Practical procrastination

I popped over for coffee with a friend the other day. Sara is one of those people who, when you finally get round to saying goodbye several hours later, leaves you with a sense of positivity and go get ’em girl which, when you consider she’s living with the cancer bitch, makes her all the more special. Apart from a much-overdue catch-up over caffeine and biccies, I’d wanted her advice on selling some of Mumo’s jewellery or at least ask if her fiancée Adolphe knew anyone who would be interested. Adolphe, for those who haven’t kept up with the blog, is a wheeler-dealer of sorts, mostly furniture but has connections all over the place. It might sound a little cold, wanting to off-load such personal items but none of the family want them so the trinkets are just gathering dust in the back of my wardrobe. Now Sara is not only the sort you can chat with all day about everything and nothing, she’s also straight talking and practical which is why, when I got home, I decided it was time to start clearing more cupboard space. Blocks the energy I’m told. Except, I haven’t actually got round to actually doing, just thinking about doing.

I’d blame my procrastination on the weather but it’s actually been quite mild of late. Just as well as we still don’t have heating as Max chauffagiste is waiting for yet another part in the post. Judging by the recent appearance of daffodil buds, winter will probably be over by the time the wretched boiler’s fixed and my very large fuel cheque handout would have been for nothing. Still, at least I am now ‘on the system’ as far as being officially a micro entrepreneur, something that took a while since I had to do a whole lot of online form filling again – this time for the necessary revenue declarations, zero at present as I haven’t got round to setting up the Witch Wackle website. Amusingly, the reason for the process taking so long was because Mumo’s maiden name and married names were both Collins – obviously a bit too confusing for the person ticking boxes. I am vainly hoping that that’s the last of having to deal with documentation as I’m supposed to be getting rid of excess paperwork, not adding to the piles and I do so prefer to be whittling away with the wood it was born from.

As I mentioned earlier, the thermometer has kindly allowed my tootsies to thaw a tad. Unfortunately, for brother Simon and wife Alba having just got back from sunny Miami, the toe-numbing tundra has been replaced by rain this morning, the miserable drizzly kind. On our way over to dinner with neigbours Saba and Roy last night, Denis suggested I should grab an umbrella so I did, one of at least five sitting by my front door most of which I have no recollection of buying. I know what Sara would say, get rid of the rest which of course, I haven’t. Ah well, tomorrow is another day and I just haven’t got the energy…

“I never put off till tomorrow what I can do the day after” (Oscar Wilde)

Adding the fantasie

It goes without saying that, looking back on the nearly 7 years of writing this blog, there’ve been a fair few milestones inscribed on its stone. Admittedly, most etchings tend to be somewhat depressing so I am particularly proud to add a sparkly one today. Yup, it’s official, I am now a registered jewellery designer and licensed to bling. Actually, the exact name for my trade is ‘createur de bijoux fantasie’ which, by the way, does not mean I’m plying my wares in Ann Summers so keep your heads out of the gutter. According to the very nice man in the office, the fantasie bit separates me from those who work with real gemstones and precious metals as opposed to moi who twists copper wire and whittles wood. Anyway, suffice to say that I am absolutely delighted that the almost impossible to say in French, Witch Wackle, is now a legitimate microenterprise. Dead chuffed.

And Witch Wackle wasn’t the only start-up to open its doors this week, the pizza van fired up its ovens for the rumbly tums on Friday evening. It’s not the first time I’ve invested in a local business but I do love pizza and Christophe knows how to flip ’em. Charmingly gruff and built like a boxer (he was once Marie le Pen’s bodyguard), Christophe has become a good friend and is no stranger to running food trucks so I was happy to help and he did accompany me through all the government paperwork needed to get the bijoux signature. Between Le Jardin, Pizza King and now Witch Wackle, I feel like quite the business woman, which considering I failed maths, French, cookery and art at school, is an accomplishment in itself.

So here I am, proper suited and all, except in torn jeans and scuffed boots, making my own little marker here in this little village hidden amongst the vines in deepest South-West France – a place that brought everyone together on Tuesday to mark Remembrance Day outside the church. Although it wasn’t the sort of occasion where peeps dressed up to the nines, I did pin a poppy badge to my jumper which was joined soon after by a blue paper flower. These are the French symbols of commemoration so I felt very honoured to be given one and place the two side by side. The service was, as always, poignant and respectful, especially as most of the readings were down by local schoolchildren who also ended the morning with a rousing rendition of something unfamiliar but that might have been down to all the notes sung but not necessarily in the right order.

