New phones and new faces

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

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

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

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

Bottoms up, get busy

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

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

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

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

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)

Dry under stormy skies

Tony used to say the best thing about giving up the booze was knowing no matter how great a party was, you weren’t going to wake up with a hangover. Okay, I haven’t gone totally teetotal but if last night’s soiree chez moi was anything to go by, me and my ‘faux’ wine top-ups were much appreciated this morning especially when listening to D moaning about his head’s state. I say ‘faux’ as I have discovered a rather nice non-alcoholic Merlot in our local supermarket although I am in the minority with that one – tastes like medicine according to my Frenchman. I will admit I still prefer a glass of the real stuff at apero time which I am told is allowed and anyway, one should be allowed a little bit of naughty especially when one has to stand up against tobacco temptation. So far so good in that department no doubt helped by the miserable downpour outside.

I certainly have more energy since giving up the wicked weed and going to bed earlier has resulted in waking up with the sunrise instead of mid-morning. This might sound beneficial but finding an outlet for my extra voom at the moment is a little frustrating when you haven’t been able to go anywhere without a lifejacket. If the steady thrum of rain over the last week wasn’t depressing enough, along came Storm Nils. A tempête so potentially dangerous that the powers that be sent us all a warning, a very loud high-pitched one, on our mobile phones – frankly that alone was a health hazard. Thankfully, Rouffiac got away lightly compared to other villages and towns; the nurse who came to suck out more of my blood the morning after was an hour late because of the carnage her way. Yes, I’ve had another load of my precious liquid removed to try and find out what’s going wrong with my internals. To be honest, I have felt a little better of late, I think helped by the re-awakened zip followed by bursts of creativity and keeping fingers away from the Google button. Attempting to follow what is supposed to be a simple pattern for making a pair of summer trousers has so far taken me a week and I’ve still only done the leg bits – I’ve become an expert at unpicking stitches though. I’ve even done a bit of painting and not the on the wall kind. I don’t think Monet would have anything to worry about but dabbing wild colours onto paper is a great distraction as is trying to get orange sunburst off a white jumper afterwards.

Speaking of keeping busy, we had another house visit this week – on Friday 13th in fact. Odd timing aside, the estate agent sent me a message asking if I knew the client in question. Last name Stewart and mentioned he knew Tony. Actually it turned out that he knew my brother Moth, or Tim to some, but trying to solve the mystery did give my brain cells a decent workout so the memory’s fine. The gentleman liked the house by the way and may be back for another view with his other half. By that time I might have figured out which part of the instruction manual tells you how to attach legs to a waistband and my artistic endeavours will start to look vaguely like they were painted that way on purpose and on the canvas. Until then, I shall focus on making spring rolls for next week’s dinner party – after all, it’s the start of Chinese New Year on Tuesday and fingers crossed, one that forecasts calmer weather. Alcohol-free fizz anyone?…

“One can have no smaller or greater mastery than mastery of oneself.” (Leonardo da Vinci)

Seven years on and still blonde

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

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

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

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

Christmas 2025

Well, here we are. The second to last blog of 2025 and on the winter solstice as well – I wonder what astrologists would say about that but then again, I’m trying to steer clear of that temptation. If I’m being honest, it still doesn’t feel much like Christmas without Mumo here or the Collins’ family crowding the kitchen and I’ll probably a total mess when Lou and Maxime the nephews leave for their Mum’s on Tuesday. For a start, I still haven’t succeeded in the roasting fireplace department – a job Denis is going to have to take on if I’m to have any decent heat in the apartment and having to look after that big old house all by myself feels slightly Dickensian for some reason. I did think about moving in there, briefly I might add; the thought of letting Sherman loose with all that furniture and his penchant for lifting a leg on new smells slammed the lid on that one. However, there is a plus side to all this aloneness – I can play Christmas music all day long without anyone complaining, not counting the woofers.

