Scheduling the unscheduled

As has become for a Saturday afternoon, Sherman and I spent yesterday’s over at our friend Jude’s house chatting over ice cold brews by her unfortunately very green pool. Sherbs comes along to discuss important matters with his mate Archie the Cavalier although most of that was done under chairs due to the current temperature setting. I’d passed the morning lying face up on a table having my eyelashes extended by D’s daughter Marina; a gift from her and one I couldn’t say no to and despite my reluctance to have spidery things attached to my peepers, actually look rather nice. Bit stingy at first but since sunglasses are obligatory at the present moment, the Dracula effect was thankfully short. Anyway, during our natter about inconsequential matters (unlike our panting pooches), I posed a question at my gal pal and fellow widow: “Have you found the transition from being in a couple to life toute seule difficult?” It goes without saying that anyone who loses their partner is going to find it hard and Jude is no exception but as she put it, being able to do what you want and get up when you want can be therapeutic.

I asked because there are times, even after 8 years, I struggle with the adjustment. It’s not that I haven’t gotten used to make my own decisions but throwing caution to the wind isn’t one of them (unless you count buying a huge motorhome and moving countries during Covid one). Admittedly, having 7 woofers, 5 of which are in their senior years, means one can’t just lounge in bed all day (although they’d probably enjoy that) but I do wish I could throw that infernal urge to schedule everything out the nearest fênetre and just go with the flow. Walking the short distant from Marina’s to home, I once more found myself looking down an empty road (well, it was lunchtime and no sane French person would opt out of a siesta in this heat). As calm and beautiful the view was, all I could think about was what needs to be done – like take a chill pill but the brain cell decided instead that I should panic about Monday being a holiday and therefore no trip to the supermarket. I don’t even know why I always insist on doing that the same day every week except that it’s generally less crowded on Mondays even with the current influx of English tourists who embarrassingly can’t seem to talk in whispers and have the entire contents of the wine aisle in their trolleys.

All that being said, I did manage to sneak one or two impromptu items past my temporal timetable on Wednesday. Having dropped some dusty old novels off at the monthly book exchange in Cailhau, the event run by the same charity that held the Midsomer Murders replica that was the garden fair a few weeks ago, I got an invitation to pop over and have a peek at the house my new friend Barbara from the Yak and Yarn group had bought. Now, Barbara and her husband own a very successful vineyard so have a bob or three but wow, talk about stately – the place was huge. Naturally, like almost all mansions in these parts, a bit of a doer-upper inside but some of the original features were in very good nick including the cast-iron windows that framed the idyllic green landscape outside. Apparently, it was a surprise purchase, them having been gazumped on a previous property; an wilful act which no doubt gave me the incentive to go out and buy an aquarium. I do not need nor have room for a fish tank but then again I don’t deal in domaines nor am I blessed with an eye-watering budget. However, sticking one’s fingers up to the dairy dieties has meant having to add in an unplanned pit stop to my planner at the pet shop so I can fill its interior with marine life ( I did think about an octopus having watched the must-see Remarkably Bright Creatures on Netflix but there’s only so much caution to the wind one should throw). I wonder if I’ve got space to schedule a lie-down…

“If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun” (Katherine Hepburn)

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)

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)

Finding the inner unexpected

“How are you with spiders, Lou?”

“Fine, why?”

“Can you come and remove one from my terrace wall then?”

“Why do you want to move it?”

“Because she’s scaring the hell out of me and she’s pregnant”

2 minutes later.

“It’s not pregnant Sophi, it’s just fat”

“Well, heave the thing over the wall then”

Which my darling nephew less than delicately did, just before Alice’s jaws snapped around the bulbous arachnid. I may have a deep and reasonable fear of such creatures but I didn’t want a death on my conscience nor did I want her to meet up with the other one which had just disappeared under my water fountain.

It wasn’t until later that evening when the thought struck me that I’d literally harboured my phobia right next to my chest for a good few hours without a clue as to imminent danger before Lou’s rescue. And for that I blame Denis. After all, it was he who gave me the bamboo with the suggestion of making wind chimes or something out of the tubes – I’ve been diverting into other areas of creativeness of late so I took them down to the workshop to cut to size. I then carried the whole lot tucked into my chest back up to the sun-drenched terrace/ fabulous space to awaken my artistic aura. It wasn’t until I decided to then snap the tubes in half length-wise that I was greeted by the first uninvited guest – the one who as far as I know is still under the fountain before its chubby friend popped out. No, I didn’t take any photographs, finding my phone was not the first thing that sprang to mind but think eight legs, big tum and spotted. Oddly the whole experience didn’t freak me out like it normally would, in fact I would argue that my laid-back attitude was remarkably unlike me. Must be something to do with with the weather or perhaps at least, the hope that there is coming a higher chance of the thermometer going up rather than down.

I’m sure there are some out there who don’t care too much for the sun but for me, that great big orb is Nature’s battery charger. Let’s face it, we’ve had a unusually wet winter so being able to get out and about without having your eye poked out with an umbrella can’t help but be good for the soul. Sitting outside a cafe in the centre of Limoux on Friday morning, sipping coffee and people watching after a mooch around the weekly market stall offerings, it suddenly dawned on me just how long it’d been since I’d properly visited the town and how much I’ve missed the chit chat and busyness of a marché. Lou suggested I should set up a Witch Wackle slap bang in the middle of the action but to be honest, I don’t have that kind of confidence and early morning starts in Sophi’s world are in a different time zone. And it’s far more stress-free to peruse other people’s wares than to watch people peruse yours.

