Saint John the Baptiste.

Dom and I went to The Fete de Jean le Baptiste last week. An impromptu picnic in the middle of a field in the middle of bloody nowhere, on the eve of the birth of John the Baptist. All quite lovely, and everyone knows everyone.

Two of the locals nearly had a punch up, but that was down to Gil who has spent far too long in Canada. But no one actually hit anyone.  The women stepped in.

Shades of past lives. Gil grew up here before his parents moved to Paris and then Gil to Canada, so I think he feels a bit out of the loop since most of us Anglais have live here longer than him. And his mother owns the house he now lives in.

Alain, who has never been even remotely unpleasant to anyone, and has lived here for all of his life, was the one who took the flack. But you need to know a bit about the history of these families and the fact that Alain’s grandfather owned all of the land around here once upon a time.  Perhaps a bit of snark.

I live in the house of Alain’s grandfather.  The house that began the Hamlet.  My privilege.  My house hasn’t changed much since then. It is still a hovel. But I like it.  Although I did get around to tiling the dirt floor, albeit not much else.

These people are so nice to me, although I doubt that they know who I am.  I suspect sometimes that they wish they hadn’t sold this house.  It is far better than their New Builds, on land that he gave them.  But I now own their heritage.  I live in peace in a house that they thought wasn’t worth having.  I am just sad for them.  They did have happy times in my house because they told me so.

Actually, they probably think that I am crackers.  For twenty five years I have lived here in the house of their grandfather.  The pleasure has always been mine.

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Right. Nothing to say.

Okay.  I have absolutely nothing to say.  And if you believe that then I have just ceased to exist.

But you might not like what I have to say.  More to the point, I might not like what I have to say.

No, not tonight.  I won’t be baring my soul.

A disaster as a parent?  Who?  Me?  Certainly not.  Who are these persons?  They were my sons before they took wives.  After that it was all downhill.

A disaster as a Grandmother?  I don’t even know who they are, although I could probably recall their names if pushed.  I stayed out of the fight, you see.  Being the Mother of three boys doesn’t bring much to the table.  My sons ceased to be mine a very long time ago.

No, I don’t mind all that much.  I could tell Lewis not to become a Policeman, but only because he is too much of his own person..  Oliver met this crackers lady who loves him to bits, but then sweet Oliver is far to kind for his own good.

I have no conception of Daniel other than he gets a bit upset about his mother when she is being a bit too fucking perfect, yet again.  His sister Gemma is lost to me.  But I might send her an email in a minute.  Hers is the only email address that I have.

Elijah is probably the kindest of them all, but then he has no real sense self worth.

Lilijah?  I know nothing of her.  Maybe one day.

Cats, Dogs, Husbands.

Cats, Dogs or Husbands?

Sadly, not a lot to be said for any of them.  They all need housing and feeding, and that’s about it.  But perhaps I have always been on the worse end of this.  Heaven knows why.  I have never managed to work that one out.

I did have one glorious Cat and one glorious Dog, but even they needed feeding.  I never did have even one glorious Husband.  How sad is that?

They are all dead now, which is probably a good thing.  I have no intention of dying any time soon.

Meanwhile, the ghastly Charlotte, horrible smelly Pug Dog, is looking like outliving even me.  And she doesn’t even like me.  Feed her?  Sheesh, the amount of time and money I spend is no odds to anyone.

I am the Animal Lover Incarnate., and I finished up with this?

What did I do, God?  Tell me it’s a joke.

Cars.

France.  Don’t you just love it. Rhetorical Question.

My old van blew up five weeks ago.  Oh My God, my son needs transport to get to work.  More to point  I need transport for him to get to work.  Can’t have him sitting around pleading No Transport.  So I agreed to hire a car while the garage sorted the new second hand car I had agreed to purchase.  My son’s mother knows her son better than he thinks she does

Five weeks later I am having a nervous breakdown at the thought of the cost.  Until I discovered that the hired car came gratuit.  What?  Okay, lovely, merci beaucoup.  Phew.

But what to do with the blown up old van?  That’s going to cost a few bob to get rid of.   It’s a pile of  clapped out old rubbish, albeit good stuff in it’s day.  But, Oh really. No chance.  The garage owner came and uplifted it on to a loader this evening.  For Free.  “C’est normal, Madame”.  Now this is real honour.  Something that Brits don’t know too much about these days.  Even I after all these years thought that I would have to pay.

Mind you, I won’t stray far from this fold in future, but then I haven’t for quite a while.  Maybe this had something to do with it.,

The owner of the garage thinks that I am quite mad.  I can tell by the way in which he looks at me.  But he is much too polite to say so.  I might have fancied him if I was thirty years younger

Rainy Days.