Actually, as weeks go and despite my grouchy approach to the season, the past one has been rather fun. Denis and I had the chance to pop back over to brother Simon’s and wife Alba’s place in Argeliers for a spot of lunch and to pick up the rest of what will eventually be my new kitchen. We nearly didn’t make it as, due to a French farmers strike blocking the main arterial routes, Denis decided to take the back roads – a lot of them. Through very tiny villages in our not so small camion. Thankfully, my man is a very good driver but unfortunately lacking much sense of direction so many of those villages were seen more than once until he eventually gave in to my request for good old Google. At least we managed to take the right turns on our return journey, an art in itself with so much cabinetry crammed in the van and the only thing stopping us from unloading the lot mid-way was a piece of rope holding the ‘couldn’t quite get them closed’ back doors in place. Mission completed, the garage is now bursting with cupboards and counter tops; all of which are desperate for renovation and a decent paint job but will have to wait until the weather gets a little warmer.

Mind you, we have been lucky in the temperature department and apart from one spectacular storm, all balmy and blue skies so much so that I got to see some impressive aerial manoeuvres over the gardens. Standing on a sun-drenched terrace one afternoon, I saw a falcon come in to land on one of the trees next to the pool deck. It’s not the first time this particular raptor has visited; the last time it nearly got chomped by Arry as it misjudged the weight of the dove between its talons and swooped a little too low but now was happily snoozing on a branch. It must have been sleeping as the falcon took no notice of Bert and Skirt’s (the resident magpies) dive-bombing – sensibly not too close. And if that wondrous sight wasn’t enough, Friday had me pointing my phone up to the heavens and Simon checking Flight Radar so we could catch a glimpse of a plane. No, I haven’t taken up a new hobby; this was a special bypass – Maxime flying solo across the horizon above. Okay, very far above but a proud moment nevertheless. And with Simon and Alba going off to Miami the next morning, we all sat down to a pre-Christmas celebratory feast that evening – pigeon casserole, I kid you not.

And with that, to all I wish you a wonderful Noël. May your stockings be full and glasses overflow. May your tables groan with the most delicious of delicacies and the sound of corks popping. Cheers everyone!

“Christmas is a baby shower that went totally overboard.” ( Andy Borowitz)

Tablet traumas and mislaid mushrooms

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

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

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

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

Hoos and hums

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

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

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

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

Boots on, summer’s gone

Waking up this morning to the pitter patter of raindrops followed by a cracking thunderstorm was one thing but did the temperature have to drop by 10 degrees overnight? For the first time in months, I dragged out my boots such was the shock for my poor tootsies. I did shove the vacuum down their insides first, brother-in-law Steve’s tale of getting bitten by a spider when he put his arm in a long unworn jacket uppermost in my mind. But really? I mean I know we are heading into Autumn but I would’ve preferred the change in season to have come a little more gradually – I’m going to have to call the tanker man tomorrow so he can top up the oil reservoir. It’s almost time to switch on the radiators.

At least if summer was going to go out with a bang, literally, we had last week to be thankful for. Especially as I got to enjoy an albeit too brief visit from sister-in-law Frannie and the afore-mentioned Steve. I can’t say we did much except converse over a fair number of bottles followed by an evening of over-consumption of the food kind but there was the obligatory walk up the road to see my bit of Rouffiac terrain and a nip round to the épicerie to view my bijoux and top up the disappearing wine collection. And the sun stayed out for us so we could idly chit-chat up on my balcony whilst gazing down at the pristine but polar piscine. As I said, the stopover was far too short but for them, the last time they’ll pop over to the Collins’ family abode.

