having visitors and being able to show off this little corner of France (subtle hint to all those who keep promising to pop in, ahem).

As mentioned, Easter is almost upon us and then it’ll be April and hopefully, Spring. This year seems to be whizzing by or perhaps I’m just getting old. I still have another 5 chapters to finish which I’d like to get done before the summer so I can put the wretched thing in the hands of the experts to refine so to speak. It’s not that I don’t like writing it, it’s just that I have itchy feet and want to get on with other projects – ones that don’t require so many brain cells. On the subject of itchy feet, Callum’s is much better he tells me so he’s off being touristy for a couple of weeks around Taz before getting back into the work mode. Life’s all about getting the right balance and getting off the hamster wheel…

““Friendship’s the wine of life.” ( Edward Young)

Parenting skills

Being a parent is not an easy job but I do think some are more in tune with the basics of bringing up kids than others. Take Mr and Mrs Pratt, the pigeon couple for example, versus Bert and Skirt Magpie. Every year, these pairs come back to build their nests and raise their families – Bert and Skirt choosing the safety of the giant cedar tree and the Pratts, well they’ve decided this year to move from the terrace overhang to the gutter above. The woofers have already had one fledgling that had fallen out of the narrow nursery and then I heard another scrabbling around in the bottom of the drainpipe. There was no way I could take the tube apart which broke my heart but I blame the parents. How the population of pigeons keeps growing, is a baffling question considering their ideas on progeny production. At least my offspring is back in touch again having disappeared into the Tasmanian wilderness for a couple of weeks. I do try not to worry but hey, I’m a Mum and what doesn’t help is when he tells me half an hour into our conversation that he’s been in hospital. All that larking about in the forest ended up with an infected foot – infected no doubt because he didn’t have access to my motherly smothering. Serves him right as he can’t go climbing up any mountains or kayaking off waterfalls until the doc says so.

Mind you, I did have to swing into nurse mode last week after Neo managed to acquire a deep gash on his left side. I’ve no idea how he managed to make such a mess of himself but since vet visits and Neo do not mix well, a bit of home TLC seems to be doing the trick. He might look sweet but he’s got a mean bite where distrust is concerned. Plus, the late great Keith Butt taught me well when it comes to open wounds on dogs – stitching it up would not be the best practice, infections are better out than in.

I’m sure the change in the weather is helping Neo’s recovery, the sun has come out and the temperature is suitably pleasant for this time of year. Denis and I have been busy getting through the long list of garden projects, he’s even started clearing his own plot – working on everyone else’s greenery hasn’t given him any time for his own. I didn’t even know he had a gate at the back of the property such was the overgrowth. Our terrain however, is beginning to look very Spring-like – I’ve finished painting Denis’ old trailer that he wanted to throw away, Bella will now carry strawberries and marigolds instead of rusting away in some corner of a dump. And we’ve started on the stone wall that will hopefully transform the flowerbed below the front of the apartment. I say we but realistically, D’s doing most of the hard graft whilst I play with the flowers.

Of course, there is still much to do. There are the daily chores; cleaning up after the woofers, tending the ‘allotment’ and battling the ever-present algae that is slowly beginning to dissipate from what water remains in the pool depths. Hopefully, having bought some dye from the piscine shop in Carcassonne where D’s son works (we get a discount yay!), we’ve found where the leak is most likely to lie. I was right, next to the pool steps. Next week, I’ll have the joy of fixing that imperceptible irritation – I just hope the wetsuit still fits. And speaking of dinky dramas, there is hope in the air. My timid tomatoes have finally decided to reach for the sky! Okay, they’ve a long way to go if they are going to catch up with Denis’ mini monsters but I’m very proud of my brood. It’s tough being a parent but watching all you have carefully nurtured grow upwards is all you could ever want. Unless you’re a pigeon…

“When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ It is a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to do it anyway.” (Erma Bombeck)

Busying away the blah

I started the weekend in a somewhat filthy mood. It would have been easy to surmise that the blame for my dour demeanour should be placed solely on Callum’s departure on Thursday but he wasn’t the only guilty one. All my friends seem to be down with either a cold, the flu or a mixture of both since the New Year started so life has suddenly gone a bit blah. It doesn’t help that the main house is now empty of its family save Mumo now that all have returned to their own nests and everything seems strangely silent right now. It’s as though the party has been boxed up and put away until the warmer seasons creep in – all a bit depressing really. Mind you, a few months of semi-solitude will be good for me – there’s a book that won’t write itself and several pieces of furniture needing my attention let alone the garden. Denis and I are excitedly awaiting my Christmas present from Mumo, a serre (a sort of mix between a greenhouse and a poly tunnel) so we can start growing little seedlings before letting them out into the big wide potager.