I am finally having a new roof put on my house next door.  Only my youngest son lives there, although there is room enough for the rest of the family.

10,000 Euros.  Ouch.  It took me a very long time to save this money.  But then this is what Rainy Days are all about.  It just smarts a bit when you actually have to spend it.

Incidentally it is being done by Eric, a Jehova’s Witness who just happens to be a friend.  He doesn’t work every day because his wife has just had an operation for cancer, performed by a hospital in Vannes who adhere to the laws of Jehova’s Witnesses when it comes to blood transfusions.  The operation appears to have been a success.  I do hope so.  I had no idea that they could do this.

However, several people around here are really impressed by the quality of Eric’s work, so more work for Eric is already looming.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.  Their God might not be quite the same as mine.  I don’t really know, and have no real desire to find out.  Eric never tries to impose his ideas on me.

I did say a few Hail Mary’s for Laura.  I do this when circumstances are dire, and I suspect that it helps me more than those for whom I say them.

Please be well, Laura.

Albert.

Something triggered my memory of Albert today.  What it was is not important.  But I do know that this is going to get a bit convoluted.

Albert was the second husband of my Mother in Law from Hell, although, in fact, she wasn’t that bad.  Just a Yorkshire woman.  And how she acquire Albert is probably best not gone into.  I was a Londoner.  No contest.  All London women are tarts, and I was after her lovely boy, so we never did get off to a good start.

Both of our houses had Outside Lavatories in those days, although at least mine was in our garden.  Their’s was down the road a bit and involved falling over dustbins on the way,  in the dark.  Shock, horror.  What a turn up that was.  Find the Lavatory was the funniest bit.  Mucky Hunslet, if anyone can remember that.  Keith Waterhouse knew because he was born there.

The fact that I was a Wren Air Mechanic didn’t actually wash, although I thought I was the bees bloody knees in those days.  And I was.

But then came Albert.  A Yorkshire Miner, who survived most of the ills of coal mining.  But such a kind man he was to me.  I was always Thee and Thou to him.  I still miss the importance of the personal.

He once slipped me a couple of bob to buy new shoes for my eldest son when his step son was being particularly parsimonious yet again.  I only bought Startrite Shoes in those days, which weren’t actually cheap, but Albert knew the cost.  He would sometimes put his arm around me and tell me that things would be, ” All rite, our Lass”.  He knew who I was.

I am so sorry that I never told him.  I never so much as invited him to my Wedding, because I didn’t know that he even existed.

I did say that this would get a bit convoluted.  My future husband did not want his mother invited to our wedding, but I wasn’t having that, so I invited her anyway, and  she duly turned up.  But I didn’t know about Albert.  I am so sorry for that.  That could have been the unkindest cut of all.  But it didn’t stop Albert from being kind to me.

Actually, the whole thing was a horror story.  My husband’s sister hated her mother, and they were both there, on opposite sides of this very little room in a house that was no better or worse than they knew off.  Billy and I were two of a kind.  Just from different Counties, of which I knew nothing.  I thought that The Navy would tide us through.  But it didn’t.  I was Fleet Air Arm and he was General Service.  Both of which needed each other.  Sadly, Billy couldn’t handle that I was a person in my own right, and nor did I for a while.

I don’t actually know if I got there in the end.  It no longer matters.

But once upon a time a very ordinary Miner was very kind to me.

Bonsoir, Albert.  I remember you.

Banque Alimentaire

I went to The Food Bank again today.  I say that I went, but in fact I was taken.  The bloody car wouldn’t start, probably because it was bloody freezing.  And I mean really, really freezing.  But who can afford to miss The Food Bank?

However, a lady who lives just up the road from me,. purely by chance, also happens to go.  So I went begging for a lift with my totally inadequate French.  I din’t even get out half a sentence, that I had spent half an hour preparing.  She knew what was wrong the minute I knocked on her door

She picked me up after she collected two other people.  Fabienne can’t afford new tyres, and Correlais doesn’t have a car at all, at all.  So we all swanned along together.  What a laugh..

One of the ladies who dolls out the food, knew almost before I did, just how I had gotten there.  Although how she found out that my crap heap of a van wouldn’t start is still a bit of a mystery.  But her grandson probably owns the local garage.   He’s been hovering  for a minute or ten because he knows that my van has nearly had it.  He sold me this one in the first place, although no complaints on that score.  It’s been a really good, old van.  Old being the operative word.  So I will go to him on the next occasion.

“Occasion” means Second Hand in French.  Roll on the next Occasion.  I am being a bit silly at the moment, hoping that it will carry on for a bit yet, which it might, or might not.  But as long as I have got a lift to The Food Bank, who cares.

