Blogging.

One Blog so often motivates another and sometimes for quite peculiar reasons.

O’Connor loves Robin Dominic half to death. He hears the car and goes potty. Racing between one door or another and back again.

Me? Heaven knows. He can still catch me a good one behind my knees when I am not watching out for it, but only when I am putting food in his bowl. Rotten Little Shit.

But tonight I sat with him on the sofa for a minute, or at least what is left of it. And he went totally head down again. The big grovel. He always does this when I pay him any particular attention.

I suppose that I could see this as good dog manners for the mother of his best loved people person, but is any dog that bright?

Actually it isn’t all that bad, excepting that I don’t want him to be afraid of me. I have never so much as raised my voice to him. He doesn’t even know what Rotten Little Shit even means. It’s a joke, albeit a slightly wearing one when I mop up the latest puddle of pee or three.

He is a very beautiful little dog with Snake Eyes and a very loud voice. And he defend my house. What more could I wish for?

Anxiety.

Not a subject to tackle with much humour, but I suppose that I can at least try.

Two years ago I was going to live to be at least 100, if not longer.  Lately I have only been banking on about two years, if even that long.  Covid?  I don’t know.  Is The New World Order trying to bump me off with supposition?  Could I possibly be that stupid?

I don’t actually believe in The New World Order.  There are far too many ordinary people out there who are going to say Bugger Off,  Although this doesn’t actually involve blocking Motor Ways or screeching for Insulation that they themselves don’t have and certainly can’t afford.  Presuming that anyone knows what The New World Order actually means.  But you may rest assured that it is something to do with the Leading Lights making loads of money.  Have a look at Gordon Brown who kicked this off in Britain.  Where is he now?  Almost forgotten.

I have long not needed loads of money.  I earned it when I needed to and then I stopped when I didn’t need it anymore.  And it was only ever in support of my children anyway.

No doubt you will all be delighted to hear that I am now back to 100 plus, so if any of you are feeling like shit then get over it.  It was only a minor blip.  Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

I have never worried about Planet Earth.  The one thing that Planet Earth doesn’t need is people.  And Planet Earth always knows when it is getting too much.

There might be something to be said for natural selection.  Some of us are born tougher than others.

The Electricity went down about an hour ago.  Do you think that someone might be out to get me?  My Computer will shut down shortly.  And I can’t even read a Book.  Where did I put those fucking Candles?

Goodness Me.

Ah Ha. Cracked it. Don’t ask because I have no idea. Something to do with Third Party Cookies. But since I don’t know what a Cookie is then Third Party of such is even more confusing. I shall put the success down to the stoicism of my youngest son who sat here for two very boring and painful hours.

So back to The Train Ride, if I can still remember.

This very ancient Diesel Train turned up in the middle of nowhere at St. Rivalain Gare and off we all went along The Vallée du Blavet. We didn’t see much of that due to encroaching undergrowth, but in the end that wasn’t what it was all about for me.

Pontivy Station is now looking good when it was very nearly falling into ruin a year ago and how sad was that. Rhetorical Question.

We spent two hours in some Green Church Yard having a picnic. Imagine the state of my back after that. But we did get stumbled upon by a rather drunken individual with a rather nice dog that was obviously well cared for.

Les Toilets were a bit of a problem but I went behind a tree in the end in desperation.

What sealed it for me was an entrepreneur who had the foresight to see what could be done. A very old train and several very old railway stations which all fell into disrepair many years ago.

The Train was full and picking up people all along the way. So either we are all mad or he took a chance.

The steps up to the train are pretty bloody awful from no platform but everyone got heaved up somehow.

There are some lovely houses in The Vallée du Blavet when you can see them and they were all out there waving as the train went past.

I have always been monetarily orientated but never so brave as he is. Which is why I was looking for that aspect. Who would do this and for why? I got my answer at least in part.

He was actually on the train and wearing a uniform, albeit in an understated fashion. I do so hope that he does this again next year. This is Community in the middle of nowhere.

Another Mess of Potage.

This means that I have no idea of what I am going to say, but the power of words overcame me again, so talking rubbish becomes irrelevant. Any old rubbish will do.

It is already Autumn again. This always happens in Mid August although most people don’t notice. But you can smell it in the early morning air and the Sun drops a little, casting different shadows on the window edges. My Afghans taught me this many years ago. They would suddenly lose their indolence and start jumping about again, often over the six foot high garden wall which entailed catching them before they got too far away. Afghans are mountain dogs and they don’t like the heat of Summer, especially when Tiger Hunting. Afghan Hounds remain the only decent thing that ever came out of Afghanistan. Well, apart from the current vanquished of course. But then that was no surprise to me. In hindsight it might have been better to leave the hounds where they were, running around in their orderly, wild packs. Much like The Taliban in fact.

So, what else? I’ve done the wooden garden chairs and now I am treating more wood slats which aid in keeping The Rotten Little Shit confined to the garden, although at least he only poops in the garden these days. But pissing is still something else. And I bet he would have been great pals with all of my Afghans, mainly because he doesn’t know that he is little and Afghans don’t know that they are big.

There has long been a Railway Line down in the Vallè du Blavet just down the road from my small mountain. Consigned to Goods Trains these days, although it was once the only transport out of this particular rural enclave when there was no work unless you were a farmer. That was long before I came here. And you couldn’t put even French Bread on the table from seasonal Potato Picking. I know because I have done a bit of that here and there, along with a few other odd things. Most of them hilarious if you have any sort of sense of humour.

But they are now doing Train Trips up and down along The Valley. And I simply have to go. It will probably be a boring old Diesel Train, but you can’t have everything. I shall continue to dream about my frequent trips between London and Glasgow on the real thing when I was young. No one will ever beat the real adventure of a Steam Train.

It could be a bit difficult for me. They don’t have platforms in France, as I learned from my one trip down to Bordeaux. You have to climb up and down really nasty steps. But they will just have to wait while I manage somehow or another. They are hardly likely to blow the whistle while I am half way up or down.

Will there be a Bar on The Train? Probably, if I know anything about France. But not to worry because we are taking a picnic to consume in some misbegotten place that everyone has forgotten about long ago. If we haven’t consumed all of the alcohol long before we get there.

I’ll let you know if I survive.

Aged.

I think I might be having an Old Age Crisis. If I even knew one crisis from another. It’s always the same old same old with minor variations that don’t actually amount to anything. Enough to say that there is always something.

As it is I noticed that my hair if falling out at an alarming rate. Not bloody funny. I always had too much hair and sometimes wished that I didn’t have quite so much in the days when long and sleek were in fashion and mine always managed to be bushy and not at all elegant.

Fashion changed, but my hair was never curly either. It just sat there doing nothing. So I shoulder cropped it. I always did this myself because I was a bit broke by then and couldn’t afford a hairdresser.

Gosh. Memory escaped me there for a minute. I had the most amazing Hair Dresser in Singapore. Chinese as it happens. But he did wonderful things with my hair and always with a razor. I have never felt so good since. But then The Chinese have got weird hair.

But back to England where your average hairdresser ought to be shot. And then to France where I am still cutting it myself. It’s a bit long at the moment but I will crop it again when I feel like it.

Vanity dies hard no matter how much you try to pretend that it isn’t important.

But the point was that my hair was falling out too much. Until I started popping Siberian Ginseng again. Or is is Korean Ginseng? I shall have to look at the bottle. Any kind of Ginseng is better than no Ginseng at all. I had been taking it for fifty years, but I went into a period of wondering what was useful and what wasn’t during my days of real penury.

So what price my hair?

Marbles.

I often hope that I haven’t lost mine yet, although I doubt it would matter if I had. No one is even remotely interested in anything that I have to say. And I no longer care anyway.

I still know what I am doing, but then most of it is rote of many years and I carry on with the same old same old. This is not difficult. You don’t have to be a Rocket Scientist to know how to cook Carrots

I sometimes forget what it was I put in the microwave two minutes ago, but the I only have to open the door to find out. Oh my goodness, why was I cooking a cup of water? Golly gosh. A cup of tea. What else? Why else would anyone cook a cup of water?

I have long had this theory that Dementia isn’t a problem for those who are so afflicted. We don’t care. It is only those who feel that they have to deal with it that have a problem. I just laugh. What was it that I forgot? It is never seriously important. It is only you whoever you are that worry about it. You think that we might care. But I’ll tell you for nothing that we don’t.

Why did I go into this room? But then I’ve been doing that for years and years. Rinse and repeat.. And what did I do with my car keys? As if anyone ever knows. I made provisions years ago for that sort of rubbish. Put things where you think they should be and then you will always know. Or not. But someone else will.

As it happens, I don’t feel even remotely demented, beyond what I have always been, which has always been a bit demented. But then I don’t understand people. People are my only real problem. Most people have no conception of how to be kind.

Just don’t assume that your parent doesn’t know what is going on. And should your parent be a problem for you then rest assured that it will come for you one fine day.

Trala Trala.

I just suddenly have to tell you all something about my awful dog.

He chews bloody great holes in his quite nice woollen Blanket while trying to burrow and hide. Don’t ask because I don’t know.

He then gets his head and usually one leg stuck in one of the holes. Trapped as it were. And then he just sits there until someone notices. He never even so much as whimpers. Quite possibly because he knows it is his own fault. He just sits there looking pathetic.

I generally only notice because he doesn’t come charging at the back of my knees with love and joy at my mere presence, thereby nearly rendering me comatose on the floor and wondering what hit me. But he hasn’t yet actually knocked me over. Although a time might come. My knees aren’t that good anymore.

He never wets his bed for goodness knows how long he has been trapped. It could have been all night for all I know. I amn’t getting up in the middle of the night to check.

Dogs is dogs. This one is just a bit more particuliar than most.

Oh God.

Not the real one, I hasten to add. If there is any such thing. I am a Universe Person.

Nope. This desire to write about things. Any old thing will do.

Washing just crossed my mind. Clothes that is. Who needs it? Robin Dominic can produce dirty clothes by the bath load. