Summer bugs and idle dogs

A storm is on the horizon. Well, according to the radar anyway; then again that’s not exactly trustworthy as such promises tend to avoid us but boy, do we need one even if it’s only enough to drench leaves. Life is wilting here – as I pointed out to a friend in the old motherland who was complaining about the canicule over there, we still have 3 months to get through. Their summer will probably be done and dusted next week. It’s gotten so bad that the large fig tree next to the pool now has the persona of Queen Victoria collapsing into her crinoline under the weight of its odorous offerings which aren’t normally ripe until mid-July. Denis had to cut off the top branches just so the poor lady could get some respite. Fig confiture is very popular in these parts he tells me; he can do what he likes with them, I can’t stand the things.

All that being said and let’s not mention the battle of the hose, being stuck mostly indoors this past week has been rather pleasant. Okay, there was that flood in the house’s main bathroom, thankfully curtailed by the entire contents of the towel shelves but not before it came through the kitchen ceiling. Luckily no damage done and a strong worded Whatsapp to the family with my thoughts on having to remove other people’s hair from shower drains sent. Then there was the kamikaze flies to deal with – the floor around the downstairs glass doors of my atelier covered with them. Bizarre but apparently I’m not the only one with mouche madness. But other than dealing with unwelcome house crimes and a need to have a meeting with Abraham about my little investment we know as Le Jardin, having a practically empty diary has had its advantages. I’ve made a start on the Witch Wackle website, a very slow one but as much as I am not a fan, AI can be helpful for technophobes like me. I’m not entirely comfortable conversing with cyber bots who chat to you like you’re best buddies (creepy) but at least I’m getting somewhere. I would be getting a lot further except photographing each individual piece is really boring and ‘creating content’ is a language I’ve yet to master. Thankfully our Welsh Lisa is a pro at marketing and wants something to do whilst her busted up foot heals. In the meantime, I’m still at one with the paintbrush finishing off the last of the current pot pile so that D can pop them over to St-Hilaire ready for what we hope will be a decent influx of tourists now that the holidays are upon us. They should have been in situ already if it wasn’t for my inability to draw a frog. I should have considered a grasshopper instead; the one I rescued from under the cabinet yesterday would have been a perfect model. At least I think it was a grasshopper; poor thing looked like a dinosaur who’d just about survived extinction. I left it on the broom in a shady area of the garden near the wildlife rehydration trays which was probably not the best idea now that I come to think about it.

I’m not the only one who wouldn’t mind a downpour later – the woofers have barely moved. Apart from their expressive dawn chorus at the front gate as the neighbourhood drag their reluctant pooches round the block, there is barely a flicker of movement between them. Sherbs is still plopped in his now sizeable hole in the flower bed and Alice has snuck into the big house to cool off on the stone tiles. The rest lie outstretched under fans save for Arry who, being an idiot, prefers baking on the terrace sofas. Mind you, such laziness is occasionally interrupted by an upheaval of his aging bones for a quick dip in the pristine pool (note still no swearing on that subject). Not exactly refreshing considering the ‘set on soup’ temperature of the water, currently 30 degrees but let’s not grumble and get in before the heavens may open and drop a ton of bugs into the depths below. Can dinosaurs swim?…

“Do what we can, summer will have its flies.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

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)

Arghs and anniversaries

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

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

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

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

Where the foot falls

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

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

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

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

Intentional rejuvenations

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

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

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

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

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

Eyeballing the age

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

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

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

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

Turtledoves, tats and tough-talking

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

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

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

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

A Pause in Conversation

If I could sum up this past week in more than a few words, I’d say it was one in which I talked myself into exhaustion. In two languages. I know what you’re thinking; Sophi tired from too much gabbing impossible but such rarities can happen. It got to the point where the muscles in my jaw starting seizing up and my tongue felt like it had done five rounds with a sander. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a thoroughly enjoyable one but perhaps should have been paced a little better. Coffee toute seule on the terrace this morning was absolute bliss.

