Old habits, new views

A very good friend told me recently that one of my more admirable traits was the ability to do the opposite of what one would expect when faced with a problem; that and my bull-headedness to see my decisions through. Well, I’m not sure the first is an aspirational quality to have in life but the second has definitely been an asset this last week. I’ve given up smoking.

Dumping an old ‘friend and dependant’ after 40 odd years I have to be honest, was a bit of a spur of the moment thing but since I couldn’t get a follow-up appointment with Dr Lefevre until this coming Tuesday, I took it upon myself to get a head-start on a health kick. Despite Denis’ thoughts on just cutting down a bit, I know me and it’s all or nothing. Of course, I googled the possible effects of my rashness but apart from the hand trembles, the headaches, the dizziness, the need to have something between my fingers and not being able to concentrate for more than 30 seconds, I’ve hardly noticed the fact that every time I step outdoors I reach for an invisible pack in a pocket. Actually writing this blog today is an effort in itself as I would normally be mulling over thoughts whilst puffing on the terrace but instead I’m sucking a TicTac. But, and just in case having a stubborn streak isn’t enough, the headshot I took of myself the first morning after quitting was enough to scare Freddy Krueger so that’s motivation in itself. All that being said, I haven’t yet had the irritability everyone keeps warning me about; in fact I have felt oddly calmer and certainly less stressed. That may also have something to do with changing my eating habits too; sitting down and actually concentrating on a meal instead of doing 10 other things at the same time. And before I lose my trumpet, I’ve dropped the wine glass too. Or at least limited myself to one an evening as I was cautioned against too much cessation at once – the body can only take so many shocks at once apparently.

Luckily I have no shortage of distractions at present. After dropping into the notaire’s office last Thursday with big brother Simon so we could finally sign the last of Mumo’s stuff over to us four siblings, I got a chance for an update on my land purchase. The sale has been delayed due to the unfortunate demise of one of the three owners and the consequential hold-up with the succession. The ‘succession’ in case I haven’t mentioned before is how property is handed down in France to put it simply – generally speaking people don’t have wills so everything is just shared equally with the children and usually takes half the time than that of the contract kind. Anyway, I was reassured that the necessary sign-off for that is on the horizon which is a great mood boost and in my bid to keep the mind on the task ahead and not give in to the temptation twaddle, I’ve taken to popping over to my future little bit of Rouffiac daily. Not only does this give me a chance to breathe in the view, D’s daughter Marina’s new house is literally round the next bend so any excuse for a pop-in.

I suppose if I was going to choose a month to heal mind and body, February is perfect. For a start, most of the party crowd are still in hibernation so I’ve got a chance to build up my defences, then there are those hints to Spring popping up all over the garden. The almond trees are beginning their pinky-white bloom and my Mimosa is humming with the gentle sound of bees. There’s still not much to do in terms of actual work and the ground still resembles a river bed but at least its got a bit of colour now. Colour which is best seen from the inside of the apartment at present as the forecast is rain again, my boots have sprung a leak and we’ve still no heating. Positive vibes, positive vibes…

“Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.” (Mahatma Gandhi)

It’s in the way you see it

There is a saying, at least in our family, that, if you want to Google possible maladies, its almost always better to look at a French website rather than a US one. The former will tell you to take a Dolypran (Paracetamol) whereas the latter will advise immediate surgery. Which is exactly why, after this week’s visit to the doctor, I’ve got myself all in a tizzy.

It all started with the afore-mentioned appointment. To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of GPs including our local one – I don’t think he treated Mumo very well and let’s not go into what happened with Tony and the one in Streatham but since I hadn’t had a health check in five years, I thought best to go and get one done. Doc seemed to think I looked okay for a gal of my age and my vitals were normal so he booked the nurse to come and take my blood. Here, the infirmiere not only comes to your house but at the crack of dawn before you’ve had a chance to boil the kettle – mind you being half-asleep whilst she stabs a needle in your vein is an advantage. I hate needles. Anyway, she took her pint and a half of my precious fluid and popped it into the lab who, I have to say were very speedy and sent me the results the same afternoon. All fine except the one typed in bold and let’s face it, less than one minuscule point outside the box. Naturally, I hit the Google button and not the French one. Well, apparently I should take more care of myself (duh), give up the sinful pleasures (no kidding) and avoid stress (hah). The first two are a no-brainer but the last, well that’s easier said than done although the recent re-appearance of the sun is helping as the belligerent boiler isn’t.

