Rat runs and summer fun

Apart from a ‘blink and you miss me’ drive through en route to Spain by nephew Louis so he could drop another ancient keyboard at the ‘Pianos ‘R’ Us’ warehouse that some of us call a family home, the annual vet visit so the two Border terriers could have vaccinations jabbed into their derrieres, a nice pocket of euros after a pop into the shop hosting my bijoux, an almost finished top after my third sewing lesson for its production and talks of a shared business venture next year; it’s actually been a peaceful week. Let’s forget Thursday and the donning of a sweater because the temperature dropped to 26 degrees shock horror – didn’t last thankfully and we got a downpour out of it but the nights are definitely getting cooler which is a bit depressing. Flip-flops are still underfoot though.

And with the last weeks of summer slowly heading south, so did little brother Moth (not that I’ve seen many sightings of this elusive creature this season) but not before Denis and I had a chance to pop over to his property in the hills above Cenne-Monasties. Actually, it was more of a necessary trip since my younger sibling had ‘borrowed’ the chainsaw and a visit was the only way we were ever going to get it back but the promise of coffee and a tour of all the estate updates was a bonus. But, as much as Cenne-Monasties is a charming village full of French traditional architecture, it is worth noting that manoeuvring your motor through its somewhat slim streets is an art in itself. As D and I were leaving, we came upon some lost British tourists looking for the way to the lake so I offered my guidance in taking them back down to the main road and the signs to their destination. The driver was a little concerned about the state of the descending road but that might have been the least of their problems. Having made them squeeze their sedan through spaces their sedan wasn’t designed to fit through before waving goodbye, a guilty thought crossed my mind. They might just have been looking for the other lake, the one further up the track from my brother’s abode not the one I’d treacherously guided them down. I wish I could say the same however for accidental relocations when it comes to Ratatouille and Courgette. Denis is less than amused by their reappearance considering he’d taken great pains to evict them and their cozy nest from the garden storeroom below the apartment. Now, I’m not averse to rodents and these country critters are much cuter than their city cousins but even I will admit that rats are probably not a good advertisement when selling a property of such grandeur. That and in D’s words, they’ve been busy being broody. I don’t think the woofers, especially Alice professional mouse markswoman, find their parkour pastime and overt cockiness adorable either – always exasperatingly out of reach of gnashing fangs. I know they have to go but I’ve told D to do so out of my nurturing eyesight – let’s not forget that short-lived love affair with the mice under my sink.

Whilst the animal antics along and over the terrace walls does provide a bit of evening entertainment, a night out St Hilaire is a little more my kind of thing . Whilst being best-known for its Benedictine Abbey and the birth of the fizzy wine that is Blanquette (not champagne – that’s a myth); the commune, up until recently, had the less salubrious reputation of being one great retirement home complex. Not any more with the completion of a large market square, housing shops and including that what has my wares within, and a bustling bar cum bistro complete with an outdoor seating area perfectly placed for a view of the old monastery whilst you dine out with friends and listen to one of them sing. Our Ever Reliable Roy serenading us with songs of yesteryear whilst we sipped chilled Rose and lauded over the local menu. No sweaters and most definitely wearing flip-flops…

“August is the slow, gentle month that stretches out the longest across the span of a year. It yawns and lingers on with the light in its palms.” (Victoria Erickson)

New horizons and birthday celebrations

Well, there you go. On the 10th of August 2026 at precisely, sort of, 4.30 p.m and having signed my initials on several hundred sheets of document, I walked out of the notaire’s office as a landowner in my own right. Just up the road and turn right. For the first time in my nearly 60 years of plaguing this here planet, I have a piece of it that is mine and not shared with anyone else. Okay, it hasn’t got a house on it yet, let alone a fence (someone has nicked the boundary posts) and the architect has to file for the building permit – not a problem I’m told by our lovely Mayor but it’s a relief to finally have it all official.

