To Whom?

Who is it that reads my Blog? They never actually say anything, but I know that some few people do. Well, about ten people a day, most days, although that is hardly seismic.

Do they think it is absolute rubbish. Or do they think that I might have a point? Not that it matters. I Blog for me and my ability to put words on paper.

And maybe some other ghastly working class woman will try to do the same. I have never had any allusions about me. I have always known who I am. Much as I might have preferred otherwise. I just learned how to use words for my pleasure.

Brussels.

What a horror story. They change with the wind and never actually get elected. But all too often Germans. That bunch who got beaten after slaughtering six million jews. Although perhaps some of you don’t remember that.

Yes, it is embedded in my psyche. I was eight years old when I discovered this and I don’t feel any less horror now.

I was required to watch this as a school child, while that particular German generation were not. Much too distressing for them, no doubt. And so they continue to pretend that it was just a minor aberration.

No, I won’t ever get over this. I lived my first years of life of a War in London. Constant bombing and fear. This is a terrible thing to do to a small child in pursuit of annihilating an entire race. And make no mistake. That was what it was all about.

So they lost. Or did they? I was still going hungry while recourses were being poured into Germany.

But don’t worry about it. I will likely be dead in another twenty odd years and then everyone can forget that it ever happened.

What?

I wrote this ghastly diatribe to my eldest two children today. And then I sent it. God forbid. But who can care when push comes to shove. It was true according to how I feel. Which I have never been very good at expressing. Take the blame and then shut up. Don’t pass the buck. It was all my fault.

But it wasn’t. Well, some of it probably, but not entirely. And I am certainly not going to bore the life out of anyone with the details.

However, have you ever heard of Mucky Hunslet? It was a horror story to some not so very gently born people like me. it was seriously fucking awful. Lavatory in your garden? No chance. The Communal Lavatory was down the road a bit, presuming, that you could find your way in the dark. What a laugh that was not..

But Mucky Hunslet was Community. And long gone now. Sad to say. Kieth Warterhouse was born there and he knew what it was. Mucky Hunslet was a good place.

But I am currently more interested in my Septic Tank which is no odds to anyone other than Brussels.

I have been ordered to get it emptied. Does it need to be emptied? Almost certainly not. And I would know if it did. You don’t live on top of a septic tank for thirty years without knowing if it isn’t behaving itself.

But never mind. Just get it sucked out and then get on with it all until the next time they have nothing better to do than harass me.

I

Lann Georges

Today I am feeling happy, happy, happy, for the first time in months.  Full Moon is passed, which helps.  But that’s not it.

Yesterday I met one of the grandsons of the man who bought this house around about 1947, but the date is a bit of a guess.  
Startlingly he has the same visage as both of two other grandchildren of this man who inherited it from his only daughter.  I bought the house from them in 1992.  I would have known who he was immediately.  But that’s not it either.

Bad French notwithstanding we did manage to have a chat.  Although I didn’t ask enough questions, but never mind.

He told me that I live in a good place, that I don’t look 82 years old and that I would certainly live to be at least 100.  I knew all of this anyway but I had somehow lost the plot with all of this Covid stuff.  I didn’t solicit any of this.  He just said it.  So I suddenly rediscovered Hope.  And goodness me, did I ever need it.  Perhaps he could tell just by looking at me.  It will be a very long time before I forget him.

So many of us lost hope by having our possible mortality thrust upon us and we really do need to go back to being who we were and will be again.

Doors.

Three New Doors I got today. And what a revelation that was. I have never seen such superb workmanship before. And that was just the installing of them. The Doors themselves are bloody lovely.

After long hours of discussion about this and that and what price anyway, I got to choose. But since I was always going to be paying the bill, why should I not?

But this sort of thing can always be a bit of a chance. Although quite possibly not in Brittany.

At the time of discussing this my French as ever was not all that good, but I have got exactly what I wanted. Despite everyone telling me that I didn’t know what on earth I was talking about.

I now have three really lovely new doors that look nearly as good as they would have done 100 odd years ago. Which is what it was all about for me. I never wanted to change the face of my old house.

And such power to the man who knew how to do this. I am incapable of telling him of what it means to me.

Meanwhile the ghastly Dachshund nearly had a fit and tried to beat up the new door. No, I mean really. O’Connor got really upset and growled at The Door over and over? I have told him that it’s really okay and I sat on the floor with him to make him feel better. Yep. I am nearly as daft as he is. Poor little boy. He didn’t understand the smell of a new door or even what it looks like. But even that was a revelation. There are more things in life, Horatio. That dreadful little dog has taught me a thing or two.

The new door of my house is exactly what I wanted. It is North facing and not much to be done about that beyond a big window and an opening. I have no idea for why this house was built facing North when I get no natural light from the South. So it has always been a bit of a battle to get some light into here. 30 years and six and a half thousand Euros later I might have half managed it. But only half. The house is as it is. Like I said there is always something to be said for Dirt Floors. And O’Connor got a bit upset.