Surprisingly, my eyeballs are doing just fine. Doctor Lefevre’s office wasn’t my only tick off the list of must-do’s this week; I popped into the ophthalmologist’s too. That was a bit of a palaver in itself. For a start, I had to do several circuits of the hospital car park before a spot opened up, then I discovered that the clinic wasn’t in the main building but behind it, with several empty parking spaces right in front of it. Armed with my phone’s QR code message, I then attempted to negotiate my allotted time with the machine right inside the entrance which refused to acknowledge my wiggling screen in front of it so I had to put all the info in manually. The dalek then gave me a ticket to take the reception desk where I was asked exactly the same details that I’d just typed in. “Go to waiting room A” she said. I did. A few minutes later, I was ushered into a room where my eyeballs got a thorough look at before I was then told “go to waiting room B”. I did. Once again, name called and another room for another good peer at my peepers. Suffice to say that an hour later, I had made it through waiting room D and after a quick chat with a very nice optical expert, I exited with just a prescription for new glasses and the advice that I didn’t need to come back for a couple of years.

It’s not that I’ve become obsessed with my health all of a sudden; I eat well and work out regularly but watching a documentary about ways to make you live longer the other night made me realise I have to make some changes. Mind you, the idea that one should face one’s fears in order to boost your body’s defences isn’t exactly what I was thinking of. Since my biggest phobia is heights, Denis reckons I should hang my head out of the top floor window until the feeling of death disappears – not gonna happen. Nephew Maxime had a better idea, his opinion, saying he’d take me flying with him as long as I promised not to freak out and touch a button or three – whilst I trust him implicitly, I do not like aeroplanes either, particularly small ones. I prefer the other of the show’s suggestions – slow down a little and calm the mentals. After all, January’s but a memory and according to local lore, if the first month of the year is pants then the rest of the year is going to be hula skirts…

“Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.” (Mark Twain)

Beds, boot sales and beyond

Those who are regular readers of this here blog know how much I dislike getting out of bed in the morning especially if my hours of slumber total less than 10. In fact, apart from the dawn run up the hills or the sound of a woofer puking (always on either the above bed, a cushion or the sofa but never on the tiles), I can’t think of much else one needs to be awake early for. Yet, today was an exception – the annual village vide grenier. It’s not that I was expected to arrive anytime before 9 a.m as Denis (who also knows me very well) had put himself in charge of setting up our table and he annoyingly sees the day starting at 5 a.m but sorting the apartment, changing Mo and Coco’s nappies and feeding the woofers takes a good hour and that’s before I’ve had the standard three cups of coffee. Hence the alarm. The alarm which, by the way, was set to rouse me with an old-fashioned ring tone otherwise Alice would go nuts and think we’re off running and her yapping can break glass.

Actually, considering the reduced numbers of vendors due to what is either a current outbreak of flu or Covid down in these parts, it turned out to be quite and enjoyable start to a Sunday. Okay, I didn’t sell many bijoux as boot sales rarely bring the dosh for that sort of merch although I did off-load a set of reupholstered by me kitchen chairs and a few pairs of shoes but I enjoyed the banter between us punters and a poke through their bits and bobs. For once I didn’t empty my wallet, remember the budget girl, even if I did spy a lovely copper tureen but D said I’d never use it and it’d end up on our table next year.

As I mentioned, Rouffiac has not been well of late, Denis included. Since neither of us knew which malady he’d been contaminated with and he didn’t want to take a test, I wouldn’t let him come anywhere near me all week. I’m off to the motherland on Thursday and the only gifts I’ll be bringing with me are of the food kind. It’s not surprising so many have come down with something what with the weather having shifted the dial several degrees downwards. The woofers’ normal snooze under the stars has been replaced by a snuggle on my duvet – thankfully not all of them at once, it’s hard enough with Arry taking up the lower half. The man did come and fill the fuel tank but I’ve yet to call Monsieur le Max chauffagiste extraodinaire to turn the radiators on as the flippin’ forecast is predicting an upturn for the thermometer in the coming days. Typical. Not only am I not going to be here, I’ve switched the season’s wardrobe and decided to put the winter bâche over the pool. Mind you, I highly doubt a spell of scorching sunshine is going to make the depths any warmer – even the algae have fled.

So, in case you missed the brief, I’m soon to be England bound even if for only a few days. I can’t wait which may seem odd to some as I love my adopted home but I do need a break from all this buying and selling stress. And I get to spend time with my mother-in-law, catch up with my Coven girls and old collegues. I have no doubt sleep will not feature heavily in such a busy schedule and since my return flight is a disgustingly late one, next week’s blog will have to wait until the following Monday. Or maybe Tuesday…

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

Hot beats and sore seats

I spent most of yesterday evening, last night and early this morning doing a passable imitation of a cat on a hot tin roof. Forget trapped nerves, this one was doing a runner; one minute in my back and the next whizzing around my ankles. Louis thinks it’s because my body isn’t used to being in ‘Zen’ mode – my synapses have gotten bored with the lack of sparkiness or maybe the change from running to swimming has my muscles confused, who knows but it’s painful. Mind you, dancing on top of chairs on Friday night might have tweaked something; I avoided the table as that really wasn’t safe. Suffice to say, I have given in and taken a painkiller much as I hate downing pills but needs must if I’m to stay sane.

