Summer bugs and idle dogs

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

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

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

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

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)

Bringing out the blossom

According to the online horoscopes that I said I wasn’t going to read anymore, the start of the Chinese New Year on Tuesday was all about shedding the old Snake’s skin and embracing the power of the Fire Horse. Well, I’m not sure about the descaling bit but my epidermis is currently exposed to a strange phenomenon as I currently tap tap away on this here blog whilst sitting out on my terrace under a hazy blue sky and a ball of sun rays. And if Monsieur Météo’s forecast is anything to go by, we are about to have a little more of a taste of Spring in the coming days; something we thoroughly deserve down here after all the storms and soaking of late. As I was filling up the bird feeders yesterday, the surprise noting of the plum tree’s blossom made me do a little happy dance – a careful one as the garden is rather over-grown and you’d best be careful what you might step on.

It’s hard not to feel optimistic when the sun rises a little earlier each morning and is actually visible out there. And whilst I’m still not at my best, nor any the wiser as to what my internals are playing at, the change in season goes a long way towards a healthier outlook on life. As does having a load of friends come out of hibernation for a Chinese feast served up by yours truly and a successful one at that which was quite amazing considering the main house kitchen only has a three hob top, two of the guests were vegetarian, one was very allergic to fish and I couldn’t find the wok. A much enjoyed and well lubricated evening was had by all if the following morning texts were anything to go by as well as pats on the back for this hostess on giving up the nicotine and ‘you’re looking a lot better’ comments – I’d take that as a compliment if it didn’t make me think how I must have looked before.

Mind you, such remarks about one’s well-being are a great boost for the brain cells as are cloudless skies. Having nearly fainted at the organ-doning cost of the architect’s building team, I went shopping for a new one and found a possible candidate who just happens to be a friend of the Lovely Lionel so totally trustworthy. I haven’t met Hakim yet but Denis has taken him up to the land and gone over the specs with him and he’s still interested so positive vibes abounding. I even went as far as digging out all the boxes of Lego that our family have passed down the generations and built a sort of slightly out scale model of my one day abode for reference. Denis told Hakim it was an ‘English’ thing to do, I said it was a sensible one which it is as I realised all the windows on the spec drawing were in the wrong place and D’s idea that I should have double doors going out from the bedroom would mean I’d be waking up to a lovely view of the neighbour’s fence. With any luck and crossed fingers, my new best guy will be able to start as soon as the lawyers have finished my end.

Speaking of anniversaries and looking good at a certain age; yesterday marked 10 years since I took in a young foster pup named Ace. A decade later and Aragorn, aka Arry is still under my feet. I must admit I forget sometimes that he is, being a German Shepherd, old but he wears it well and is still an idiotic juvenile at heart. As I’m sure I’ve scribed many times over many blogs, his presence has kept me going through hell and high water even if only because he’s done something stupid more often than not. He may not be able to run up those hills anymore but Arry’s zest for always looking forward to the next best morning is a mantra this girl is aiming for. That and flip flops…

“An optimist is the human personification of Spring” (Susan J. Bissonette)

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)

Summer’s swan song

I held a dinner party last night. Not unusual I know but there is one that only happens once a year – the annual ‘Sophi arrived in Rouffiac’ knees up. Actually, I didn’t start hosting the do until 3 years ago which co-incidentally was when Denis and I fessed up to our feelings so why not combine two anniversaries over barbecues and booze with best friends. With the long table (borrowed from the mairie) over-flowing with food and multiple conversations in two languages bouncing across bottles, the evening went fabulously even if I almost knocked myself out tripping over a Sherman-sized hole in the garden resulting in a nicely swollen big toe this morning. Mind you, I could blame that on my rather effervescent dance moves or on the wind. The weather stayed warm but blowy, so much so that paper plates had to remain loaded lest they ended up on next doors pool.

I suppose one could say the evening’s entertainment also marked the end of summer. That and the distant sound of gunfire. Yes, the chasse is back. And a reminder that it won’t be long before it is time to dig out the trainers once more and take to the hills. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the pre-dawn alarm; I’ve got a bit lazy when it comes to getting out of bed but the canine crew and I need the exertion now that our pool is a little too cool. I did go swimming yesterday but I have a feeling that may well be the last time I get the goggles out. Unless I find the wetsuit. It’s funny to think that might well have been the final frolic with this place for sale, I won’t miss the constant cleaning though or the ‘what’s wrong with you know’ stress. Walking around the vast wooden deck with my mate Christophe last night, he asked if I was going to build another one in the new place. Yes but smaller, I replied, much smaller just like my yet to be house.