I have just seen the very best of Breton workmanship that anyone is ever likely to see.

1966.

What a year that was. England won The World Cup. Or did they?

I don’t actually know because I swanned off to Singapore in support of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, hard though it was. I mean, who in their right mind would choose to do this? The Tropics, eh what. Servants and all that rubbish. But the heat was a bit dire. And the children were frightfully boring, especially the baby. Dear of him. He couldn’t speak a word of English by the time I got him foisted back onto poor old me. He still has a bit of trouble with English despite being 54 years old now. But he is a Singapore Citizen. Such a pity he didn’t join the Singapore Army. He would probably be a General by now.

But then I didn’t choose. I just did as I was told. I went and then I came back. Coming back was the bad bit. I will certainly never recover.

The Table.

Sorry, I have gotten a bit carried away. Words you see.

I found this table in a shed somewhere many years ago. I don’t know if it is Oak or Mahogany or if I really care. It is round and actually has signs in the wood of my children doing their Homework. I gave it to my Number One Son once upon a time. But fortunately he didn’t want it so he gave it back to me.

Five decades on the feet have been chewed nearly into indistinction. Every dog I have ever owned had a chew at them. Although funnily enough never O’Connor. Not that I would have minded if he had. I was past caring about this little shit by then. Come and chew the table feet for Christ’s sake, instead of digging up my lovely garden.

It never colours you see. Put a hot cup on it and the mark is brief and then gone tomorrow. There actually isn’t anything anyone could do to spoil this table.

It is normally covered in family rubbish. But just for today it wasn’t. And such a pleasure that was to see.

Glen Bogle.

Oh Joy. In the middle of watching any old rubbish I somehow managed to trip over Monarch of The Glen. That’s Big Eric, by the way. The actual Monarch of The Glen. He eventually did a bit too much rutting. But then don’t they all.

All frightfully Scottish of course, but of much delight to me. My love of Scotland started in Glasgow, grimey old City, but it was real. Real people who were proud to be Glaswegians. Even if they were a a few bob short of a shilling on a Saturday Night.

My love spread outwards and upwards after that. And so began my passion for The Highlands and history as well if you like. Shit, they haven’t half got some history.

I am an Irish Mitchell, but my Clan MacDonnell has the largest grave at Culloden. It is really, really big. Twice the size of the Campbell Traitors. Good one, eh what. Or is it?

There is obviously not a lot to be said for The Mitchells beyond honour and glory, which is possibly why the females of the Clan survived for as long as I have. Honour and glory are all very well, but I would rather have stab them in the back when they weren’t watching. Horses for courses, I say. Better still, don’t take me on in the first place.

But if you want a bit of the glory take a passing glance at The Highlands. And not necessarily Fort William, although I did once nearly climb Ben Nevis. I packed my hand in when I ran out of oxygen half way up.

Coming back down was far harder than going up. I sat there and looked down. And nearly died of terror.

This is my testimony to Scotland. I wish that I lived there, but the price of any sort of hovel got beyond me. Which is why I live in a hovel in Brittany.. All Celts you see.

Monarch of The Glen can be found on Best Series. me.

A Bit Awful.

I am going through another dark side of the night. I do this from time to time, but I largely don’t talk about it.

Maybe perhaps I should.

I have never been one to talk about this shit. I am your ultimate coper. So I pull the duvet over my head and sleep too much. And then come back fighting again.

Tis Full Moon again shortly. But there you go. In the meantime you will have to forgive me.

.

The Republic of Great Britain.

Don’t do it.  Trust me, you wouldn’t like it.  Not that I’ve got anything against Republics.  I have lived in one of those for a very long and it has been very good to me over the years.  But when a country bumps off it’s entire Royal Family wholesale there isn’t very much else to do so France had to pull itself together eventually.

 However, you wouldn’t have believed some of the Presidents I have seen, literally I mean.  But I won’t go into that because it all could be a bit Libellous and I don’t want to get thrown out.

And never forget Charles the First.  Cromwell wasn’t a good idea.  It didn’t go well, what with Witch Finders an all.  Cromwell nearly went to America you know.  I’ve always thought it was a pity that he didn’t.  Instead he stayed to save England and made a right mess of of it, only to bring back Charles the Second who was a right pillock due to him not being brought up to be King and possibly drinking a bit too much.

Meanwhile, America made a right mess of itself anyway.

My advice is stick with the distinct possibility of King Charles the Third, but not just yet.  He might seem to be a bit loopy but he isn’t entirely stupid.  Although I have heard that he might call himself something else, not wanting to be a candidate for head toppling or seen as drinking too much of The Duchy of Cornwall’s rhubarb wine.

In the meantime.  Long Live The Queen.  The women were always better at it.