O’Connor. Again.

June 10, 2019

Right.  I have more or less recovered from O’Connor’s operation.  Bugger the dog.  Recovering from The Bill will take a bit longer.  I won’t go into too much detail because it involves a lot of shit.  The bottom line seems to be, Don’t give dogs old boots and shoes to chew.  Oh, and grass isn’t good either.  It usually means worms.  I’ve  never heard that one before, and I can’t say that I will be freaking out about that.  I do have to cut the grass, although I am now doing it a bit more regularly to cut down on the excess. My mower is a Mulcher.  I can’t be doing with grass bags, and I don’t know where it s now anyway.

I now spend my days chasing him to see what he has got in his mouth this time.  He knows I am coming and runs like hell.  I have recently recovered a metal shoe buckle and half a black plastic bin liner.  But I am getting good at keeping check of clothes pegs that fall of the washing line.

The “Lawn” is a mess of holes from O’Connor digging for Badgers.  I have told him that there aren’t any, but he doesn’t believe me.  Perhaps I should learn the French for Badger.  But at least he hasn’t tried to dig his way out of the garden.  Yet.

He is a monstrous little swine, but he has grown into his ears now and is really quite beautiful.  He has Snake Eyes, but then I have never been afraid of Snakes.  In fact I like them, so if he thinks he is putting the evil eye on me then he is wasting his time.  Actually, he is just checking to see if I am going to take some new treasure away from him.  Will this ever end?

PS.  The Cat is still in charge.


A Timeless Thing, Made With Love.

June 3, 2019

In the bottom of my Singapore Camphor Wood Chest which was made for me, is a white, pure wool shawl, wrapped in tissue paper which was crocheted by my Step Grandfather for the birth of my first born son. It is still perfect, and quite lovely.
Moths don’t like Camphor Wood.

There was absolutely nothing poncy about Granddad. He worked for all of his life on The Permanent Way. That’s smart speak for Railway Lines. It was hard work and his hands suffered for it. But he turned out some very beautiful things in his quiet moments.

I think it was a measure of his affection for me, and I am so sorry that I never told him so. In fact I wonder if I even realised at the time.

I was never tempted to give it to any of my children for which I am pleased. None of them appear to be any where near as sentimental as I am, so it would probably have disappear off the face of Planet Earth if I had.

These thought have come about by the birth of my Second Great Grandchild. A girl named Lily. Born on the First of June in the Year of Our Lord, 2019. No, I don’t believe in A God as such, but that’s another tale.

Girl Children don’t abound in our family. My Dear Sister has none at all, so another one is a bonus. I’ve got three now. Gemma, Lillijah and Lily. They all look like me, of course. And that’s a good thing. I was surprisingly beautiful in the days when I didn’t know it. But time marches and I am now a wrinkled, old harridan. Still clutching a beautiful shawl that will never age.

Le Fete de Anyone Who Helped at The Pardon Last Year.

June 1, 2019

They must have made a few bob from The Pardon.  The free booze was diabolical, as usual, but the free food was excellent.  And they don’t need much of an excuse to throw a party around here.  Always in the middle of a field not far from home.  But they did cut the grass first.

Same old same old.  We are all a year older and all still pleased to see everyone.  Apart from the odd expats who never help out anywhere, but somehow manage to get wind of. A few of which I have never even set eyes on.  But that is by the by.  Let’s not be mingy about this.  They might help out this year.

The Pardon is an apology to The Saint of each local Church who has been neglected yet again, so we do have quite a lot of them if you want to do the rounds.  My own particular Saint is Saint Rivalain, and No, I have never heard of him either.  But he does have a very nice little church in his name from once upon a time.

I bailed out at four o’clock because I couldn’t cope with any more of the ghastly booze, and so left Robin Dominic to enjoy himself without having to worry about Mummy.  Hell help his hangover tomorrow.


May 18, 2019

O’Connor is now back home after five days in The Dog Hospital.  We still have no idea of what he ate that he shouldn’t have done.  More about that later.

He is wearing a plastic lampshade due to the large sticking plaster covering his stitches.  I wouldn’t put it past him to eat that.

“Keep him calm for the next twelve days.”  Said The Vet.  He took one look at the cat and off he went.

He is now confined to the house unless on a lead, after I wrenched three dead Lizards from his mouth in the space of five minutes.  One of these Lizards was about a foot long and bright green, decidedly poisonous looking.  The cat, I suspect, who is either in collusion, or trying to bump him off.  I am seriously not sure which.  He certainly didn’t catch the dead Birds and dead Mice I have taken away from him recently.

