Atmospheric additions

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

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

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

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

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

New phones and new faces

I broke my mobile phone this week and had to buy a new one – a seemingly straight-forward task unless you’re me. I had hoped that the screen could be easily fixed but alas no but at least the cost of a new one could be covered thanks to the cigarette savings. I went for the same make as that would make the data transfer from one to the other a simple task but then again, not when you’re me. And you don’t have your text savvy son standing next to you. Suffice to say that I highly recommend the nice young man who runs the phone clinic in Carcassonne, not least because he has the patience of a saint when it comes to dealing with those who can’t remember their pin codes. The funny thing is that the only things I really cared about were the photos and my lifeline to Callum that is Whatsapp and that’s what caused my near meltdown. Well, that and the woofer hair that somehow managed to get under the screen protector as I was smearing it down whilst unsuccessfully trying to get the air bubbles out.

Oddly, this past week brought a few other unexpected events of the more enjoyable and far less stressful variety and it all started with a wedding. Not mine before you think I’ve gone off the deep end but that of dear friends Adolphe and Sara who after having tied the knot, invited a few of us over for a wee mid-afternoon celebration. Naturally, after all one needs to be polite, I did have a couple of glasses of fizz and a piece of cake and helped out playing wine waitress amongst the guests which helped the flow of conversation no doubt between the locals and those visiting from the UK on Sara’s side. It was during one such highly-animated discussion about something I don’t recall, that I noticed a very glamourous lady walk into the throng. Now, I would like to point out that our hosts had made this a very casual affair i.e. no hats and mostly jeans so the sight of a striking, suited and booted blonde did turn a few heads – definitely not Rouffiac style. The latest addition to move into our little bit of rural South-West France comes by the name of Lisa and she’s bloody great fun.

I had such a great time at the do, it wasn’t until I got home later that I realised how isolated I’ve been since Mumo passed away. It’s not that I haven’t been sociable but me being around others has been more of an evening thing – most of the day I seem to have confined my self within the walls of this here property between work and estate agents with just the woofers for companionship and D popping in and out. Now that I’ve given up the fags, the only time I’ve walked down to the épicerie is to renew my lottery ticket and let’s face it, all that miserable rain has kept everyone indoors so no chats over the garden gate so to speak. So deciding I needed to get out more and learn something new, I posted an enquiry on a local ladies group Facebook page which resulted in an invitation to join a sewing club. I was honest with them, I can’t sew very well but would love to learn – come over, we’ll teach you was the reply. So I did and nearly walked straight back out again. A table of cross-stitchers and crochet needle twiddlers was really not my thing but I’m very happy to say I stayed and thoroughly enjoyed myself. No, I haven’t picked up anything yet except make more new friends and book some private lessons in the sewing department. Apparently we are making pin cushions next week which should make for some amusement – perhaps I could design my code into mine?…

“A friend may be waiting behind a stranger’s face.” (Maya Angelou)

Bottoms up, get busy

I almost ended up on A&E on Tuesday morning due to an unfortunate incident that I am going to blame, in part, on the hospital appointment I was to attend a few hours later and the guidelines that had to be adhered to ahead of time. The notes sent by email with the confirmation of my radiology were strict; no eating, drinking or peeing 4 hours before your allotted slot – mine being 8.45 a.m. I’d booked it as I thought it would be easier on my bladder which of course, was a stupid idea as I am of a certain age where the mere thought that you might not be able to go makes you want to go. It was because of this worry that I ended up flat out on the kitchen floor having forgotten that a few seconds earlier I had mopped up a wee that one of my darling woofers had left for me. Luckily, the bottom hit first before the head so I landed up with nothing more than a large bruise on my derriere and nobody was rule checking that day. At least now I know what’s being going on inside the Soph. And I am sort of relieved no pun intended. Sort of as the very nice doctor said an ovarian cyst is nothing to worry about usually even if mine is a little on the large side and going under the knife isn’t on the agenda right now. It’s not as though I need the organ anymore as I told nephew Lou but I’m reliably told that such masses can disappear on their own which would be helpful.

Mind you, if one was to believe what is written in the stars, or planets in this case, the appearance of this week’s impressive Blood Moon was all about releasing the past and all that karmic cleansing stuff so who knows but now that I can put all that aside, I’m back on full creative mode even if Monsieur le météo has decided Spring should wait a little longer so the workshop is still my kitchen island. The once-spider haven bamboo is now halfway to being wind chimes and I’ve turned out some rather quirky pendants from various wind-blown branches in the garden. All very busy bee which is just as well as I’m all by my lonesome on this here property for the next few days which doesn’t really bother me as I’m quite enjoying my own company at the moment and Denis does pop in for an apero every evening. And, I have the woofers plus one at present as Louis needs me to look after Sappy until he comes back next weekend which, considering his dog and I don’t see eye to eye, makes me a very nice aunt.

