My Garden Part Three.

The planning and organising is more or less done now and my OCD is doing okay.

The three Baby Trees are all fine. The English Runner Beans are planted. And The Snap Dragons are scattered, although in a thoroughly organised pattern. HA! We shall see. Getting a garden to do as you please is not easy.

The Roses have gone berserk, mainly due to Bob Flowerdew’s Hack Them Down Philosophy. I have more Rose Buds than ever before in my thirty long years. I brought most of them with me, so that’s how long Roses can last, so far. They were mostly presents from my children and I just couldn’t leave those behind. Thanks, Fellers. Panic stricken as I was at the time I still remembered your Roses.

O’Connor The Adored is still looking at the outside world through what he perceives to be a window. No one in their right mind jumps through a window, he thinks, I think. He isn’t a stupid dog, but I can only guess at his idea of windows. I shall worry more about it come Autumn when the door will have to be closed.

Full Moon is galloping towards me again and none of the Black Grapes I can buy have got Pips. This isn’t helping. I mean, what is the point of a Grape without Pips? This is insanity which isn’t helping my temporary insanity of the “We are all going to die” variety. This will pass as it always does, but what am I going to do for the next five days? A five day alcohol binge is looking good. Nope, Wine doesn’t help and I can’t stand Wine anyway. Pass The Rum Bottle. White Rum is very cheap here due to The French Colonies and at least Rum staves off my occasionally aching shoulder, which has got to be better than Pill Popping. Fortunately, I don’t have to do this all that often.

Today I am going to clean The Microwave and The Disgusting Cooker, but it won’t make me feel any better. After that it’s back to Wire in The Blood on Pirate Television. And feeding my neighbour’s Cat as they are off back to Angleterre. I have to do that. The Cat doesn’t know. She just wants her dinner.

Why is it that The Moon which totally fascinates me makes me feel so awful when it is at it’s zenith?

Phew.

Just done The Front Step. Loads of weed filled Pots. Really hard work. Well, I didn’t actually do anything myself other than direct operations. Robin Dominic did everything. But it was hard work watching him. Dear Boy, what would I do without him? He says that I would manage, but I really wouldn’t. And now it all looks cared for again, although not for long I don’t suppose.

However, I am being taken out to Dinner tonight. It is my Birthday. How old I am today isn’t very interesting, so I’m not saying. It might be a teensy bit more so in six years time when I hit Ninety. After that it is onwards and upwards to 100 and then Plus. I will beat shit out of the ghastly British State Pension if it kills me. It won’t for a very long time yet. Everyone needs a purpose in life and that’s mine. Meanwhile, The French State takes very good care of me.

The Rotten Little Pisser caught a mouse for me, but he won’t let me have it. I would seriously like to put down Poison. Not possible though. Much too dangerous for the much adored O’Connor. But he did add a couple of extra pees for me to mop up. So at least the floor stays well washed. There is always a silver lining if you look for it.

On this 20th Day of May 2023

My Garden Part Two.

My bad back notwithstanding.

The Little Quince Tree is now ensconced in a very big pot wherein it should be able to stay. A Baby Oak Tree and a Baby Chestnut Tree alongside in two smaller pots, but much bigger than they have been used to for the last seven or eight years. Don’t ask what I am going to do with them because I don’t know. Mayhap somedebody will come along and rescue them one fine day. For me the pleasure is always in the growing of.

I’ve put off planting English Runner Beans until just before next Full Moon. You never can trust the happening of that last frost in May. And of course The Full Moon has to come into this. Transplanting Trees after Full Moon and Planting Seeds just before.

My Roses, having been seriously hacked back this last Winter are showing an abundance of buds. Oh what joy. I shall have sweet smelling roses in the house for all of Summer and still some left in the garden. You can’t be kind to Roses. They don’t appreciate kindness.

The Dog Flap got fitted this morning. Thank you Ms Jégat and for all of my lovely new doors. Not to count the cost of course. The poor dog is totally confused. He can see through it but doesn’t have a clue about what to do with it. He is so used to bombing through a piece of filthy old curtain and a hole in the door that this is all a bit to much for him. I can see that Robin Dominic and I are going to have to kneel one each side of the door and push him through until O’Connor gets the message. Presuming that he ever does. I do hope so. It cost me an extra 150 Euros. Not sure about me kneeling for any length of time. This could get painful.

And after all that my Tax Return looms again. Always worse when just thinking about it. But I do have more money to claim back on that Eco Double Glazing lark. And 30% of knocking on 12,000 Euros isn’t to be ignored, so I could quite possibly motivate myself a bit more quickly than I usually do.