I suppose I should blame myself – I have a tendency to go hard or go home but the fault does lie partly with others; my mate Sara and Monsieur le Météo. After all, it was the former who said I needed to do something for myself and the latter wasn’t going to let us forget March winds until that month finally passed. And it has. The sun has got its Ray-Bans on and hip hip hooray – just in time for the long Easter weekend. Anyway, back to taking advice from my straight- talking friend ( I have many) and me time. First, a lesson from Jacqui who hosts the Friday ladies chat on how to get to grips with Mumo’s sewing machine. Who knew, I could do so many different stitch patterns in a straight line without breaking the thing? Puffed up ego sorted, I then took myself off to have my nails done and by that, I mean pamper and paint. It took a while, after all something I used to pop down to the local salon in Streatham for regularly before Covid and my big move across the water was well overdue and my cuticles, I was told, were in bad shape. And naturally, it goes without saying for anyone who has ever frequented such establishments, conversation flows non-stop – a free French facial workout added to my now very pretty nails which are now mostly hidden by Marigolds lest I put a run a drill across them. All those people with jewellery tutorials on YouTube never seem to have that problem but well, me and mechanical objects usually end up with less skin on fingers. Still, its nice to wiggle one’s digits and not grimace at the grime underneath them even if the woofers find it a little strange to be served dinner by their butler wearing bright orange gloves.

Taking a personal pause is an odd feeling. You don’t know how much you needed it until you actually do it. Driving home from the above-mentioned Friday afternoon ladies natter after spending a morning doing the same over coffee with our Welsh lass Lisa, I found myself looking out on a totally empty country road going straight ahead towards the horizon. I stopped Bluebottle (my faithful runaround) and just sat for a few minutes going nowhere; I can’t remember the last time I took my foot off the gas and just breathed. Between running Dog Hollow and all that has happened since T died, I’ve spent 30 something years on ‘lit’ mode but in that moment, I felt the switch turn off. Sounds a bit weird I know and I’m not going lulu I hope but maybe, just maybe, that engine has finally put itself in neutral (all puns towards The Book intentional) – a kind of peace if you like. Of course, the last bit of that sentence is unlikely to last long – I mean have you ever known me not to talk?…

“Sometimes you need to press pause to let everything sink in” (Sebastian Vettel)

Mellow fruitfulness

We had another viewing today. An English couple; I know that as they asked me what the large vine that trails over the big red door was just as Alice and I were about to leave them to peruse our beautiful house. It’s a Virginia Creeper I told them, absolutely amazing in early Autumn. I did add a few comments about how most of the houses on the street had the same and wait til you see the marronniers in full blossom and had they noticed all the irises but then cut short my lyrical waxing less eyes glazed over. That and my Border terrier’s insistence on dragging her owner off to take in the Daily Woof otherwise known as verge sniffing. I haven’t had any feedback from the estate agent yet but the prospective peeps were here for over an hour and did throw a cheery wave at me as they drove off afterwards. I don’t know if it was because the sun was out today or that the blasted wind has decided to take a momentary pause but I have a tingle of optimism about this one.

I have no doubt that, like most of us, a decent spell of balm in the weather department, has given rise to this upbeat mood of mine and passing a week gassing with gals and getting on with all sorts in the workbench department. That and an appointment with Dr Lefevre which should have sent a frisson of unease down to my nether regions but oddly didn’t. I’d gone in to ask for what I thought would be a straight forward yes we’ll do that request to remove my ovarian cyst – a cyst I have come to refer to as Olive for no reason whatsoever. Anyway, doc said no, as unless the little blighter was causing pain, I should just let it be for now. I did reiterate the point that 5 centimetres seemed a little big to fit down there in but apparently they can get to the size of oranges before surgery is on the cards. As I said, weirdly okay – a head state probably boosted by spending so much time with female friends who don’t fuss unlike Denis who is worse than me when it comes to reading too much.

I suppose I should thank the arrival of Spring in terms of its Equinox for lifting the spirit too and making one just want to get on with things. The afore-mentioned Alice got a good going over with the clippers and her son Sherman a couple of hours with yours truly stripping his winter coat out. He’s always gorgeous but more so now and not just because he no longer resembles a bog brush but also behaved impeccably when I took him over for a play date with my mate Jude’s little Cavalier puppy – he didn’t once cock his leg on her pristine cream sofa suite or dig a hole under fence. The woofers do like to surprise me. Oh, and I finally finished the snake pot. I have to be honest, I wasn’t overly thrilled with the result at first but as I have had a fair few wows and requests for more custom designed terrace terracotta, its grown on me, or coiled itself. Mind you, I’ve still got a load of ex-chandelier pieces to finish wrapping and a gratefully donated lilac branch to whittle into something whimsical so plenty to keep the mind mellow. Might also have some news next week too, fingers crossed…

“Spring is the time for plans and projects” (Leo Tolstoy)