I wish I could say I was overcome with excitement but actually a bit the opposite. I did have a wee little celebration on Wednesday evening up there squinting through blackout glasses at the sun disappearing behind the moon along with most of my one day neighbours and then got the most awe-striking view of the meteor shower from the apartment upon re-entry. One plus about getting older and needing the loo in the early hours. But as soon as the ink was dry and the sun back out again, said architect was round to draw up the necessary plan for my future residence – luckily he is a friend of Denis’ (who isn’t?) and the afore-mentioned Mayor so not only did he give me a knock-down price for the work but also assured me all would be sorted very quickly. Then the lovely Lionel who will be constructing the teeny cube was on the phone checking start dates and all that stuff whilst D was compiling lists of people for various jobs. I cannot put into words how incredible this little village in the South-West of France is; between my adopted family that is the Maybons and the friends I’ve made here, I’ve got experts for everything and anything. But, I haven’t had a chance to breathe. Until this place is sold, I’m the sole carer which is a full time occupation in itself let alone trying to keep up with a fledgling business and its demands. Mind you, we did have a visit from a very nice English couple and their kids yesterday – Alice charmed the pants off the two young boys as did the swing which no-one here has ever used. For those who know me well, as most of you do, I’m not one to crack easily but the whole caboodle got a bit too much and I ended up in bed.

Not for long. How could I when a certain hairy beast wakes you up by rolling his ridiculously angular in all the wrong places body into your space before shoving those oversize paws in your face? But I cannot imagine a world without my Arry aka Aragorn (yet to earn that name) who turns 11 years old today. How he has got this far in life is a miracle in itself but his idiocy and endless quest for all things unpredictable never fails to lift the spirits of those who around him including the other woofers. He might be ageing disgracefully and a bit wobbly these days due to arthritis but give him a pool, his Border terriers and a caillou and he’s all set for mayhem and destruction. So here’s to the future, one I know is highly unlikely to be without potholes but with my crazy Shepherd by my side, it’s one I’m looking forward to stepping into…

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me, and I’m feeling good.” (Nina Simone)

A modern day education

There is big news in the village – Denis has a new phone. That and Cyrelle who runs the epicerie has only gone and closed up the shop for a week so she can take a holiday. Such blatant disregard for human suffering would be considered enough of a shock but D joining the 21st century? Smelling salts wafting everywhere. Just in case there are those reading this and wondering why the purchase of a mobile device should cause eyebrows to raise; there was a time when phones were the size of a Mars bar, writing a text gave you finger cramp and Whatsapp meant how are you. I give you Denis’ relic of yesteryear. The only positive words one could say about said antique was that it couldn’t be traced which is probably why the government decided to ban them much to D’s chagrin and our delight. The downside of discovering new technology however, has meant I’ve lost my man to Youtube and endless fishing videos.

Mind you, considering the current ‘step outside and stop breathing’ weather of late, staying in and losing yourself to the joys of the internet seems a sensible way to while away the afternoon. I shouldn’t complain since a) summer passes all too quickly and b) we have had a bit of rain unlike the Motherland. Unfortunately a little late for the vineyards who are having to bring the vendange (the grape harvest) forward by three weeks so we shall be woken up by the clatter of mahoosive machinery rumbling through the village shortly. Even Domaine Sophi hasn’t been able to escape – all my efforts to keep my little vine happy were in vain with nothing left except shrivelled remnants of what might been a bottle. 600 grapes maketh a bottle, Google told me and I counted every one. Still, as said, we’ve had the occasional down pour which is not only a blessing for the terrain but for my temper too – the hose has stayed coiled.