Speaking of all things creative and community, the coming week will see me wearing yet another hat – it’s time to start designing the corner wall’s display and panneau. My artistic ability is hardly Louvre quality but me painting the seasonal scene on the signboard down the road has become a tradition, much like how much Christmas kitsch we can cram into the bit of garden over-looking it. I have promised Denis a little more taste this year and less luminosity although he did raise an eyebrow when I mentioned leaping reindeer and why not dangle Santa from the almond tree so we’ll see. After all, one should always have a bit of fantasie…

“If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities” (Maya Angelou)

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)

Signs of Autumn

So, after five months of rainless skies and sweat, Autumn finally decided to make an appearance in dramatic style with a cracking great storm on Thursday. I’m sure the land was grateful for the deluge but probably not the howling gale that came with it – one that brought down several tonnes of acorns onto the pool deck that I’d just swept. I did wonder whether a retrieval of car canopies from next doors garden might be in order, velcro is no match for a violent tempest and neither is trying to bang down pegs under water. Still, a change in season is as good as a rest or at least it’s certainly blown away the cobwebs.

Yup, this girl’s been busy clearing the decks and not just the one with the sound of constant pinging. It all started with my TikTok detox. I may or may not have spent far too many evenings in the company of tarot card readers and other dubious ‘ologists worrying about where Saturn was rising to next or whether Mars and Uranus were going to have a bust up as to who was going to be in Scorpio tomorrow. So I deleted the little icon and went to work on all things outdoors instead. I braved the inside of the neglected serre, thankfully devoid of spiders and replaced the wilted summer stock with fresh seedlings and the two potagers are once more neat and tidy. Brother Simon and wife Alba came over during the week having hired a van to move stuff to their new home which meant switching furniture around so the main house didn’t look like The Louvre. They timed their visit well as I’d planned a wee apéro with friends on Friday night which ended up being a dinner – such an evening much needed after the foggy last few weeks.

Naturally, what with it being almost the end of October, I’ve been well-occupied in the workshop too. No, not because of Hallowe’en; my birthday isn’t really a thing in these parts thank the Gods as All Saint’s Day takes a priority. Whilst a few shops may adorn themselves with headless ghouls and trails of wispy cotton wool, chrysanthemums tend to be the main attraction although I must admit some of those displays can be frankly scarier. Anyway, I digress, it’s the Christmas crowds I’m planning for. I have a meeting tomorrow at the Chamber of Commerce (at the ungodly hour of 8.30 a.m) which fingers crossed will be the final step towards my licence. I have no doubt in my mind that I’ll probably forget an important document or five knowing how the French bureaucratic system works but with any luck my Nöel nuggets will festoon the local markets in the next months. In the meantime, I just have to bear the thought that I’ll be that little bit closer to not being in my fifties anymore in the far to near future – let’s just hope Venus doesn’t poke her nose in…

“Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.” ( Friedrich Nietzsche)

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)

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 )

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)

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)

Hot metal and hairy hounds

You know that annoying feeling when you put off a thing that needs doing until it’s too late to do it? Like deciding to leave the repainting of the metal staircase leading down from the terrace for a prospective new owner and now you can’t walk on it without searing your tootsies. Not that you’d want to step outside mind you, what with the thermometer set to boil mode as soon as the sun rises. Watering what is still just about surviving in the garden has to wait until dusk to allow some chance of liquid actually going into the soil and not disappearing as soon as you point the hose at it. Denis has taken responsibility for the potager plantings, apparently I don’t drench them like he does. I’m more than happy to let him, the very idea of having to make my way to the bottom of the terrain to do so is a health hazard.

At least the pool hasn’t evaporated, amazingly with it having no shade whatsoever and Arry’s need to throw himself in every 5 minutes. At least for him, he can cool down, the other woofers aren’t keen on swimming although Alice and Sherman have been subjected to a quick dip by yours truly. I had to give the latter and his brother next door a thorough hand-stripping earlier in the week – their extra coat coming off in record seconds and on to me. Sweat and dog hair do not mix well especially when you add fans on full blast, my necessary after shower meant declogging the drain. I’d have jumped in said pool except removing German Shepherd fur from the skimmers is bad enough, let’s not add to that.