Speaking of the house and its surroundings, we’ve had a couple of viewings this week. Unfortunately, both were rainy ones and the wind once again blowing the wrong way. In the 5 and a bit years I’ve lived here, I can honestly say I’ve never heard the noise from the main road but then again, I’ve not been listening for it but the potentials have and it appears to be the only problem with this place. Friday’s visitors were a husband and wife doctor team about to re-locate to the hospital I’d just been zapped in – I didn’t mention my association with the building as these two happened to be pulmonologists although I was proud of the absence of ashtrays. Shame as they seemed great fun and she wanted to put a yoga studio in the garage. They have a dog too. Still, we have a possible second look in the coming months from that friend of Moth’s which is positive and hopefully, with the trees back in leaf, any passing lorry will be merely a muffle and the display of colour around the garden a perfect distraction. In the meantime, there is always plenty to keep the mind positive about the road ahead and I hope, the posterior off the floor…

“Embrace the glorious mess that you are” (Elizabeth Gilbert)

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)

Seven years on and still blonde

For no reason whatsoever, a thought struck me this morning. Seven years ago this weekend, I sat down in a cosy corner of a sitting room in a suburban semi in Streatham, South-West London and started to write a blog. And here I am still tap tapping away every Sunday albeit on a stool tucked under a kitchen island in an apartment attached to a huge house surrounded by palatial grounds in a little village somewhere in rural South-West France. I have that very first piece of writing in front of me as we speak; I titled it “What to do on a Sunday”. It was a short piece, I wish I’d added photos back then but then again, would I have wanted to take a snapshot of my world on that Sunday. I won’t bore you with repeating everything I penned on the 6th of January 2019 but there are a couple of sentences in the last paragraph that have always stuck with me on these anniversaries of sorts; “don’t make any changes in the first year. Don’t sell your house, don’t change your job, don’t move country” – all of which I did of course.

Mind you, if I had had a scooby doo of an idea for what lay ahead, living on my own in said apartment attached to a great big empty house entering the fourth week without heating would have been enough to make me turn the Mothership around . Yup, Max the chauffagiste still can’t figure out why the boiler doesn’t want to warm my frozen extremities so has decided to call in reinforcements of the specialist kind tomorrow. To be honest, I’ve gotten so used to the numb feeling in my footsies I’ve stopped shivering and just, well, got on with things. Indeed, my stiff upper lip grit mode has not gone unnoticed. Every time I venture out into the village, I am greeted like a warrior princess – skinny blonde English girl surviving against all odds kind of worship. It’s a bit embarrassing really, after all I do have a roof over my head and clothes on my back but it’s nice to be thought about. And I do have the fireplace downstairs although I still haven’t conquered the actual lighting part so poor Denis has to drag himself over here every morning to ashes to flame. It might seem a bit of a waste of a woodpile to keep stoking the stove but it does keep the ground floor of the main abode and its contents warm which in turn makes the place feel a little less abandoned.

Speaking of contents and venturing out, I went on a little recovery mission yesterday. Someone had posted a fauteuil on a local buy and sell site and I of course had to have it. Okay, I don’t actually need another chair but I couldn’t resist its plush red velveted cushion so I hopped into Bluebottle, that’s my car by the way, and whizzed off to Carcassonne. Now, I have often said that just because I’m blonde it doesn’t make me stupid but this was one of those moments in time, it did. You see, Bluebottle is a not built for carrying furniture on account of her small booty something I should have thought of before parking up in a very narrow cul-de-sac and paying for the chair. It didn’t fit. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the homeowners was uploading their social media with videos of my useless efforts to push and wiggle the thing around or my decision to drive home with the rear door open and half a chair hanging out the back. Doing a 10 point turn on a tiny street with an exposed boot was one thing but on entering one of the busier roundabouts in Carcassonne, my car’s contents started to shift in the wrong direction, outwards, so I did what any sensible person would do in this situation; put your hazard lights on and pull over. Ha, this is France and no sooner than I did, horns blasted and fists waved (I’m being polite) so I had to bump along precariously until I found a safer place to save my chair. Of course, if I had different colour hair, I might have secured my cargo before take off and not have to contort my aged body so I could find the seatbelts needed to strap it in nor would I have smeared my boot sole’s unseen dog poo onto the console in the process. Still, as I weaved my way through the mercifully short journey home, I couldn’t help but laugh at how unfazed I was about the whole shebang. Who’d ever have thought that widow plus woofers 7 years ago would be pootling across the country side in another land in a little blue car with a bright crimson armchair hanging out the back?..

