Loopy legalese

If one felt like making an addition to the syllabus for ‘Widow 101’ DipEd. BSc. PHD, it should read ‘When it comes to anything administrative especially legal matters, please make this more difficult than it needs to be. Oh, and make sure she has to do it all in French’. Considering what the past week has thrown at me, I should have dents in my forehead from all the wall bashing except that the woofers are very sensitive to their carer’s moods so they’ve had to bear excessive hugging instead. I’m not going to thank the Gods that I have so much fur to bury my screams in, they’re being far too mischievous right now.

It all started with what I assumed was a simple matter, insuring the van, but no. For reasons I know not, the French Government love changing rules. Often. And they make sure you don’t have the necessary paperwork to hand that they’ve just decided you need. So now I need to go to Limoux tomorrow to get one itsy bitsy document for my car so that the big white wagon can be legally driven – bonkers. To be honest, I never drive the damn thing but brother Tim needs it to shift some stuff and I’m a very nice sister. However, that’s been the least of my headaches. Just as I thought my dream of finally having my own home was about to become a reality, on opening the email from the lawyers, I discovered that the seller had upped the asking price. Poor Denis who had to listen to my ‘why me’s’ all over again, assured me that prices are always negotiable and he knows the landowner of course. So now I need to write a couple of very polite emails when I really want to pen something else. I’ll not mention that I’m short of £60k because I’m still waiting for the Montpelier apartment to be sold and I don’t have any rich relatives to beg a loan off but Denis, always the optimistic, has reminded me how long the legals take to complete such matters so I’m not going to hit the panic button just yet.

I blame the weather. I’m an Englishwoman after all. Cloudy skies and sudden downpours do not maketh for happy smiles especially when one has planned a dinner party which ended up with everyone squeezed round a table in my less than spacious my living room. Still, it gave me a chance to off-load my frustrations with my very amiable amis who are always up for a lively discussion about such things. At least with the skies outside being somewhat gloomy and the pool out of action unless you’re planning on an ice bath, there is always my bijoux to boost the spirit. My mini enterprise is doing rather well thank you and I’ve even been asked to sell my trinkets in Carcassonne – go me. Mind you, that would mean going to the Chamber of Commerce to get the required permit to do so and that entails paperwork, French style…

“Paperwork wouldn’t be so bad even it weren’t for all the paper. And the work.” (Darynda Jones)

Laundry lists

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

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

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

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

Finding the normal in the abnormal

As I drove back from the hospital earlier today, I caught a glimpse of my friends Giselle and Jamel closing up after another, no doubt successful, vide grenier. Whilst I never have time to stop and say hello, seeing the two of them managing the car boot sale every Sunday adds a sense of normality to one’s weekly to-ing and fro-ing. Like Autumn leaves now squishing underfoot as I try not to use my arse as a sled running up the slippery trails through the vines or worse, pick my way across the over-grown lawn vaguely searching for the woofers’ little brown gifts – daily life is, well almost, back in it’s old routine. I say almost because hospital visits shouldn’t be included but Mumo decided to add a pulmonary embolism to her problems so is back in her suite with airport views.

Despite not having much time to devote to my fledgling new business or The Second Book, I did manage to squeeze in a few hours in the workshop yesterday and play with all my presents. Actually, one is still in its kit bag as I’ve never used a soldering iron before and Denis says I have to read the whole manual back to front if I’m to keep the garage intact. Considering he gave me a blowtorch for my birthday, he’ll be lucky if he still has a beard by the end of this week. Still, sanding down a couple of chairs with Callum’s Spotify playlist on full blast was the perfect medicine for this girl’s body and mind. It’s become a running joke in the village as to where to find Sophi – just follow the noise. You’ll be pleased to know that the dentist had a free half hour to put my tooth implant back in so I haven’t read the manual yet.