Hasta la Vista, although God knows what that means

My Garden.

I have recently embarked on tidying up what was once my lovely garden before the advent of The Rotten Little Swine, O’Connor, The Dachshund. He has been helping me, as ever. Dear Little Soul. He doesn’t understand, “Bugger Orf.” either.

All of the murderous bits of The Wisterias are now chopped up and bagged up for next year’s kindling. I enjoyed that.

Meanwhile, The Wisterias now have loads of hanging flower buds. The only thing that I look forward to. There’ll be a massive frost in a minute which will put paid to those before they bloom. And then we’ll be back to the murderous, long strangely bits. Why did I grow them? They are the results of The Sin of Pride. I knew I could grow them from seed in half the time Bob Flowerdew said I could. And so I did. Beware The Sins of Pride. They always catch you out.

The rest of the clean up is entirely related to my OCD. Pots for growing vegetables are where I want them to be. The vegetables are another story. They tend to please themselves. But at least the ghastly dog can’t dig them up.

The Hydrangeas are at six foot wall height and they will flower in abundance this year although they might strangle The Roses. But The Roses fight back.

The Plum Tree has been chopped but is sprouting. Who knows, it might even grow a Plum. I threatened it often enough.

I have acquired a very big pot into which I am going to transplant my little Quince Tree, where hopefully it can stay. They grow okay in big pots, apparently. And I don’t have anywhere else to put it. Such a small garden this is.

Vegetable Seeds next week, one week prior to Full Moon. I have no idea if this works but I am ever hopeful. And The Bretons believe it.

I did for a while think that I had lost hope. But obviously I haven’t. It’s just a different kind of hope.

The Banque.

Pronounced Bonk, although nothing to do with that pronunciation in English. I only ever wonder about why I bothered in the first place. Banks and Money are so much more interesting. And I never did gain one single schilling on that front.

So, I turned up at The Bank yesterday morning in a state of nervous hysteria, having got no where on the phone. French Banks do not do nice things to you if you write cheques that you can’t cover, even if you have loads of money in other accounts. You have to sort that. But then neither do I like owing money that I can’t pay immediately. I wouldn’t like it if someone owed me 4,500 Euros. Fair is fair after all.

I was treated with instant kindness and good manners of which I have become accustomed over the years. The whole thing took about ten minutes. Merci Beaucoup, Madame

My Bank Manager hasn’t gone to Reunion so God knows how I got that idea, but they all talk so fast. Michael was there, albeit looking a bit older than on the last occasion that we met, but then so do I. I have known him for so long now and such a nice man he is. I was probably his first English client when The Banque Populaire first came to Baud. He took the time to listen to me when I was having a problem elsewhere and he sorted it for me. Actually, I was a bit pissed at the time although largely to do with stress. And at least I remember being a bit pissed. Such a long time ago.

Robin Dominic says that I will have to get used to Internet Banking. No chance. I’m not having that. They will have to see me out first.

Ms. Jégart of The Excellent Doors will now be paid on demand. And I expect to get a Dog Flap shortly. This is how life works here.

In the meantime, O’Connor is confused. He doesn’t know if he will be locked in or out. Poor little soul. But only one really big pee in the passage by the closed back door last night. Who knows. This could sort his problem. I always have said that the dear little pisser doesn’t understand. Mad or what? I wouldn’t swap him for anything at all. Such joy of life is not to be discarded. Keep it while you can.

Glory Be.

My two new doors have arrived with less than a day’s notice. But you don’t say No to that when you have begun to think that they never will. It has been a year since I ordered them and that alone was traumatic enough. Robin Dominic and I do not always agree on what I want and in a foreign language to boot. Poor Ms. Jégart probably thinks that we are both mad.

But they are bloody lovely and exactly what I wanted. No more chipped paint and no more falling off putty. And the top window opens separately, so no more Wisteria Leaves blowing into my next door kitchen, well, not quite so many anyway.

The Dog Flap hasn’t arrived yet for my passage door, but this was a good thing as I haven’t got The Bill yet and my Bank Manager appears to have bogged off to Reunion. At least, I think that’s what she said. And you don’t keep 4,500 Euros lurking in your Current Account for a year doing nothing. My Bank Manager is such a nice man who I get to see when ever I want to. Providing he isn’t in Reunion of course.

Teaching O’Connor how to get in and out will have to wait for a minute, but stupid he is not. Fortunately Summer is approaching as the door will have to stay open for now. O’Connor likes to go out in the middle of the night to bark at shadows and dig for Badgers. Bugger the neighbours but house walls are thick around here. And who knows, the ghastly dog might even do a pee while he is out there

The workmanship as on the last occasions is superb as is the installation. Perfectly neat and tidy and both doors look as though they have always been there. No mean feat in a very old house that I so desperately don’t want spoil.