Ahh, the dream home. I’m still waiting for the notaire to finish the paperwork on that subject so I can finally fork out the euros and bring in the diggers. A little frustrating but that’s legals for you. On the plus side, the longer the wait the better it is for all the plantings I’m planning to repatriate. Most have to be in dormant mode to be shifted a couple of minutes up the road and I need to plan a bit of landscaping on the plots before that happens. Creating this garden took 5 years so I’d like to be ahead of the game for my next adventure. I’m not taking the potager however, I haven’t been very successful in that horticultural department not counting the slew of spring onions last year. I might just throw a few seeds around and let Nature take its course. Which I did with the seeds Abraham gave me much to D’s horror and now I have a tiny pastèque growing its little heart out. Naturally, I had to show the prized fruit to my guests last night which needless to say led to much amusement on their parts. Yes, it is a tad late in the season for such delicious delights so it’s probably not going to get any bigger but I’m still dreadfully proud of myself. Who knows, maybe next year we’ll be having watermelon for dessert in a different setting surrounded by friends and familiar flora…

“The end-of-summer winds make people restless.” (Sebastian Faulks)

That Français feeling

It’s that dreaded time of year. Not because we are at the end of August and therefore summer, worse almost – the tax man arriveth. Yes, down here we empty our bank accounts in October and are graced with a flurry of email reminders lest one forgets. I usually do. Still, if my plans for Witch Wackle are to be put in action, I’m going to have to be a little more organised in the paperwork department. That and I have to get another SIRET, basically a number that registers your business with the afore-mentioned tax man. I have one for the Montpelier property as it’s in retirement apartment complex. I was discussing this the other day with Adolphe, local Del Boy and my good friend who is banging on at me to sell my wares in Carcassonne and had bought over a rather lovely butler sink for my one day new workshop. I was a little worried as to whether or not I would be allowed to trade professionally being a Brit and all and with the Brexit boundaries but Adolphe just scoffed. “You speak French and you pay your dues, yes?”. Well, the latter definitely I replied, secretly pleased that he noted my grasp of the lingo, of which my pal decided, was enough to get my foot through the door and made me practically born here. I did further point out that I have yet to comprehend most of what I need to fill out on official forms but that was rebuffed as well. According to Adolphe, neither do French people and that’s why we have Google.

Mind you, I could be forgiven for thinking I’d missed the deadline judging by the weather last week. I know I said we needed rain desperately but that much? The garden’s started to turn green again and I had to delve into the depths of my drawers to find a sweater it was that cool. I say cool as 23 degrees is quite balmy to most but not when you’ve been in double that for the last three months. The sun has been out again this weekend thankfully but I feel the pool is unlikely to have bodies in it this year unless they are practicing for a swim across the English Channel. The bloody thing could have been usable if we had the chance to put the summer cover over but that decaying piece of plastic was what caused the problem with the pump – its deposits bunged up the filter. Since none of us want to shell out for a new bâche with this place up for sale and the season pretty much over anyway, the waters shall remain devoid of human life. Arry isn’t human and doesn’t compute cold water.

So tomorrow is the start of a new month and all too soon the heady days of summer will drift off into memory. Or maybe not quite yet. According to the local météo, that being the daily chat in the épicerie, another heatwave is bound to descend on us before Autumn rolls in. I’d dropped in to put up a new display for the season ahead and got the warning. I do hope so as I still have a lot of shell craft to peddle, not helped by a recent visit to Limoux’s recycling emporium ending up with me acquiring a sizeable chunk of cowries. I wouldn’t have bought them except that there was another lady eyeing them up and such a cheap steal wasn’t going to pass me by. That and she was English, which for some reason brought on the urge to grab them on the spot as well as several other bits and bobs under her visual. As we walked out of the shop, Denis started laughing. “Ma Chèrie, you are definitely turning French”…

““Summer should get a speeding ticket.” (Unknown)

Changing times and testy tractors

There’s a Facebook group page that I occasionally visit which is supposed to be all about gardening in France but really should be called ‘the English in France’. We talk about the weather mostly. That and share photos of our fabulous flora and fauna. I rarely participate in threads but would you believe, I had to post the miracle that passed over last week – we had rain! Having shoved Lily and her baby sister (my Peace Lilies for those who don’t know) out onto the terrace for a good soaking before I squeezed into what remaining bed space had been left due to Arry and Sherman’s horizontal yoga and snoozed off listening to Nature’s orchestra. Pure bliss.