It might be hotter than hell out there but it’s good for the bijoux business. With the vacation season just about to kick off, I decided to change the shop display to something more appropriate for the summer spenders. Having found an old ladder in the workshop, I roped Louis into creating a stand for my wares which I have to say looks rather wow even if my ‘background paintings’ are reminiscent of a toddler’s first art class. Still, my new presentation appears to be a success especially the copper collection – D’s idea initially although once I got the hang of all that wire twisting, both of us have become somewhat addicted to the process. At the rate we’re going, the local Brico shops are going to run out of cable but the medical service will be grateful for the reduction in numbers of arthritic patients. Maybe that’s the reason why I don’t have aching ankles any more, endless hours spent weaving and bashing the metal the panacea to my painful posterior. Mind you, with no rain forecasted for the foreseeable future, I’m not sure cures for creaky joints are going to continue to fly off the shelves. Perhaps a new career in fire-proof footwear?…

“What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.” (Jane Austen)

Finding creativity in chaos

It’s Mother’s Day here in France. It’s also St. Sophie’s Day. Okay, I know I’m a Sophia rather than one with an ‘e’ on the end but I that doesn’t stop me soaking up the Bonne Fêtes and kisses thrown my way. Since Callum’s back Down Under, I doubt they have the same date on the calendar so I wasn’t expecting a memed message and Saints Days are so very French. Celebrating Mums special jour is a must within Denis’ family, I’ve just returned from a delicious lunch over at Colette’s (his mum’s name which she doesn’t like but I think it’s lovely) with various kin plus their offsprings. We didn’t stay long, which I’m grateful for, as my man has to get his bags packed and I really wanted to turn my glad rags into shorts and get back to work. People, the sun is out and the thermometer is moving in the right direction.

It is said that a woman’s work is never done which, in my case, depends on what I consider the word to mean. Spending hours carrying a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a broom in the other cleaning all the rooms in the main house requires mental fortitude especially when you start removing cobwebs off the top bedroom ceiling and several centimetres of dust comes with them. Not fun. Neither is hoicking out the spider-covered sunbeds from the depths of the tractor shed, blasting the population with a hose with Arry going nuts at the sight of the water spray. That being said, it was an easier job than holding margelles in place whilst dangling over the side of a freezing cold pool so D could drill them back into place. But re-arranging furniture on the ground floor so Louis nephew and I could make space for the latest piano arrivals and making the suite below the apartment look habitable instead of resembling a warehouse is quite enjoyable. Of course, it always helps having Lou to supply the humour but the interior designer within me was quite chuffed with the results. And I sneakily put my latest craftwomanship on display so the odd guest passing through could sigh in wonder . That would be before they entered the lounge which currently holds four pianos including, yes it has arrived, The Stodart. To be honest, I know next to nothing about musical instruments but this one is stunning. The inlays alone take your breath away and that’s before you run your hands over the 18th century wood. I have been warned by my nephew to keep my polishing cloth away from his and my investment, Lou has particular products for such antiques.

Mind you, he’s not the only one with special tools. I’ve been putting my new purchases to work in the jewellery making department. Having finished all but a couple of renovations in the workshop, I’ve turned my attentions to the finer and frankly, fiddly art of re-creating bracelets and necklaces out of what, was once, someone else’s bling but no longer wanted. I’m going to try earrings next week, that is if I don’t have to visit the optician for stronger glasses. Plays havoc with the eyeballs. Amazingly, people like my designs although that hasn’t stopped D from suggesting ideas which are near impossible to achieve for an amateur like myself.

At least, he won’t be able to interfere in my attempts to bend wire into shapes suitable for prodding through ear lobes for the next week, he’s off to Morocco without me. No, we haven’t fallen out – he’s off with his daughter to visit his late wife’s family and I really didn’t think it was appropriate for me to join them and anyway, I’ve got enough to do chez moi. With summer on the horizon, the cover has to come off the pool so that I can change my running shoes for flippers. Tomorrow will likely be our last whizz up the hills for a few months; woofers and early morning warming don’t mix well. Oh, and bestie Rene is coming to stay for a whole week within which we shall go off together on a little adventure and leave D with the dogs on his return. I’d better hide my cache of bling lest he gets creative and starts painting pianos with gold leaf…

“Creativity is intelligence having fun.” (Albert Einstein)