He did seem exceedingly pleased to see us, and is back to the joyful little soul he was.

462 Euros, Merci Beaucoup.  But I did get a free bag of dog food thrown in.  And there is now nothing wrong with his bowl production.  In fact, I have never seen so much shit, me being an expert on this subject.  This one is taking the cake.

Will I survive twelve days of this?


May 13, 2019

O’Connor is at The Vets.  I am strangely distraught.  I don’t know why.  It isn’t me that has been abandoned at The Vets.  Poor little soul.

I won’t bore you all with the throw up details.  He basically ate something he shouldn’t have done.  God knows what.  Many a dead mouse and bird have I retrieved that Connor stole from the cat, or else the cat had an agenda.  And then there was a plastic cup that the cat knocked of the kitchen side that I had to wrench from Connor’s mouth last night.  There wasn’t much of it left.

I now have to wait and see, and I am not dealing with this very well.  The rotten little swine stole into my heart while I wasn’t watching out.

An Ode to an Ashtray.

May 9, 2019

What is an Ashtray?  Something into which you stub out fags, but only ever of the Tobacco kind.  That is what Fag has always meant to me, so I do not wish to go beyond that idea.  Okay.

Is this an amazing ashtray?  Is it good glass, or just some ghastly plastic?  Am I pleased to have this Ash Tray in my house?   Do I even care when it comes to stubbing out a fag?  Yes, I probably do.  I would much rather have something half decent.   Preferably Christlal, if you really want to know.  But I don’t have too many of those.

I have always been a snobby smoker, along with a few other snobby things.

Anyway, everyone is pissed around here tonight, so God knows where they are stubbing out their fags.  I’ve got the only half decent ashtray.

O’Connor has run for the hills, in the name of  The Sofa.  He and me had a good one tonight.  I let him sit on my lap for ten minutes, during which he made no attempt to bite me.  I think I might be getting somewhere.








May 1, 2019

What have I just done?

The Angel of Life just turned up in the form of a mad and very artistic French woman for whom I have great respect.  She is actually a renown artist, albeit not quite my sort of thing.  A bit too Picasso for me.

And after much discourse she decided that Charlotte isn’t past her sell by date.  So she took Charlotte away rather than have the dog die tomorrow.  And her house is already full of pissing and blind dogs, so another one won’t make much difference to her.

I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I didn’t particularly want Charlotte to die either.

I haven’t seen sight nor sound of Marie for about two years, although she only lives just up the road a bit.  Why tonight?  Why batter my emotions when I least needed it?

So Charlotte will live on for a bit longer.  But she certainly won’t suffer, which is all that I need to know.

A Long Goodnight.

May 1, 2019

The day approaches.  I hoped it never would.  But it will be Demain.  Please God, never give me this choice again.  I don’t want to have to choose.

I so much prefer dogs who suddenly get ill and have to be put down.  This is all I have ever known.  So I am not handling this very well.  Although I have to say that Charlotte has no idea at all, at all.  It is just me who is becoming more weepy by the day.  I very nearly cried today.  What a bloody wimp I am.  But then I ever was, over things that were  even more or less important.

But this is for the moment.  Please go quietly into the long night, although I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t.  I won’t.  But I will do everything I can to make it more easy for you.  You have been a total horror story who no longer trusted anyone by the time you came to me.  I am so sorry that you never trusted me.


April 23, 2019

Well, that’s Easter done and dusted.  Nothing frightfully special, although we did have a very nice Raclette at a neighbour’s house, and some interesting conversation.  Male dominated, as ever, which is why women tend to talk to women.

Robin Dominic has decimated The Camillia, and about time too.  It was knocking on fifteen feet high, but it hasn’t been done for nearly twenty years.  It is still glorious despite being at least sixty years old.

Robin Dominic has also acquired four really good Teak Garden Chairs.  They are a bit discoloured but a bit of loving kindness will sort that.  And he wonders why Marie’s room is full of junk?  Actually, not junk, just some  very nice stuff that I was given and will come in handy one day.

I inherited Marie when I bought the two houses.  She was about eighty at the time, lived in one room with a wood burning cooker, and moved to an Old People’s complex when she was about ninety.  I cried when her family told me that she was moving out.  She was so much a part of this place.  Once upon a time she used to ride into Melrand on the back of a horse to do her shopping.  So forever it will be Marie’s Room.  Any other name is unthinkable.

I am having Charlotte put down next week.  But I will tell you about that after I have recovered.

Notre Dame.

April 16, 2019

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.