As for me and despite the hilarities of trying to explain to my chap how to take a snapshot of the subject you’re trying to capture instead of the ground below it, it’s actually been a relatively quiet week. I took our Lisa over to Prexian and Xavier’s place to meet our neighbouring villagers and put in a good word as she’s trying to find a new house; naturally she charmed the pants off all the men, probably pissed off their wives, got a couple of contacts for rentals and several glasses of free wine. D tried out his new snapping skills even he managed to make his girlfriend look like a wardrobe next her glamorous gal pal. It’s a good job that girl doesn’t indulge like she used to as I spent the following evening over at D’d daughter Marina’s house having dinner with the fam – including Mama Maybon. I do like her. Anyway, as we were discussing D’s various mishaps with modern day gadgets, Hugo (Marina’s other half) was opening a box he’d retrieved from his post box. At first glance those little packets looked a bit iffy to me, especially when the person holding them is applying to join the police force but I was assured they were just CBD and completely legit. “Helps me wind down and sleep” he said, “you should try some”. Hmm..I won’t even take the sleeping pills the doc gave me. Later that night, after dropping me back to see to the woofers, D returned for his usual night cap. With a suspicious looking cigarette in hand. “From Hugo” he whispered and passed it over. Well, didn’t I feel grown-up with a dodgy looking roll-up between my fingers even if most of it had turned to ash by the time I took a puff. I did sleep well but not before I saw stars. I mean, in the sky. Thousands and thousands of little orbs twinkling across the cosmos above the terrace. At least I hope that’s what I was looking at. I’ll have another chance to verify the view on Wednesday and from a different angle. Just down the road and turn right – the perfect place to take a phot just up on that hill…

“The trouble with having an open mind is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.” (Terry Pratchett)

Helicopters and hairy rides

It’s not often that I get a chance to have a ‘day off’ from keeping this place tip top and trying to find time for Witch Wackle business so an invitation to pop over to Andorra for a morning’s shopping wasn’t going to be turned down. Not just for the duty-free cigarettes and alcohol; bulk buying laundry detergent and other sundry items at knock-down prices are a must when popping over the border and let’s not forget (Denis’ words) that petrol is cheaper too. Yes, but you have to fill the tank to get there darling. Anyway, with Welsh Lisa being kind enough to look after the woofers, we took off at the crack of dawn in my car (the only one with air-conditioning) – Marina and her boyfriend Hugo joining us as, according to the latter, he knew a much quicker route. It wasn’t but that’s me being pernickety. Now, anyone who has ever driven from here up into the Pyrénées will wax lyrical about the vast beauty of the mountain range but not if you suffer from vertigo as I do. Luckily Denis opted to take the wheel otherwise we’d have ended up stuck at the bottom; put it this way, it is very long and very winding road perched precariously on the edge of what can only be described as an abyss below which I left my stomach. If that wasn’t enough, upon arriving in El Pas de la Casa that is to say the commercial centre (think Oxford Street in the 1980’s on steroids), Marina decided we should stop at the petrol station before letting our debit cards go wild. A petrol station that was another 2 kms up a cliff. Is it me or is driving further than necessary to get a few centimes off half a tank of fuel a little odd? Ah well, at least I won’t need to buy any washing powder for the next couple of years.

Still, having survived the throngs of tourists and hustlers and with Bluebottle’s (my car for those who don’t know) back end loaded with booze and bags of bargains, we descended back onto the more favourable flatness of the French side. And a tornado. Okay, we weren’t in its direct path – just shrieking along beside it whilst trying not to be bombarded by flying signposts and tree debris. Yet, my little Renault Clio took to the task like a military veteran as did Denis – I’m glad one of us found the experience adrenal -inducing. Thankfully, that evening was spent at the opening night of our pal Xavier’s new emporium in nearby Prexain in the company of familiar faces listening to an amazing band and downing lashings of the local grape. And for me, a little bit of networking. It’s funny how sometimes you meet people in the weirdest ways and become friends; Xavier was the one whose 90 kilo Mastiff escaped, tried to kill Arry and instead got beaten into submission by a 6.5 kilo Border terrier that is our Alice.