And since I haven’t had the chance to catch up with friends since the Great British Break, a couple of evenings spent chatting over dinner tables and little blues jam session down at Abraham’s has continued the sense of life’s steady rhythm down here. That and starting my French lessons with my gal pal, Saba. You see, as soon as I got back from my old stomping ground that was London, my language skills went out the plane window. My français was more franglais and my tongue refused to even attempt a sentence. Thank the Gods for giving me a neighbour who just happens to be a brilliant teacher and before you could say grignoter, the words started to flow once more. And speaking of little nibbles, the bio pet-safe slug pellets have been nicely munched by said gastropods who are now putting holes in all my lettuce. The edible dormouse has also raided the line of leeks, oddly random in its choice but D says if it hasn’t gone into hibernation yet he’ll help it on its way.

So normalcy is back in Rouffiac. Sort of. We’re all hoping Mumo gets her release papers on Tuesday so us serfs can cater to her every demand whilst she wiggles her toes in front of the living room fire. I’ve whacked up the heating too – Mumo cannot thrive in any environment other than a sauna even when she’s not fighting the cancer bitch. I wish I could say it was as warm in the apartment but there’s an empty bed in the corner. The woofers aren’t keen on curling up in it either but I just can’t bring myself to move it. The Bear that once lay there is now down by the potager with the plaque that Denis made marking his place of rest. There’s a blog I wrote way back in May 2019 called “Steering in circles” in which I describe widowhood as like being in a boat, chained to a dock and not having the key. Recent events have brought back that feeling of helplessness and frustration but at least this time, I’m better armed. Now where’s that manual?…

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.” (Robert Frost)

Soap and sentiments

I can’t say I make it a habit of eating macarons in the shower but in my defence, I had originally thought that the tasty morsel was a fancy soap. My girl, Giselle, having just returned from Paris, had bought me a little gift box of what I assumed were edible concoctions until Denis mentioned something about soap. Considering we were hosting a dinner party at the time, I only had one ear to the conversation between him and Giselle;

“It’s a present for you, not Denis” Giselle said kissing me as usual on both cheeks,

“It must be soap then” Denis pouted

So I took the classy cadeau into the bathroom and left it on the vanity – it did smell deliciously perfumed.

It was only when I went to shower the following morning and thought it odd that the ‘soap’ didn’t have much froth and the scrubby underside was crumbling, that it dawned on me. I’d almost cleansed myself with a French cookie.

I blame my boob on lack of sleep. Between the bloody pool (let’s not go any further) and late nights tap tapping away at the final chapters for The Second Book, my usual eight hours slumber has been more like six. I don’t do well on six. I don’t do well either when the weather can’t make up its mind and the thermometer is like watching a carnival ride – up in the 20’s one minute and down in the teens the next. Then add spectacular storms from dusk til dawn. On the plus side, my veggie patch is bursting with carrots, onions, spinach and beans – even my tomato plants have started to show signs of actually growing (Denis are doing far better but July is still far away mister). On the downside, the pelouse now resembles a jungle but with the amount of rain we’ve had, it’s too wet to cut. So it was back to work indoors, namely pulling several layers of wallpaper off the walls of the only bedroom yet to be renovated. I’m sure it’s good for one’s thigh muscles hoofing up and down all those flights of stairs but I doubt all the dust my efforts are uncovering is. I need a holiday.

And next weekend, I hope to do be doing just that. Having a little break with Denis, thanks to Giselle who for some reason, likes the woofers and so offered to stay with them so D and I can have a getaway. Aside from my yearly visits to L’Horte, which was a home from home really, I haven’t had a vacation for almost ten years. 8 woofers tends to be a hindrance to such idealism.

Hence the dinner party on Friday evening. I wanted Giselle to meet Mumo so that there wouldn’t be a stranger living next door so to speak and invited a few others too – Giselle’s husband Jamel, her son Hugo and his girlfriend Marina, who happens to be Denis’ daughter. Having D’s family around as well as my mum wasn’t just about introductions and woofer cuddles, there are certain times of year that are easier to bear when you have friends and family with you. And whilst I have been incredibly lucky to have found a ‘second life’ and a ‘second love of my life’ here, there isn’t a day that goes past when I don’t still talk to Tony. 6 years seems like a long time but then again, not at all. As we raised a toast to my beautiful T, Denis whispered to me how proud he thought T would be of me. I think he would be but I bet he is still laughing in the aisles over my mushy macaron mistake…

“What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul “(Yiddish Proverb)