I blame the weather. With the thermometer hitting 40 degrees in the shade, it’s not surprising one wants to stay indoors. Even the poor birds are panting. I dug out a large plant pot reservoir and filled it up with eau so they can at least paddle a bit. The swallows have the advantage of speed when it comes to filling their tanks, swooping across the pool surface for milliseconds but not all are so lucky – I found a dead magpie in the skimmers the other day. Horrible. As for the woofers, they’ve dug holes in the flowerbeds to stay cool – either that or flopped on the tiled apartment floor. That is except for Arry who is spending as much time in the piscine as out of it. I won’t mention my battle with the hosepipe other than to say I get wetter than the flora.

Still, there is an upside to holing up chez moi; the jewellery side of Witch Wackle is keeping me plenty busy. Now that my bits and bobs are on display in the épicerie, I have to keep an eye on what gets sold whilst creating new collections. Now that summer has officially begun, it seems that all things beach-vibey are in – Denis’ gift of a load of little shells from his recent fishing expedition and me creating bracelets out of an old coral necklace going down very well. The only problem is that the cabinet I need to finish so that I can move my stuff off the kitchen island is languishing in the garage – sanding and sweat do not mix well. I did try using the heat gun to remove the layers of old paint but you can guess why that mission was aborted.

Speaking of perspiration, we had a right good knees up at Le P’tit Bistrot on Friday night even if my choice of clothing had rivulets running down my back. Jeans and jumping about on a sweltering summer night probably not the best choice of party wear, I could have nipped home and changed into shorts but the music was too good to miss out on. This weekend has been all about ‘La Fête de la Musique’ across our area of France; villages and towns hosting various events and Rouffiac was no different. That’s how I ended up wiggling precariously on a plastic garden chair to the sounds of an incredible drum band and a rather brilliant singer who played tunes on request – friend Sara and I helping him out with ‘pom pom pom’ chorus of Sweet Caroline. ah well, Mumo always did say my hedonistic lifestyle would catch up with me one day, I just wish it would stay away from my heinie…

““It’s a sure sign of summer if the chair gets up when you do” (Walter Winchell)

Laundry lists

I was absent-mindedly folding Callum’s laundry this morning when a thought struck me as to how normal the action felt. Except that I’ve never folded his laundry, Tony always did it and let’s face it, my son has been looking after himself ever since his dad died. Yet, it was a nice feeling, being ‘mum’ again and taking care of our boy especially as our relationship is usually the other way around – he gives much better advice for a start. Thanks to him, I’ve been in a clearer state of mind over the past week and I no longer have a leaky roof. Mind you, the latter did give me a fright, seeing Callum wandering across the tiles like a beachcomber.

The recent weather could well have something to do with my mellow mood too. The start of February and it’s sunny. Not very warm but if you stand where the rays hit, it’s almost Spring-like. And with us being one month closer to a new season, everyone is busy doing something and I’m back in the garden again having sent off The First Book – the second would have gone with the first but I’ve managed to save several chapter drafts so I don’t know which ones are the right ones so that’ll be tonight’s headache. I’ve finished my kitchen chairs, which I’m ridiculously pleased about, less so regarding the dressing table I’m still working on but outside one must be whilst the sun shines. Of course, anything to do with the pool has had its hiccups, as soon as Denis got in to remove the old liner, we had back to back nights of pouring rain so the bloody thing kept filling up instead of draining out its last vestiges of algae-ridden water. Still, whilst he was deep in wellies trying to fish out toads, I sorted out plantings in the serre which smells lovely by the way – I’m assured that dried bay leaves and peppercorns keep the rodents away.

Speaking of rogue mammals, I took Arry to the clinic on Tuesday for his hydrotherapy session – his first with this particular practice and I have a feeling, his last. The unfortunate new-qualified vet was subjected to 10 minutes of non-stop ‘singing’ – I did warn her if you remember that ear defenders would be useful when she made the appointment, I should have added a raincoat as well seeing the amount of water he sprayed the room with. Life with my crazy german Shepherd is never dull, embarrassing yes but like my incredible son, he knows how to lift the clouds and add sunshine. And he generally doesn’t need me to do his laundry, just towels…

“While it is February one can taste the full joys of anticipation. Spring stands at the gate with her finger on the latch.” (Patience Strong)

Busy boots

Apparently, I caused quite a few heads to turn earlier in the week. The sight of a 50-something blonde wearing torn jeans and work boots, running through the arrivals area in Toulouse airport was, according to Callum, quite a sight but I wasn’t half glad to leap into his arms. Poor thing probably didn’t need to be squeezed so hard, 20 plus hours in an aeroplane suffering from altitude sickness (the meds didn’t work this time) and feeling totally exhausted – all he wanted was a shower and his bed. But my gorgeous boy is home and after a decent rest, back doing what he does best – giving Mum hugs and stripping paint off the main staircase. The latter however, has now put him back under the covers having, I think, inhaled too much dust even with that Darth Vader like mask on. Or perhaps climbing up Bugerach – not my idea of a relaxing day out if you remember that blog.