This new joy will clear away the cobwebs of Covid Anxiety and keep me going for a while yet.

Long Live Life.

Lann Georges.

The Land of St. George, in English. Who was he I wonder?

Lann Georges is just a Hamlet in Southern Brittany. I don’t know if St. George ever came here.

All of the old stone built houses were built about 130 years ago, mine being one such. I haven’t been able to find out who built it. But I do know of who bought it around 1947. He gave away and sold most of the land to relatives, including two of his grandchildren who still live here. It must have been much the same when he bought it and hasn’t changed a lot since, mainly due to lack of serious money on my part. I did get around to cementing and tiling the old dirt floor, but that’s about it. which is probably why I don’t worry too much when O’Connor forgets where he is and pees in the house. Perhaps he can smell the old dirt floor and equates it with the garden. Dear of him. He is such a bright little boy and so funny. Ha Ha Ha, look at that, he’s peed indoors again.

We still have The Fete de St. Rivalain although nobody has ever heard of him, except around here. You can’t even find St. Rivalain on Google. But he must have existed. The very old church and the shrine say that he did.

Time hasn’t moved on a lot at all. Which is nice. Everyone knows everyone, including me and everyone helps when needed.

I have now lived here for longer than I have ever lived anywhere else. Who’d a thought it when I came here in desperation all those years ago? It has been a good life. Mayhap I was always a peasant.

Phew.

That’s Full Moon over for another three weeks, although not long enough, I have to say.

I bought my usual quota of Black Grapes which seem to help, but No Pips in this last two lots so not a lot of good because it’s The Pips that do it.

Which brings me to wonder what on earth good is a grape that hasn’t got Pips. You can’t grow a Grape Vine without Pips and so they only amount to the end of the line. The sad death of a grape.

I have so far never been tempted to murder anyone, well, at least not often. I just decline into depression for a week and sleep a lot. I do manage to feed the dog, although he has been a bit peculiar this last week, perhaps he’s got it too. But I can’t feed him grapes because they are bad for dogs. Or so I am told. I did once have a Pekinese who stole grapes wholesale and she didn’t die of anything awful, so who can tell?

Now, of course, it is back to minus something or other. Not conducive for anything other than hot water bottles and The Internet in bed.

Robin Dominic has broken down somewhere miles from anywhere, poor little soul. As he waits for the pick up truck. God knows how he will get to work tomorrow. This latest new, second hand car is fast turning into a liability. I might have to buy another one. I shall worry about that later.

I have laid the wood burner in some vain attempt to be useful and dinner is ready to go. However, I wouldn’t want live anywhere else.

Line Dancing.

Yer, I know, but desperation is beginning to set in. And I’ve been watching The Brokenwood Mysteries during forays on to Social Media. Don’t ask why I do this because I don’t know. But it has occurred to me that I would have been quite good at Line Dancing. It’s the beat you see.

So I had a bit of a practice in the kitchen this morning, silly me. The dog went loopy and tried to trip me up. He wants me down on the floor so he can lick my face for the second time in his entire life. Dear of him, but I’m not having that.

And then I got to thinking. Breton Dancing is the same thing although much older. And everyone hangs on to everyone’s arm so they don’t fall over, no matter how drunk they get. And then there’s The Gay Gordons, although nothing Gay about The Gordons, at least, not many of them in my experience. But we won’t go into that.

Not to forget The Floral Dance in Cornwall or The Maori Haka. All Line Dancing of many years gone by. But I did my bit on all fronts when I was young. It is all a glorious get together which will probably never fade away. or at least I hope not.

Join in a Line Dance at your next opportunity. That will be ancient one day. And Dancing is good.

2023 AD.

I have been avoiding this because I can’t cope at the moment, so I pretended that New Year didn’t happen. If in fact it did.

Also, I use the term AD loosely as this was when they nicked my Winter Solstice and set off all of our modern day problems, although hopefully Jesus Christ didn’t have much to do with this. Probably not. But what a horror story it has all turned into. So much for God.

However, since they didn’t write The New Testament until some 300 years after AD, I suspect that opinions may vary.

If you want to read The Old Testament, please do so. It isn’t much fun. Poor Mary, no wonder she didn’t know what was going on what with Soddom and Gomorah and all that.

Joseph? Good man but we never heard much about him therein after. It was all God after that.. Or so they say. But what a rotten thing to do to a Virgin.