Notre Dame.

I was completely unaware of what Notre Dame meant to me, until I saw it burning.  But nothing much to do with a God, just such glorious architecture that is centuries old.

But the people who built it obviously did believe in God.  Two Hundred years it took to build.

I was totally in awe of The Musical, Notre Dame de Paris.  The music is splendid and the story was in itself sad.  It never quite jelled in English, but then English is not a particularly elegant language, while the French Language ever is.  I missed the sound of it around me quite dreadfully on the rare occasions that I used to visit  England.

I have never seen Notre Dame, and I almost certainly won’t now.  It will take too long to rebuild it.  But I bet they will.

I am also a bit sad that I never did The Camino de St. Iago de Compostela.  But then regrets are usually about things you thought of doing and never did.

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My Plum Tree.

I thought that I had better do this while it is still relevant.  It probably won’t be tomorrow.

I bought this Plum Tree Sapling about ten years ago.  I like Plums, which is more than I can say about most fruit.  Since when I have had One Plum for about five minutes.  But yesterday I found about a dozen.  Robin Dominic, who has better eyesight than mine says that there are Hundreds.  I suspect that this is an exaggeration, but even a couple of dozen would be good.  They are the size of a very minuscule Petit Pois at the moment.

I have Googled a bit, and pruned this useless article at the right time of year.  I have even threatened it with becoming fire wood.  But last year I simple couldn’t be bothered, so I ignored it.  I didn’t even speak to it, even when it burst into bloom.  Again.  It does that with monotonous regularity, but I didn’t buy it for it’s flowers.  It said, “Plum Tree” on the packet.  That’s what I wanted.  Plums.

No, I don’t spend a lot of time talking to plants.  My neighbours already think that I have lost my marbles.

My very old Fig Tree in a pot has got Seven Figs, but then it had Seven Figs last year, and they all dropped off as well, so I am not clinging to success on that one either.

This will probably all be Rien de Tout again.  A situation with which I am not unfamiliar.

Spring.

Spring at last, I think. But you never can tell around here. It could be minus 10 degrees again in a minute.

That ghastly weed called Wisteria is showing signs of how particularly glorious it is going to be this year, for about three weeks, after which it will turn my garden into a hair grabbing, boring jungle. But this is a bad sign because a late frost will kill the flower buds. And then what? Rien de tout. That’s what.
Four of them actually. I grew them all from seed some time ago when time didn’t matter. They take on average about six or seven years from seed to flower, or at least mine did. Please God, may I have the full glory this year?

I have planted some Broad Bean seedlings, slugs don’t like Broad Beans. Although if previous experience is anything to go by I will only get enough Beans to grow them again next year. I love Broad Beans, but I have forgotten what they taste like now. The French aren’t into Broad Beans.

I wait with bated breath for Lovely Linda to give me some Tomato Plants again. I don’t know what she does, but her plants are always good. Mine degenerate into Tomato Blight just as the wretched Tomatoes are about to ripen. But if you catch them quick enough you can have a lot of Green Tomato Chutney. I’ve got a lot of that in store.

Also planted some saved Butter Nut Squash seeds from last year. I managed to grow two of those last year. God knows why. I don’t even like them all that much.

I am currently sending out air thoughts to my French neighbours who gave me so much last year. Heavy on the Italian Tomatoes and light on the Marrows, s’il vous plait. The Italian Tomato Sauce I made last year and stored in metal capped Mayonnaise Jars is still good, probably something to do with the Basil and a touch of Vinegar on top. Nope, I am useless at growing Basil. I look at it and it dies, so I shall have to buy that.

No Apples, please God. Apple Chutney is now frightfully passé. Got enough of that to stock a Chutney Shop or ten.

I might try English Runner Beans again. I loathe French Beans with a passion. But this will necessitate creeping around the garden every night at dusk to catch The Slugs. No, I never kill them by any means. Everything has a right to live.
Sadly, I can’t throw them over the garden wall anymore because I have neighbours there now, and they might catch me at it. Although I didn’t feel particularly guilty about it in the past because I have chucked over a couple or three Hedgehogs in my time.
Yes, I do like Hedgehogs. But I didn’t like The Fleas when the dog brought the Hedgehogs into the house. You haven’t lived until you have been bitten by a Hedgehog Flea. I was on hefty pain killers for a week.
So what shall I do with The Slugs?
Bucket and Chuck It in the nearest field, peut etre. Making allowances for the tenacity of the Bastard Stephen the Slug who always finds his way back. He likes it here. A bit like the cat. Yes, Mate. I know it’s you again. You ever were a Slug.

To finish on a more positive note, please God, may I have a Wasps Nest again? Wasps are my most favourite creatures.

Thank You, God, in advance.

Je ne pas.

People were passing kind but not all that interested, so I had a few years in the wilderness. I did get introduced to Chicken Sheds when it became obvious that I needed to earn money, but that was some sort of fun, once I overcame the smell, and getting up in the middle of the night. They clear Chicken Sheds in the middle of the night, so as to not upset the chickens too much. Not that it makes much difference. The Chickens don’t have far to run. And the only question is how many chickens in each hand. This is not difficult. Combien? Usually four in one hand and four in the other, depending in the average size of the chickens. You slot the chicken’s leg between your fingers, and chuck, sorry, place then in a crate. It is not good practice to damage the chicken for resale purposes. Bugger the chickens.

Things are different now, although not that much. There are two other English families living in Lann Georges these days, Both in houses that have long been here, so I have seen some comings and goings.
OMG, we don’t have a Bar or a Bakery anymore. But our Chateau remains resplendent. And much loved.

The Chatelaine is a sucker for stray cats, which I feed when she can’t be here. But that’s okay because they are nice cats. Although I did lose one last week. Dead on that awful road. 70 kph through Lann Georges? Are they mad or what? You can’t do 70 kph anywhere these days. Except through Lann Georges. I might make a fuss in a minute, but I doubt that my French is good enough.

God knows why my horrible cat is still alive. I have buried three cats to that road over the years, so this one is not getting a name. I didn’t want her and I didn’t ask for her and she just turned up on my bed one night. She only wants to eat Dog Food, and chases mice around my bedroom in the middle of the bloody night. But she likes it here. So that’s it I guess. Yes, I did have her seen to, but only because I couldn’t face a litter of kittens on my bed. I have never had a female cat before for precisely that reason. I have never had a male cat castrated. Frightfully male orientated is my world.

My neighbours will be back from Angleterre on Wednesday which I am so looking forward to. Lann Georges will be complete for a while.

The other two of us families have survived the Winter. But Lann Georges will always go on. Such a lovely place it is.

Rein de Tout

Sitting here, bored out of my mind, and wondering what to do.  This Blog is probably going no where fast.

Robin Dominic bought a new lawn mower today.  500 Euros, so not a lot.  Been there and done that, several times.  But the first time is always the best if you like machinery as much as I do.  You have to be a bit weird if you do.

And then Connor pissed on the floor.  So I shouted at him.  “This is a disgrace.  You think I am stupid?”  He ran off and hid.  So I followed him.  “What do you think that was?  You think that’s okay you little horror?”  He is still in hiding.  “Okay pissypoos, you are now in serious trouble, so watch out.”

What a hoot.  Will it work?  Who knows.  But he certainly didn’t like my tone.  So on the next occasion I will really shriek.

Can’t Remember.

Argumentative.

Robin Dominic has been to another French English Soiree tonight.  I decided not to go, although I would have been welcomed.  I simply can’t handle small talk.  I don’t have any.  And so I nearly die of boredom.

Anyway, apparently there was a bit of an argument about the dregs of society.  Such a waste of space they are.  Ban them, or something,  Although no one seems to know quite how to do this.  These people all work hard and aren’t short of a few bob so why should they support the dregs.

They fail to see that this is what Society means.  It shouldn’t be personal.  It is just Society.  We are responsible for all, whether we like it or not..

But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  Dom went in there with both feet flying.  He hasn’t yet learned to temper his arguments, and so he offends.  I have  been there and done that many times a very long time ago.  So he came home a bit bruised, having had the kindest of intentions.

Me?  Given a good adversary, I can argue black is white, and prove it.  People like me don’t get offended.  But there aren’t too many of us around.  I hope he learned something tonight.  If he wants an argument, and there is nothing wrong with that, then he needs to be a bit more careful of whom he chooses to argue with.

It is probably a good job that I wasn’t there.  Who knows whose side I might have come down on.  He is now the smart arse his mother thought she was thirty years ago.