Cal wasn’t the only one to return to the nest last week, my little brother Moth flew in from Kenya on Thursday. Now, suddenly the homestead is full of activity, the sound of sanders and drills mixed with an eclectic choice of radio tunes makes everything feel almost normal again. Denis said watching the four of us (Louis is still here) reminded him of a beehive, always on the move for something that needs doing. Considering how emotionally and physically draining the last months have been, getting back into busy mode is perfect therapy. So much so, I’ve finally put down the proverbial pen, having finished the latest draft of The Second Book and re-written a large chunk of The First – both will be soon off to a good friend in the publishing business to be polished for presentation. After four years of tap tapping away, I’m glad to see the back of the opuses for a while although part of me still wants to fiddle with them some more. It’s an annoying habit of mine, I can’t seem to stop and just put my feet up. Denis even installed my old TV ( a bit on the small side he thinks) in my lounge so I could watch the French news channels (important for one who is applying for citizenship at the end of the year) but I the only time I stand still long enough to watch it is with my morning coffee. And I only have so much concentration which is required when attempting to understand politics in any language. Callum tells me such twitchiness is just one of my many ‘quirks’ but he loves me anyway. Over dinner with friends the other night, I was asked what I did to relax. I run I replied.

I box too although we’ve needed to move my heavy punching bag out of the room downstairs that Mumo is using as the nurses kept having to dodge around it. For now, it’s hanging in the alcove below me which is spacious enough, if not a little cold. At least it’s in a covered area and out of the wind that is currently pestering us but I’m not used to kicking and sparring with quite so many clothes on let alone trainers. I don’t know if the restlessness inside me will ever abate but as long as I’ve got something on my feet and they’re moving- I’m as close to relaxation as I can get. And a bloody beautiful boy to smother…

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

Planting and planning

Frankly, I’ve felt better. I don’t know if it’s because last week was so busy or the fact that I have rather overdone the social swirling but I am bunged up. I’m hoping a decent night’s sleep will lay the lurgy to rest as I really don’t have time for snotty noses. The ‘to do’ list is getting longer by the day and I’ve yet to put one tick on it. And it’s already February.

Ah yes, February. The last month of winter. Except that we are bathing in warm sunshine still and the barbecues are out. The almond trees have started unveiling their pale pink blossom and the lawn is getting so thick, I can’t find the dog poo until I step on it. I’d cut it except that we haven’t had a proper frost yet or a decent downpour of late so the lush greenery underfoot needs to protect the terre. I went over to Le Jardin (Abraham’s place) mid-week to help him with the veggie planting. One seed at a time. Trays and trays of little cubes of soil into which I had to carefully put a single grain. Weirdly, I enjoyed prodding my finger along each row of squares so each aubergine-to-be could grow up big and strong although the job required total concentration – blink and you’ve forgotten where you popped the previous one. And I did it all almost single-handedly save the last line or so as Denis stopped by at the end of the day and offered to help so we could join the boss for a beer. Not much of a help really as he got a bit random with the numbers – Abraham did say one seed in each so I made Denis take out all his extra additions. I wasn’t going to have my contribution to bio-agriculture messed up.

Getting lost in legumes was a welcome break from whizzing around town so Mumo and I could get to our various appointments which for some reason all seemed to be in the same week. The one that had half of Carcassonne backed up because giant tractors were parked up all on one of the main roundabouts along with twice as many police cars. Luckily, I’d got the traffic update from our épicerie so I could plan accordingly and avoid getting stuck in the barricades. Mumo got to go and sit in a dentist’s chair and I in the hairdresser’s. You don’t need to switch on the news when you live in Rouffiac – the most up-to-date information can be found over a croissant counter.

Speaking of village press updates, our resident Scot is getting ready to leave our shores. You’d be right in thinking I’ve written this in a previous blog with his failed escape back in 2022 but sadly I think he’s going to make it out this time. But not without a few farewell parties, one of which Mumo and I attended yesterday lunchtime in nearby Cépie held by his local walking group. Other than family do’s, I don’t think I’ve sat down at a table without a French person at it let alone not know most of the guests. Thankfully, the wine flowed freely as did the conversation. It was nice to be introduced to a different crowd and hear their stories about life in France although I had somehow managed to get seated between Graham and my neighbour Terry both of whom I talk to virtually every day. Mumo and I will host a soirée on Friday for Graham along with the usual crowd, just in case he forgets us. And this little village…

“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant” (Robert Louis Stevenson)