However, Number Three Son needs a car to work, so we are negotiating at the moment.  Although this is a negotiation that I can’t win.  He needs to work.  Forget that one.  I need him to work.  And he can’t afford to buy a car, while I can.  Courtesy of what I have save by going to The Food Bank.  Swings and Roundabouts, you see.

Anyway, we all picked up our not ungenerous hand outs, and then stopped off at Carrefour on the way home.  We all bought Dog Food, Cat Food and Bird Seed, and that was it.  The Food Bank doesn’t give you these things.  Occasionally they dish out some really crappy fish, which you probably wouldn’t feed to your dog, `but Charlotte loves it. None of that crap today, so I had to buy Dog Food.  As did everyone else.

All in all, another nice day.  These people are so kind to me.  I cannot even begin to tell you all about that.  I doubt that I will ever forget.

Le Soir de Noel

And here we are again.

The Duck is definitely fucked,  Sorry sorry.  Definitely stuffed.

I quite by accident bought a duck that is or was the product of  that liver thing that the French do.  And No, I don’t want to talk about that.  I doubt that they suffer.  Okay.

Anyway, this Duck is awfully big, presumably after they extracted the vey large liver, and overfed the whole thing.

I stuffed the cavity with my own recipe that I will never be able to reproduce because I was a bit pissed by the time I got round to it, and can’t actually remember anyway.  But I did put in a large dollop of Quince Jam.  Don’t ask.  I made that myself.  And anyone who has the time and patience to make Quince Jam needs to get a life

My Number Three Son is now laid out on the floor, absolutely comatosed.  They don’t have the same stamina these days, do they?  They all fall over after a couple of glasses of wine.  God help me of the number of times that I produced a half decent Christmas Dinner when I was  bit plonked..

But all is well.  Tis Christmas, and of some joy to me.

Happy Birthday.

 

Christ Mass.

I wonder if this has anything to do with anything anymore.

I have briefly lost track of who I am, and of who I thought I was.  And just before Christmas.

My youngest son who is now 51 years old, and technically a bastard, has now decided to give me a hard time, despite being well loved for all of his life by me.

Sadly for him there is nothing that I can do.  I loved his father, but his father didn’t have quite the same commitment to me, for him.

I behaved very badly 51 years ago, so the fault will always be mine.  But I can’t say that I am having a really bad time about this, because he is mine, and would not even exist if I hadn’t.

His father was my Coup de Foudre, the loss of which will live with me forever.

I hope to believe that Mary might have been so fortunate.

Another Cat.

I seem to have acquired a Cat.  I only realised this initially when human food started to disappear from my kitchen work top, although I did briefly assume that I was having a few senior moments.

I knew it couldn’t be the dog because she is much too little.  What a relief that was.  All of my other dogs would steal anything.  So I got out of the habit of never leaving anything lying around.

And then I caught him slinking off after pulling two ghastly  French type sausages onto the floor.  Him and the dog were both tucking in.  I call him a He, probably because I can’t face the prospect of a bunch of abandoned kittens.  And it has been three months now.

I gave in eventually and bought Cat Food.  I ever was a sucker for a starving cat.  But he is a teensy bit fussy.  He much prefers those little packets of meat in jelly, and not overly keen on the dried stuff.  This suggest a level of intelligence because dried food isn’t vey good for any animal.  Wet food is also better for hiding Worm Pills, although he sometimes spits these out.  This means that I have to dose him two days on the trot.  Not all that funny with the price of Worm Pills these days.

Nowadays he sneaks in when he thinks the house is empty, or I have gone to bed.  I find him sleeping on my desk chair cushion, which I have incidentally covered with Flea Powder.  But he is instantly awake when I get up in the morning, and he then slides off.

I have a Dog Flap, so no chance of keeping him out, even if I wanted to.

I think he has inherited the Siamese strain which lurks in all of the stray cats around here.  Far too many of them, as it happens.  He is white with very pale grey ears and tail, and with a permanent anxious look about him.  I don’t know what colour his eyes are as I have never gotten that close.

I suppose that he might settle one day, but it doesn’t really matter if he doesn’t.  He knows where his food is, and with Winter coming he isn’t forced to sleep outside.

But what I find most strange is that he isn’t even remotely bothered about the dog, and shares his ill gotten gains with her.  And she doesn’t care because she has now got a partner in crime.

Must go now as it is time to feed the two stray kittens at my neighbour’s house across the road. Their mother seems to be missing some of the time, so probably off somewhere getting up the duff again.  Won’t that be fun.  My neighbours are in England at the moment, and I get paid for my efforts while they are away in English Tea Bags.  Win win all round.