So there we go. February has disappeared behind the seasonal doors and with it, we hope, winter. Yet, as much as one was glad to say goodbye to last month, with it came a moment of poignancy as Friday also marked the first anniversary of Mumo’s passing. A whole year without her seems impossible to get your head around; there isn’t a day that goes passed when you aren’t reminded of something she would do or say which is why I know she would be happy that Lou and Denis finally got round to tidying up the plot at L’Horte. I’d like to think she’d also be pleased with me still fag-free and a lot more sober these days and weirdly, becoming a little calmer I’m told too. Even with an unaccounted for arachnid hopefully still under my water fountain…

“Spring is far more than just a changing of seasons; it’s a rebirth of the spirit.”(Toni Sorenson)

It’s in the way you see it

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

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

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

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

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

Hello 2026

Well, hello 2026 and Bonne année et bonne santé à tous! We shall not speak of the one just passed but look forward instead to what, I hope for all of us, will be a bloody good year. After all, February will mark something rather significant for some of us – the Year of the Fire Horse no less, an event that only comes round every 60 years. Ah yes, THAT birthday. Best not dwell too much on that but rather the appearance of the Wolf Moon this weekend which, if you’re like me and believes in that sort of stuff, is connected with renewal and transformation. A more preferable thought for the beginning of the next 12 months I feel.

I’ve said it before but as I’m one to repeat myself I’m told (repeatedly), I’m not going to lay down New Year resolutions. Having said that, I did have a good talk to my inner self as well as a kick up the butt. It’s time to get out of all that ‘poor me’ malarky and stop expecting others to sort my life out. I’ve lists aplenty and appointments in the diary, admittedly most of the latter are to do with vets or doctors but I have had a tendency to put things off in the past. It’s not that I’m feeling ill or anything but my eyeballs haven’t had a check up in five years so my specs aren’t doing what they used to do and there is, of course, the dreaded annual trip to the dentist. One I hope will be just that, annual, ’cause these gnashers are expensive. I suppose I ought to go and visit the GP as well, I’ve lost a few kilos over the Christmas period but I think that’s more down to shivering than pneumonia due to the absence of heating. With any luck, the necessary doodad will be with us tomorrow morning and Max chauffagiste will be able to revive my frozen tootsies. And as mentioned, there’s the vet appointment for Arry (as usual) to restart his physio – the anti-inflammatories for his arthritic spine do tend to make him forget that he’s a bit wobbly in the back end so he needs some muscle therapy. Thankfully, he does like the coat I bought him; I know he’s a German Shepherd but he’s a ‘getting old’ one and personally I think he looks rather suave even if he’s never been sophisticated.

At least, the rain has stopped even if it’s still tundra temperatures outside (and in). We haven’t had any snow as yet, something Denis seems to want, why? but blue skies and sunshine to start the year off can’t be all bad. Makes one want to get busy. I’ve started dismantling the sapins and putting all the baubles back in their boxes. My flurry of activity has got some raised eyebrows from the locals however, in these parts one doesn’t tear down the tinsel until the end of January but I don’t see the point of hanging on to what’s been and gone and the fairy lights need time to re-tangle themselves before their next outing. I have however consented to leaving the corner wall display up for the moment, D says the village have to have something cheery to look at although one of the reindeers got so soggy it’s now bent over backwards and the fake snow has been reduced to a few blotches here and there. Mind you, since it will no doubt be the last of my seasonal spectaculars up there, I’m happy to observe such village customs – we’ve a new year ahead, things to do and places to be my friends…

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves” (William Shakespeare)

Resolutions and wrinkles

Well, there you go, another week over and another year older. Yup, I’ve had my last birthday in my 50’s and, not being one to shy away from a good knees-up, I did it in style and suffered for it. My mind may think I’m still in my youth but the body does not. Still, knee joints aside, I had a cracking good night boogieing into the wee hours whilst consuming my body weight in pizza. And, aside from Denis providing my favourite nutrition, the weather stayed just about perfect so we could dine al fresco on my terrace surrounded by tripping hazards in the form of prone woofers.

I have to say I don’t feel 59 but then again I’ve never been 59 before. Whilst I’m sure the wrinkle count is doubling daily, I tend to avoid lengthy conversations with mirrors and being flat-chested, I’m lucky nothing’s sagging in that department. Callum tells me I look ‘pretty good’ for my age which is why he is the centre of my world, unlike brother Simon who pointed out I was really 60 minus 364 days yesterday – I should remind him that he is my older sibling. I suppose one should think about birthday resolutions and all that but, considering all the ups and too many downs over the past 12 months, I don’t think so. Maybe stop stressing so much and enjoy the now if my out of whack synapses will let me.

So, we’ve reached November and with it, chilly mornings and disappearing daylight. With not much to do in the garden and a workshop idling whilst I try to drum ideas for Christmas baubles, I decided to give the terrace a bit of a make-over. Admittedly, it’s probably not the season for adding what can only be described as summer lounging to the apartment’s exterior but it does give it a bit of a wow factor. Not that you can sit on any of it, the woofers have ruled out any chance of claiming a cushion and as everyone knows, my posterior doesn’t have a take a load off mode. That being said, I don’t think there is a more perfect place to let the mind wander in the peace of nature for a while. Actually, it’s not that peaceful – the garden is teeming with migrant visitors at the moment; the avian kind but the chatter is oddly welcoming as we head into Autumn’s last month. Winter may be around the corner and a new year beckoning but that’s yet to come and as the saying goes, age is just a number so me and 59 are going to be just fine. I’ll just try and keep myself away from my reflection and remember mornings after night befores…

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.” (George Bernard Shaw)

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)