” All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.” (Martin Buber)

Tablet traumas and mislaid mushrooms

Somehow, and over a single weekend, I’ve managed to crack my mobile’s screen (luckily only a minor scratch), smash my Ipad, lose the television sound and break the on button on the washing machine. The latter is not a critical problem as I have two even if this one is used for the dog bedding which means rinsing the ‘human’ one constantly and I rarely watch the TV but for some reason I was ridiculously upset at the state of my Ipad. It was my fault; too much excitement after trouncing Denis at Monopoly and the tablet flew off the table but my mother-in-law, Jenny, bought it for me just before I left the UK so a bit sentimental. And my TV won’t air the BBC so there was the issue of not being able to have my Strictly fix, although thankfully, the thing is still working – I just can’t turn it off. At least, my phone still works as sharing my technological tantrums with Callum, I hope lifted his gloomy mood – relationship hiccups need a Mum’s ear and a bit of humorous distraction. I hate that he lives so far away but when it comes to essentials, my portable is just that.

Mind you, there’s been more than enough to keep me busy outside for the last week as Denis and I started and finished getting up all the outside Christmas bling. Unlike my usual desire to throw everything on to the corner wall, this year’s theme is a little less garish and a little more classy. The only problem is where D put all the lighting; I really don’t care for leaning over a wall at height to irradiate the reindeer every evening and then turn them off in pitch dark before bed. Still, the village seems to be pleased with the outcome and now that the street illuminations have been installed, everything is feeling a bit festive. The only thing that’s missing is a tree in the main house but that will have to wait until after Wednesday as we have another viewing and being poked by pine needles is hardly an incentive to buy the place.

And, what with us now being in December and all, I dragged D off to a Christmas market in nearby St-Hilaire yesterday- Le Marché aux Truffes. Generally, I’m not one for crowd containment but since this one was local and I do like truffles, a chance to savour the delacacies over a few glasses of Blanquette was not to be missed. Except we did. Me, being me, had missed the small print neatly written under the headline – the fungi feast was in the morning not all day. The number of parking spaces outside the Abbey St-Hilaire should have been a give away. Still, we did end up having a glass whilst perusing round the remaining artisan merchandise and I came away with a very cute Baker Boy hat to add to my collection and a decent bottle of wine from a Domaine I’m well-acquainted with. Neither of which were in my budget but cheaper than a dug up mushroom. Or a new Ipad or a new TV or a new washing machine. Santa’s list is getting awfully long…

“Once again, we come to the holiday season, a deeply religious time that each of us observes, in his own way, by going to the mall of his choice.” (Dave Barry)

It’s in the way you view it

We had another viewing this week. The estate agent told me afterwards that the gentleman in question happened to be part of a certain very well-known Domaine family in these parts – actually you can get their Blanquette pretty much anywhere but I digress. Naturally, he loved the house and all its additions but as she put it, had one major issue – the view of the pool from the apartment terrace. No privacy. Now, admittedly the bloody thing is impossible to miss but, as I pointed out to the agent, you could always hide with a few giant oleanders or maybe just move the entire ensemble into the front garden. I was joking about the latter but I could see her brain cogs working.

Personally, if it had been me showing the gent around, I would have directed his gaze a little more to the left. That’s a view I never tire of. Okay, he may not have wanted to see the humungous steel grey vats of the winery below (not his after all) but it’s impossible not to let the eyes drift up into the hills beyond. It’s not that the landscape is particularly beautiful, quite bare really but there’s something incredibly peaceful about it. And of course, being an Englishwoman, one gets the weather forecast just by looking at the sky above it each morning. Today, gloomy with drizzle but at least mildly warmer than most of last week – flippin’ freezing. I’m not built for the cold, just putting a foot outside the door brings on frostbite. Still, it was a good excuse to stay indoors and finish the tableau for the billboard which I have but you’ll have to wait until Denis puts it in for a glimpse.

Yet, whilst it may be an eyesore to some, I’m hoping the pool is going to give me a different view in the coming months with the installation of a little present I bought for myself. Although I highly doubt that my camera trap will blow me away with the same nightlife little brother Moth gets on his – cheetahs and lions don’t tend to wander this way but the bowels of the piscine’s huge deck do provide a winter shelter for those out there in our bit of French wilderness. As per normal, I had to get nephew Maxime to figure out all its bells and whistles and set it to turn on in the middle of the night – no-one wants to see what the woofers get up to down there and nocturnal nature is so much more interesting. And speaking of my four-legged co-inhabitants, I managed to get them all in one place and eyes front for the annual Christmas photo so I can start ordering cards next week. Perhaps the nice gentleman might like one with a different viewpoint…