You’d think after all that excitement, one would finish the week with their feet up on a Friday night looking up at the stars with a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc but no. Earlier that afternoon and pootling back from Arry’s physio appointment, D and I took the exit onto Rouffiac’s top road and found ourselves instead being diverted onto the bottom one. A fire. Not a big one but enough for the presence of a fire engine and the village’s volunteer vigilantes – brooms and rakes in hand. Peeps, don’t throw lit fags out of car windows. Anyway and with that haze of smoke gotten under control quickly, D and I decided a quiet evening was in order as was one of Christophe’s pizzas. Then the phone started ringing and before long, the whirr of helicopters. Having raced the two minute walk over to the pizza locale in the camion; Denis’ idea of safety, to catch up with the hungry crowd and check in on family, we stood watching the sky. Another fire then another then another – 4 in total and no doubt set deliberately. Those helicopter pilots are simply incredible, zooming back and forth with expert precision and speed. Mercifully no-one was hurt and nothing damaged other than a few acres of terrain; mine not included and our swimming pool left untouched. I know that sounds a little selfish and by law the pompiers can use whatever water source is available but we had another house visit booked for the following morning. One in which I had to show the potentials around as the agent wasn’t available. I can’t say it’s a future career for me even if it does involve a lot of talking, my field of expertise but luckily for my siblings, I won’t be leading tomorrow’s maybes around – I’m off to the prefecture to refresh my resident’s permit. I mean, where else would a widow and her woofers want to live?…

“Never doubt the courage of the French. They were the ones who discovered that snails are edible.” (Doug Larson)

A buried past and a new friend

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

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

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

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

Blissful bathing in barbecues

According to Monsieur le Météo, the insufferable scorch we are currently experiencing is nothing compared to what’s in store next week. Great. It’s not enough that I have to drag the infernal “I’ll kink when I want’ hosepipe across the barren landscape at dawn or that all my terrace flora shrivelled into nothingness despite the parasol shade overhead, you feel the need to crank up the celsius to cremate? Put it this way, I’ve replaced the balcony’s burnt offerings with cacti and put away any thoughts of sleeping past sunrise.

Thank the Gods for the pool (note that I have removed the normal curse that precedes her title). In fact, anyone’s pool. The usual and not to be sniffed at invitations to pop over for a drink or lunch now have the addition of ‘and bring a cozzie’; Jude and I spent passed yesterday afternoon mostly submerged in her liquid luxury save the hand holding the bottle. Non-alcoholic I promise. As for our over-sized body of sheer bliss, it’s being well-used by yours truly and Arry of course since me and the woofers are the only ones in residence at the moment which has its advantages in that the big house is easier to take care of and I’ve gotten used to taking care of the outside toute seule over the years. I did have the company of brother Simon and wife Alba on Monday so she and I got to share a dip and a chat in the depths. They pootled off the following morning in car full of food stuffs as I rarely use the big fridge and I didn’t want to throw away its contents unnecessarily. I did suggest adding the larder contents to their load too although I was a little surprised that the upstairs loo rolls were nowhere to be seen. I am not aware such items have a sell by date. We did have a second visit by a French family that same afternoon which looked promising but alas, the mahoosive mansion turned out to be just that – too mahoosive. Don’t I know it. Mind you, there might be better luck in the months ahead as we’ve decided to drop the price a little; having a 4 instead of a 5 in front may just sway the prospective punters.

At least the evenings are still relatively bearable so one can don the glad rags (as little as you can get away with and still be decent) and do the social circuit. Mostly chez moi although Friday night down at Le Petit Bistrot was banging as the young folks would say. Festival de la Musique is an annual summer thing round these parts with villages and towns hosting local combos of varying styles. Rouffiac’s started out with a sort of pub rock group who got everyone on the dance floor shaking their parts to well-known grooves before we were treated to a traditional folk fest which in turn had the older generation singing along in fine tune. Kinda. And since spending one soirée partying with one’s people wasn’t enough, Denis and I threw together a barbecue yesterday for our usual crew. Thankfully, a sit down affair in the coolness of the courtyard – my body can only boogie so much, a fact it often reminds me about so a good old-fashioned gas over a table heaving with deliciousness and wine and if necessary, bathroom toiletries refreshed made for a comfortable chillout amongst friends. Speaking of cooking and all things fire weather, that pristinely perfect pool has my name on it…

““If summer had one defining scent, it’d definitely be the smell of barbecue.” (Katie Lee)

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)

Alone time and the art of Englishness

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

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

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

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

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