No, the grand old lady has not been sold yet but the latest immobilier says that October onwards is the best time for off-loading our fabulous property. I hope not too quickly as I’m still waiting for the lawyers to send me a bill for my plot. I’m told the delay is down to a newish government mandate about needing to analyse the soil – if they hit oil, I’ve already signed the papers and I should be going broke sometime in the next few days. I still can’t get my head around the fact I’m buying a third of a hectare with nothing on it or how I’m going to pay for it all but lucky for me, I have an army of friends in this little bit of France who’ve offered their expertises. Because I’m planning to do most of the interior myself much to Denis’ horror. Hah, if my Pop could build L’Horte, little brother Moth the same at Badens and I have a rising construction king in my son, something must have surely rubbed off in the genetics and I’m nothing if not stubborn.

Speaking of the man-child, it’s his birthday today. My world that is Callum has entered his 27th year which makes me feel ancient, not helped by sister-in-law Alba’s constant reminders about me turning 60 next year. I’m still 58 for another month thank you. I know both Frannie and I would agree that Tony’d be so proud of Callum and his achievements, not least of all taking himself off alone to the other side of the world and successfully finding a new life. And even though I know I’m no longer numero uno, him being happy equals ditto for this mum. I guess it’ll me soon who flies the coop and jumps into a world unknown (again) except mine is only a stroll down the main street and turn right. Good job I cleaned the boots…

“I’m steel-toed boots in a ballet-slipper world.” ( Richard Kadrey )

Summer’s last stand

Marie-Claude, resident of Rouffiac, has Covid and at the time of writing this; the internet is down. Thankfully, we don’t need the internet to find out the former’s malady – that’s what the épicerie is for but according to Orange, there’s been a rupture in the line and we might have to wait until tomorrow for a connection with the outside world. A rupture does sound pretty dire. At least the news of poor Marie-Claude waited until after Friday as that would have been disastrous for Le P’tit Bristrot and its team with it being the final knees up of the season. Almost everyone in the village turned up complete with silly hats and wonky wigs (odd Rouffiac tradition) to share the evening with friends and boogie to an impressive set by Nothing Concrete. No, I haven’t heard of them either but according to my gal Suzy, they just got back from playing a gig in Devon so they had to be pretty good. Less could be said for the dining fare although Suzy’s husband Bruce became even more popular than usual having brought Tabasco to liven up his chilli – queues forming at our table for a drop or two and to munch down on the pizza I always make just in case. The same as Mumo always did.

Mercifully, I’ve had enough time to recover for this morning’s visit by the latest estate agent else my head would have been still buried under Sherman. Photos were the order of today which for me meant hurrying around to get the apartment looking less like a factory and the pool looking vaguely clean before corralling the woofers out of sight lest they moon to the camera. Brother Simon told me such brave feats are unnecessary these days what with AI and fancy apps but 7 furry beasts could be stretch for any computer boffin. I did leave my latest creations on display though including the freshly-pimped up flower pots I found in the old chicken shed. That and the artfully displayed bijoux in the room downstairs. Well, they are after all, an international agency so you never know.

The above mentioned pool is still open by the way. We had considered closing it after the pictures were papped but Monsieur le Météo has decided that we aren’t quite ready for Autumn just yet and is sending a little heat our way in the coming week. You could be forgiven for thinking it’s Spring in September looking out at the garden foliage. And my pasteque is growing bigger by the day. Denis says I should use it as a Halloween decoration instead of the traditional pumpkin but at this rate it might end up in a Christmas pudding. Still, I am not going to complain about the daily chores deck-side; sister-in-law Frannie and her hubby Steve are popping through on Thursday so the barbecue will be pulled out once more and not too long after that, I’m flying off to the Motherland for a few days. A catch-up with my mother-in-law Jenny is much needed and of course, the mandatory lunches and dinners with friends. It will be as always, a short trip as leaving Denis with the dogs and their dietary requirements is never a comfortable thought and there’s the little thing called a plot of land that would look much nicer with a house on it. And fancy plant pots…

“September days have the warmth of summer in their briefer hours, but in their lengthening evenings a prophetic breath of autumn.” (Rowland E. Robinson)