The storm lasted two days and thankfully bought the temperature down although that, unfortunately, was just a temporary blip. However, one should make hay whilst the sun isn’t shining or move Pop’s tractor from the back garden to brother Moth’s house in Cenne- Monasties. We roped in the lovely Lionel for the cause as he has a great big trailer with a ramp on the back and is well used to shifting farm machinery. That and being corralled into doing favours for my little brother like the previous week’s shifting of all the giant floor planks he’d nicked from L’Horte and had been sitting in the garage ever since. But this little blue put-put around wasn’t going to go without a fight. First there was the slight issue of removing several generations of mice from the engine; I left that to Denis as well as the flat front tyre. Hardly stressful unlike trying to get it on the trailer – it didn’t fit. By millimetres. Luckily for poor lovely Lionel, nephew Max’s idea of cutting out the back of the trailer was over-ridden by D knowing a friend (of course) who worked at the winery down the road and had a thingamajig that could hoist the tractor onto the back of Lionel’s flat bed truck. Sorted. Almost. What the boys hadn’t thought about was how to get all down Baden’s (bro’s house) narrow driveway and unload it. They came back 3 hours later looking like roadkill but job done and Moth did donate some thoroughly delicious wines.

I’m sure over the months ahead, the lovely Lionel will be called upon again to shift the contents of the family residences to new abodes, mine included. Five years ago, I did just that except my belongings were mostly made up of woofers and one Peace Lily. And I did have our Rene to help me navigate my way through a different country to start a new life. Whilst some of those four pawed friends are no longer here and the Mothership sold, moving from the city to the middle of nowheresville has done just that. A new life. I’m a country girl now who isn’t scared of getting her hands dirty or holes in her jeans. I fell in love again with the man who helped me resurrect a garden and build a pool. A pool by the way which is the reason I am late writing this blog as it decided to spring a leak in the pump. Ever Reliable Roy came to the rescue. I helped Alice raise a litter of exceptionally exceptional Border Terrier puppies (Sherman just clocked in at a whopping 13 kilos but the vet says he’s not fat, just big), wrote two books (still waiting on the publishing date for the second, sorry!) and discovered that I could make jewellery and people buy it. Yes, there’s been a fair number of storms and downpours but I’ve learnt to roll with the seasons and take each day as it comes. But there will always be a little bit of England that stays with me – I do love talking about the weather…

“I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe that the best does.” (Anne of Green Gables)

Mothering nature

I know one shouldn’t have favourites but I do have a special fondness for certain plantings in the gardens. Take my cacti for example; in particular the giant Agaves which were given to me some years ago by a bloke in the village who’d had a bit of an over-breeding problem. It’s not that they are especially attractive to look at, spiny fingers and all, or because you don’t have to water them – I like their maternal attitude towards their young. Okay, there’s probably a botanist out there who thinks I’ve been out in the sun too long but I notice things. The Mama (of course, female) Agaves keep their babes shaded under giant wing-like arms, of which they have many due to the number produced. At least, I like to think so.

We have an instinctive need to protect, us mums. Callum maybe on the other side of the world but it doesn’t stop me worrying about him. That and having a bit of a problem moving files off my phone which required his expertise and every ounce of his patience to deal with my ineptitude. However, I have loosened the cord a little now that he has Reilly in his life and judging by the latest bunch of photos, makes my son very happy. I could fret over the woofers instead although they seem blissfully unaware of my nurturing tendencies. Arry turned 10 years old yesterday and judging by the picture D took of us, he is faring much better than me. Yes, he has touches of grey around his muzzle but his eternally positive outlook on life obviously works; I’ve got more creases than an accordion.

Speaking of wrinkles or perhaps the lack of them, I spent most of the beginning of last week getting the house and grounds ready for our first viewing. With the petanque ground having not a weed in sight and the pool deck artfully decorated with beach towels and cushions, I loaded the woofers into the camion and putt putted off to find a parking spot far enough away so the visitors wouldn’t be able to hear their singing. Naturally, I looked for a shady nook; it was early in the morning but the current weather ignores such hours and having succeeded, turned off the engine and opened my Spelling Bee app. I suppose one should take it as a big plus that the couple spent an hour pottering about our fabulous property but the sun does move in the sky. One of us was sweltering and it didn’t have four paws. They were all fine as the back of the van has no windows and it stays cool but me, no. By the time I drove back the short distance to home, my wrinkles had rivulets and Denis had to put the blasted thing back in the driveway lest my hands slipped off the wheel. And that’s why I love my Mama Agaves. They sit out in 40 degree heat, keeping their little ones under cover without a single complaint. Mind you, I can’t help but feel a pinch of envy when I stroke their smooth, un-furrowed foliage…