Yes, my own not-so-little seedling has flown back across the vast seas to South Oz. I’m already missing him like crazy and I’m not the only one. The bedside lamp socket in Mumo’s bedroom decided to go on the blink as soon as the only electrically-capable family member left the country and neither Mumo or I can figure out how to get the filter out of her fridge to replace it. The night before he left, Cal and sat up in the apartment talking about our lives and Tony. I know I say it a thousand times a second but I am so proud of our boy. Considering how much he has gone through, he has turned into a confident, knowledgeable and sensitive young man. Driving to the airport on Thursday afternoon, I noticed him fiddling with my phone – it wasn’t until I got back to the car after dropping him off at the departure gate that I realised he’d synced his music playlist with mine. He has excellent taste in tunes. And as much as it tore at my heart waving good-bye to my gorgeous grown up son, there was also the worry about how he’d cope with the flight this time i.e. would he spend the entire time throwing up again or would my theory prove correct and the drugs would do their thing. It seems my research paid off and he landed with stomach intact – it wasn’t air sickness he was suffering from, it was altitude sickness. I’ll speak to him during the week when the jet lag dissipates.

With the weather reminding us what winter is all about last week, save the snow that was promised but never arrived, I kept myself busy hammering little gold nails into one of my current renovations, lop-sidedly I might add, whilst Denis planted a whole slew of giant cacti on the verge outside. One of the village residents had one too many growing in his garden so Denis went over and did a bit of uprooting and self-harm. With arms looking like he’d been hooked on heroin, scratched and pot-holed – my brave man repositioned the horned demons into their new habitat which I hope will stop the dog from round the corner attacking my lot through the front fence. I’m actually rather fond of such spiky sculptures and our new frontage has gotten many a thumbs-up from the locals. Apart from said dog that is.

Oh and by the way, I did eventually succeed in making a podcast on Spotify. A day late. I had set everything up and lines ready, hit record, did my spiel and pressed the publish button. Except said button refused to comply and my Ipad almost ended up in next-door’s garden. Temper flaring, I took the bloody thing over to Cal who promptly fiddled with it for two seconds and bingo, my podcast flew off into the ether that is media. I’ll have another go this evening as Callum is 9 hours ahead and I don’t want to wake him up when I can’t press the button again. Did I tell you what an amazingly gifted child I have?…

“Behind every great kid is a mom who’s pretty sure she’s screwing it up.” (Anon)

An album in mind

For some reason yesterday, as I was stretching purple velour over the base of a chair whilst trying not to get stabbed by a disagreeable pin frantic for freedom, I’d set the living room speakers to play 1990’s Britpop at volume. As I sang along to Oasis, Blur and the rest, snapshots of times spent partying with friends in London and dancing round the kitchen with Tony screened through my mind- it’s funny how music does that. I didn’t upset me or make me hanker for the old days, I rarely reminisce about such things unless I’m writing The Second Book and that, just like the first opus, is like writing about someone else. Perhaps getting the little chest that I kept a few souvenirs of his father’s in down from the attic for Callum to go through had triggered my music choice, who knows but I still know all the words to Wonderwall.

Maybe jumping into a new year had something to do with my brief slip into days gone by although it wasn’t so much as a leap as a crawl. There’s been a bug going round town and most of the remaining family were starting to suffer with it by New Years Eve. With the main house filled with the sound of noses being parped and throats hacking, Denis and I left the sad party to see in 2024 upstairs. I barely made to the Bonne Année bit before dropping off, the exhaustion of the last couple of weeks catching up with me. And with my niece Katie and her brother Louis flying off last Thursday, the L’Horte Four (if you haven’t read the book, I’m not elaborating) are down to 2. Two that will be leaving us next week, one for Chad and the other for Australia. I’m trying not to think about that one. It wasn’t so long ago that each of them would have been going back to school, now they all have jobs requiring their return. Katie’s gone back to her lab, Louis to his square pianos and will be followed by Max off for his wildlife and Callum to his growing number of trades in the building industry. Denis outshone himself with a deliciously decadent tagine last night especially for Max and Callum which I’m sure won’t be forgotten for a while – it has certainly been a holiday for the photo albums.

Speaking of albums, today marks the 5th anniversary of this here blog. Half a decade of Sunday writings to which I have all of you to thank. Of course, I’ll keep up the weekly posts but I’m going to attempt to add a podcast too. Knowing my ineptitude towards anything vaguely technological, I’ve no idea whether it’ll work but I’m willing to have a crack at it. I’ll put a link on the Facebook site when I figure it all out.

So now as the decorations are back in the garage and the fairy lights carefully wrapped so they can tangle themselves all over again, life is slowly getting back to normal. The balmy temperatures of Christmas have been replaced with near-zeros and between the bitterly cold wind whipping across my terrace and the pelting rain, even the hardiest of woofers, Sherman, wants to stay indoors and curl up on my bed. Apparently we might have snow arriving over the next few days. Whoopee. Ah well, it’s only 4 months until Spring…

“The shortest day has passed, and whatever nastiness of weather we may look forward to in January and February, at least we notice that the days are getting longer.” (Vita Sackville-West)