“The landscape belongs to the person who looks at it.” ( Ralph Waldo Emerson⁠)

Hoos and hums

Considering how much I had wound myself up about jumping into the fiery depths of land purchase in the previous blog, the events of last week turned out to be nothing more than a brief puff of smoke. That’s not to say nothing happened, we are talking about my life after all but between the meeting with the notaire and the following one with the architect, the gear stick is still firmly stuck in neutral. For a start, my lawyer discovered that the building permit bought back in 2012 needed to be re-applied for and the utilities turned back on again all resulting in having to write up another contract. Thankfully, none of these are my responsibility but they do take time. Having said that, the Mayor popped up to the terrain during my house planning rendez-vous and promised me he’d whizz things through the necessary channels. As we wandered around the precious plot, he told me how lucky I was to have the chance of being its proprietor – there is no better view in Rouffiac. Oddly, that made me relax and take the proverbial chill pill. Well, almost. The Hoo is back.

Yup, the pesky poltergeist decided it was time to make a re-appearance just in case I’d forgotten its existence. Getting out the automatic front gate became a race as to whether or not one could shoot through before the device decided to close and any attempt to use the sewing machine meant detangling copious amounts of thread from its underparts. As anyone knows, I am not the most patient when it comes to technology so any Zen derived from taking up running again was lost in a slew of never to be repeated expletives. Then there was that small matter of sorting out my L’identité Numérique for my work license which my dear friend Giselle had offered to sort out. By the time I had retaken numerous photos of my visage front side and back, I did feel like shouting ” I’m not a number! I am a free man!” what with the computer refusing to recognise my personage. I did eventually please the man in the machine and now I have to go to the post office to get my QR code scanned so I can be numerated.

As I said, we have once more taken to the trails although judging by the limping after the first run, Arry and I are definitely feeling our age. That and the architect’s comment about how a plein pied (single storey house) is probably the better choice for someone not far off sixty. That coming from a counsel who was off to have a knee operation the next day, mine are quite fine thank you very much, strapped to the nines but still operational. It will take a few weeks before my four-pawed cohort and I stop creaking and wheezing but hitting the pre-dawn alarm is the best way of clearing away the mental debris especially with Autumn’s paintbrush covering the landscape once more in red and gold as we hum our way through the vines. The Hoo better have a good pair of running shoes…

“Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Fingers off the panic button

Considering how glad I was to be back under sunny skies and woofer snogs after my somewhat traumatic exit from the Motherland, you’d think I’d be raring to get on with things but no. I don’t know whether it was that phone call from the notaire to set a date for the signing over of my bank account for a piece of land or the next ping from the architect for a ‘let’s build a bungalow’ meet up that sent my mood skyrocketing south but something did. I should have been elated with the news but instead all I could think about was money. Or lack of which is stupid as I have no idea how much a house will cost yet but the brain bugs weren’t having any of it. My decision to rid the mind of such useless prattle by cleaning all the apartment windows was not a wise one either, nothing broken except my temper – the streaks are still there. Thankfully, such moue moments can never last long; between Denis’ eternal optimism about winning the lotto and a bed full of canine cuddles, a girl can’t stay glum for long. That and the afore-mentioned sunshine – October and we are in 20 plus degrees of warm.

Perhaps the funk was down to a short spell of PTSD of the getting out of England kind – I don’t cope well out of the driver’s seat, makes me nauseous. I got stuck in the airport hotel lift for 10 minutes going up and down all floors except mine which sent me into a blind panic, who knew you were supposed to touch your key card on that black spot on the wall? Between that and not knowing how the hell to find a way out of London to catch the plane, the control freak in me had a melt-down. I would however like to thank the Gods for not unleashing my belongings throughout the turbulent trip, it was only when I got on the plane that I realised my over-stuffed little suitcase was only partially closed.

It’s taken quite a lot of self talking to and more than a few face slaps but I’m back to being a busy little bee. With the prospect of getting my licence in the next couple of weeks, the bijoux workshop has me buzzing with ideas – especially the wood kind. I can work with wood for hours on end, it’s as close to meditation I can get. And of course, there are all the other chores that come with living in such a palatial property (the estate agent calls it a luxury home which is a bit of a stretch but whatever gets it sold) – the gardens need weeding and the potager looks like the apocalypse popped by for a start. On the plus side, I can forget about the pool now it’s tucked away for the winter and despite the lack of rain, the whole place is blooming. It might be October but the flowers haven’t got that memo yet. And I for one am keeping my fingers crossed that next week will be coming up roses…

““You don’t always need a plan. Sometimes you just need to breathe, trust, let go, and see what happens.” (Mandy Hale)

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)