“People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.” (James Joyce)

Cloudless skies and hazy horizons

Aside from finally signing the ‘Compatabilité’ for what will eventually be my next home, it’s been a quiet week down here. And just as well because any attempt to take more than two steps outside leaves you drenched in sweat and searching for breath – the heat is back with a vengeance. Thankfully the wind has died down which means most of the wildfires can be contained, between the smell of smoke and a horizon hidden by a grey cloud its been a little nerve-racking to put it mildly. The devastation is only 50 or so kilometres from us so the skies have been filled with the constant thrum of helicopters ferrying massive water bags to the zone, one flew so low I did wonder if our pool was about to be drained – not a problem but I was in it at the time.

With not wanting to step foot into the garden unless absolutely necessary, essentials being drag the hose around what is still just about living or having a quick cool off in the piscine, I decided to tackle the garage and workshop instead. I’m sure we aren’t the only family who can fill a giant building with things that no longer work or ‘might come in useful one day even though they’ve sat there for 5 years’ but the time has come for a clean-up – our first potential purchasers are coming on Wednesday. Of course, we are all hoping they will be wowed by our impressive mansion and I’ve told the woofers that we will be going for a little ride in the camion that morning – they are not a good selling point. Mind you, I am going to artfully display a few of my pricier wares around the apartment – these peeps are coming from Paris you know.

Speaking of making things presentable, D and I have much to do beforehand – the petanque ground needs clearing of weeds and the back fence is covered in brambles. It is quite amazing that these evil creatures can survive when the surrounding vegetation is barely clinging to life. I had to dig up the little lilac trees this morning and put them in water before they got burnt to a frizzle which ended up with me draped over the kitchen fan for an hour. Such acts of selfishness do not please the woofers who are currently draped strategically around the apartment tiles to get the best airflow and I’m inhaling copious amounts of dog hair as a result. Still, mustn’t grumble, as Denis pointed out to me yesterday, their new home currently has no shade on it whatsoever. I’m going to have to save a few more trees here to take over there…

“Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.” (Russell Baker)

Scorched earth and spider ouchies

Denis got bitten by a spider last Wednesday. It managed to get in his shoe and left a couple of teeth marks for good measure. Naturally, him being him, he refused to go to the doctor and went off fishing instead and came back with his foot looking like it had swallowed a watermelon. Luckily his niece knows a thing or two about medical care because I’m a useless nurse and dosed him up proper; the extremity almost back to normal size the next day. Although I highly doubt it was the same arachnid that chomped my hand a couple of years ago, we’re probably both super-powered now.

You couldn’t really blame the critter for crawling into his sock and wanting a bit of sustenance – it’s dry as the Gobi desert out there and the forecast isn’t looking hopeful for the poor garden and its inhabitants. Even the woofers have turned into sloths, barely moving until it’s time for my afternoon swim which for no reason whatsoever gets them all hyped up. I now have three ‘oases’ dotted around the shadier terrain for the wildlife which, by the morning, are empty. The whole area is weirdly quiet, save the chirping cicadas and the distant rumble of Canadairs fighting the inevitable wildfires. There was a pathetic attempt to release a few rain drops from above yesterday afternoon, barely enough to soak an ant let alone a flower or two. Yet, amazingly, some flora and fauna are surviving; the oleanders and roses are still in bloom although the latter do get a bit of hosing by their long-suffering carer. I’ve had to cover the pipes to keep the water temperature down. Mercifully, the thermometer has dropped below 30 degrees today and is due to stay a little cooler for tomorrow too. But no pluie on the horizon alas.

Still, one mustn’t complain too much especially as the warm weather means getting together with friends and doing the fête rounds; something my body keeps telling me I’m too old to be doing. Last night was the annual trip to the village next door for a bit of boogieing Preixan-style. To be honest, I almost bailed out due to the previous evening spent working on Witch Wackle stuff with Spider-Man until the wee hours and then yesterday’s birthday celebration lunch for his mum but I dragged out my dancing flip-flops nevertheless and got home at two this morning. Probably not the wisest move as we’d left the woofers to snooze under the starry sky so woke up the neighbourhood on re-entry. Should have used the front door like normal people…

“I drifted into a summer-nap under the hot shade of July, serenaded by a cicada lullaby, to drowsy-warm dreams of distant thunder” (Terri Guillemets)