Live long and prosper.  And try to be kind to those who appear to least deserve it.  There but for the grace of God.

 

Demonstrations.

I am not a very demonstrative person, much as I have always hoped to be.  Maybe I was once upon a time, and got slapped down too often.  I can barely remember.  But I do remember one time when Daddy was briefly home from The War and I nearly hugged him to death.  I think I was about four years old at the time.  So the ability was there once upon a time.

Anyway, such reactions long ago deserted me.  I want to, but I simply can’t.  Probably for fear of making a fool of myself.  Much later I once kissed a female friend who I hadn’t see for a long time, and was so pleased to see, but she was embarrassed and made a silly remark about women kissing.  That just about put the tin hat on that sort of behaviour.

This inability has coloured all of my relationships with men and women.  I even find it difficult to tell someone that I like and admire them, which I so often do, but can’t say.

I never cry.  That would be a ridiculous waste of time.  And all of my children can spot the possible even happy onset of such an emotion, and tell me not to be silly.  Have I somehow deprived them of being able to be spontaneous?

My paternal grandmother was half Italian, and oh my God, she couldn’t half cry.  I can only remember her crying.  I didn’t know if she was happy or sad.  She just cried a lot.

The rest of my family were Celts to the core.  No bloody crying going on there.  What! Certainly not.  Just get on with it all.

But the sorrow of my inability always lives with me.

 

Spirituality.

Now there’s a thing, especially as I have no real idea of what it means.

Do I want a life after death?  Probably not.  I don’t suppose that I would make a better one of that than I am doing of this one.

My main problem has always been The Sin of Pride.  Such an easy one to fall into.  I am kind so therefor I am good.  This thinking doesn’t make allowances for the fact that some of us are just born that way.  And it doesn’t make people who aren’t born that way necessarily bad.  They just don’t know how  to be different.  There you go.  Sin of Pride number one in this missive.

Perhaps I was just more fortunate.  Sin of Pride number two.  It’s a minefield, believe me.

Every bloody thing is a Sin of Pride, so it’s not my fault.  Sin of Pride number three.

My thoughts on the subject have absolutely nothing to do with God.  You don’t need God to tell you.  Whoops.  Sin of Pride number four.

You are all probably wondering by now for why I bother castigate myself.  I don’t know either.  This is almost certainly not a Sin of Pride.  So there goes another one.  If you see what I mean.

Sorry about that.  Just a passing fancy.

 

Winter.

Okay God.  That’s it.  Joke over.  I have had enough of being cold and wet and depressed, and of sleeping for ten hours a night because I can’t think of anything better to do.

I have cut up six boxes of kindling from the Wisteria rubbish, when it wasn’t actually pissing down, mainly because it makes me feel useful and helps to get rid of it all.  I expect I will be pleased about this next Winter.  And let’s face it, I amn’t much good for anything else these days.  Old age ain’t much fun when your bones ache from the damp.

Connor thinks it is a huge laugh and tries to wrestle long strands of it away from me when he isn’t actually tearing it to bits himself, so I spend more time retrieving it from all corners of the garden.  Must try to teach him something about Feet and Inches.  I do talk to him you know.  I say, “Look, you little swine.  I need it this length.  And if you could put it in the box, that would be good.”  Perhaps I need to say it in French, but I shall have to Google Translate that.  And then my neighbour will be certain sure that I have gone mad.  And probably report me to The SPA for animal abuse.

Yesterday, Robin Dominic and I went to Languidic to look at Lawn Mowers.  No, I don’t need to look at Lawn Mowers.  Languidic is only about twenty miles away, but  after we had completely circumnavigated the entire County of La Morbihan, due to Robin’s idea of a short cut, we finally staggered home about three hours later.  Getting home was easier than getting there.  La Morbihan isn’t hot on sign posts.  I swear to God we went through one village at least three time.  But it’s hard to tell since they all look the same.

I gave up short cuts around here many years ago.  You always finish up in some God forsaken place you have never heard of, and didn’t want to anyway.  I mean, who would want to go to Kervagio?  Six houses, a massive great Church, a Car Park and three Bars, all closed, incidentally, which isn’t all that surprising.

So, today I am going to sweep the floor of wood chipping, again.  I ought to do some dusting but I can’t be arsed.  It will all be the same tomorrow.  Bonne Chance.