Old gits and good karma

Builder-gate grinds on with all the momentum of a pre-globally warmed glacier.

For weeks there is nothing. Phone messages are ignored. We are being blanked. I'm beginning to wonder if I actually exist. I keep looking in the mirror to check.

So new tactics are being deployed. We are talking to the opposition. Maybe we can work out some kind of a deal.

The new builders firm arrange an appointment.I don't bother to write it down...

Something quite remarkable happens. They turn up. And they look at the work that needs doing without sucking in their cheeks so strenuously their skulls implode.

We shall wait and see what they come up with....I won't rhapsodise about them too much...turning up to an appointment shouldn't really merit such adulation...but around here, it earns you God-like status.

Guess what happened yesterday?

You'll never guess...so I'll tell you. It's really good.

Spouse and Sprog went off to the big French supermarket that begins with the letter L. I needed quiet time to write, so I was staying home. I carefully wrote a list for them which followed the lay-out of the supermarket - this means they could navigate a logical route through the aisles without having to double back on themselves - I know this sounds really anal, but it gets very busy on Saturday mornings and I wanted to make things as easy for them as I could. Given that I was staying home doing something enjoyable..

Spouse tells me the store was packed with grumpy people, including the old guy in front of him in the queue. Old guy abandoned his trolley in the queue and kept disappearing off into the bowels of the shop to retrieve more items. When the conveyor belt became empty and old guy was nowhere to be seen, Spouse started to unload groceries. Naturally, like a bad penny, OG turned up.

Grumbling.

Being a gent and quite a nice guy, Spouse uncomplainingly removed his groceries from the belt to allow OG to load his stuff.

Currently,when you pay at the supermarket that begins with L, they give you a scratchcard. One of those crap scratchcards that you never win anything with....apart from maybe five euros off a cut and blow dry from a hairdresser in Strasbourg...oh yes, very convenient. Without fail,you scrape away the silver wax to reveal the immortal word perdu.

Anyway, to cut a long story short...Spouse got the scratchcard that said gagné. And they gave him 150 euros. Reward for letting a grumpy, annoying old git ahead in the queue.

Result.

Cardigans...should they be illegal?

I am wearing 'an old lady cardigan' apparently.

According to Spouse....today I have chosen a truly pitiful outfit from my vast (yeah right) wardrobe. I am afraid it is 'old lady cardigan' time of year. The bitter cold is leaching into my bones,forcing my body to squeeze itself into a tight ball...it kind of helps with the dowager hump...a few more hairs on my chin and I've really got the whole look nailed.

There's snow on them thar hills...just up the road. I spotted a little dusting of nature's dandruff on the shoulders of Bugarach. What a stupid simile. If that's what it is. I dunno. Grammar isnt a strong, point! of mine. I'm sure I'll stand corrected.

Just in from the shops, where I narrowly avoided offending a woman by telling my husband what a revolting coat she was wearing. I mistakenly thought the protective shield of speaking foreign was in place.

It had slipped.

Just in time, I spotted her tin of Bird's Custard. British and no-mistaking. Good job I kept my mouth shut. And who am I to cast aspersions? In my 'old lady cardigan.'

What is the perfect counter to 'old lady cardigan'? I suspect it's something like 'young lady bustier.' In these temperatures? Not bloody likely.

If you are wondering what an'old lady cardigan' might look like...it's sort of inoffensive oatmeal in colour...pure wool. Very warm. And very shapeless and saggy. It's....hideous. It's going in the cat basket right now.

Halloween hello

We have had an unbelievable run of warm, still days, followed by cold, clear nights. Not like October at all.It has been lovely. The school hols are nearly over. It has been fun. Sprog is a good companion, cheerful, enthusiastic and interested in most things. I know it won't last. I must appreciate it while it does.

It is Halloween. We will be going out later. Sprog is a ghoul/spook/zombie. I am not dressing up, although I can pass easily as a witch on most days. Hope we don't get shot at again.

The chuffing builders still haven't shown their sorry faces. The house is falling down, whether they come or not.

The panto is booked for Christmas - always a good feeling. And the flights to Blighty are done. I feel quite organised.

And even inside my head, I am feeling reasonably well ordered. Organised, if you will. I am stamping on negative thoughts and embracing positives. I know it's only a tactic - but it's an effective one. Especially when you're as in the shit as we are.

I am sorry I have not been visiting as frequently, dear Blog. Please forgive me. I do still love you, you know. xxx

I have been writing a lot of stuff for this place - where my take on the world seems to find some sympathy. Yes....there are others like me. Frightening isn't it?

Ferret wrestling and bun bingeing

You may remember I mentioned we had some builders coming to wreck our house. Last June they were supposed to turn up. Since then, we have had a couple of apologetic phonecalls, a few vague (ultimately bogus) promises and a blatant lie.

This should annoy us. But it doesn't. We know we are not being persecuted for being foreign, arty,or rich(as if). They treat our French neighbours in exactly the same way.The most recent contact was last week - they were adamant they would turn up for work on Wednesday morning. Knowing full well they wouldn't, we made other plans and went out.

So, as I sit here on this cold, clear morning, wondering how we are going to pay for our firewood delivery, let alone the builders....I am quite relieved they have not appeared yet. And I'm just thinking to myself....they will definitely turn up now...because we can't pay them....aaaggggghhhhhhhh. It's known as sod's law.

We have had guests for the last ten days. This morning they fly off, back to dreary sunless Blighty. Ha!Poor buggers. Lovely guests, happy cheerful people who like a glass of wine. Perfect, really.

I am now planning my pre-Christmas diet. I have told Spouse I need to get some control into my life, and he suggested I try anorexia. I punched him...really quite hard, for a girl.Since the likelihood of donning a bikini has faded, I must admit I have relinquished control of the 'moderation' button. Well, to be honest, I've completely disabled it. Fuck moderation...it's too cold. I need calories to fuel the fires.I'm partial to buns at the moment...any kind will do, particularly iced buns...and soft doughy ones studded with plump raisins.

I have to go. I have an inner list of tedious tasks to complete before I am able to sit at the computer and write my fantastically entertaining novel.The Toussaints hols start tomorrow and the darling little Sproglet will require tending to.

Ooh! The cat was wrestling something that looked like a stone marten or mink, ferrety type thing. Edwina is a feisty little madame.Afterwards though, she did have a rather funny 'What the fuck did I do that for?' look on her face.

Back soon. Mwah!

What a Starck!

Have you been watching Design for Life on the BBC? It's a TV programme featuring superstar French product designer Philippe Starck (he of the spaceship lemon squeezers,cubist sanitary ware and nice chairs - to name but a few)and a troupe of young British design hopefuls competing for the opportunity to win a work placement with Starck's design practice.

It's very compelling.

Can one French person be more French than another...can they? Philippe Starck is so French. I love him...but I wouldn't want to work for him.He baffles these poor hapless hopefuls with vague and contradictory briefs, bewilders them with concept, bays for form and function one minute...then bemoans their lack of free-thinking, wild and wackiness the next.

I'm sure it's edited to heighten the competitor's apparent talent void...and Starck's eccentric, arrogant and downright rude behaviour. I am so used to French men now, his manner is so familiar....I think it must be normal.

This is an unsettling thought.

Other news:.....

I have got over myself....I'm eating the walnuts. Lacking a nutcracker is no problem.Hammer and rock work a treat. My arteries are black runs.

And I saw a MASSIVE grass snake yesterday - I nearly shit myself. But didn't, fortunately, because I was wearing white trousers and was on my way out to an appointment.

Nuts and monkeys

We have been given a large box of walnuts. Still in their green, fleshy cases, I have spent an hour or so de-nuding them. I wore rubber gloves, as walnuts can stain your hands terribly. The blue gloves turned nicotine brown. They smell light and citrusy – it is a fragrance perfumiers should harness.

Then I sat on a small stool, looking rather like a chimpanzee first getting to grips with tools, firing walnuts at supersonic speeds across the room. I narrowly missed the back of Sprog’s head, I frightened the cat out of her hiding place and I almost shattered a mirror.

The reason?

A crap nutcracker. Which I have now broken. Obviously, I don’t know my own strength. But the walnuts I did manage to liberate, were delicious. Smooth and buttery in flavour, with that crisp, just out of the shell bite to them. I should be in marketing.

Jam packed with omega wotsits and cholesterol reducing thingummies.
Go to work on a walnut. A walnut a day.Compare the walnut dot com. Walnuts give you big tits, slim thighs, smooth skin, a carefee and funloving personality and inner peace.

All the rest, in brief:

Physically feeling….shite. Virus, throaty, coldy, achey,eary combo.

Emotionally feeling…fragile, delicate, but ferocious and waspish too. Dangerous.

Spiritually feeling….like a soaring albatross in a portaloo.

And the weather’s shite too….

Constipation

The Sprog has made a joyous return to school. He has declared love for the new teacher already – it’s only week one. She is impossibly young, fresh and keen. Think lovechild of Laura Ashley wearing librarian and Anthea Turner. An unsettling combination, I think you'll agree.


Sprog clearly needs pointers in the romance department. I’m not very good at tea and sympathy, so I need to cultivate in him an air of aloofness. Arrogant tortured genius….that type of thing. We need to have a chat.

‘You want to be a chick-magnet? Ignore them completely and they will be irresistibly drawn to you. You want to be a doormat? Buy them thoughtful, well-considered presents and listen to what they say.’ That sums it up pretty well, don't you think?

Spouse is happily absorbed in grown-up work stuff. The village is peaceful. The summer hoards have returned to their stuffy, airless offices.

And I am in mine. The sky is blue, the tomatoes fat and sweet, the sun dilute and delicate.

I love September.

It’s harvest time. With the vendange in full swing, the grape pickers abandon their cars across the lanes and seep into the vineyards in dreamy, slow waves. Tractors buzz all day long, towing trailers overflowing with plump, purple fruit. Half an eye on the sky at all times.Rain at this stage, is bad. But it is set fair, so the banter is relaxed and seamed with laughter.

The enforced dormancy of creative thought over the two month school holiday has been hastily jettisoned. I am in front of the computer, waiting.

And waiting.

For all those brilliant ideas to come flooding in.

Think I’ll just go and make myself a cup of tea. Then perhaps check the post box. Water the broccoli. Sweep the flapjack crumbs out of Sprog’s bed. Re-arrange the contents of my sock drawer. Try, for the fiftieth time, to persuade the little bastard of a lizard that has taken up residence under the fridge, to just fuck-off.

It’s all part of the process….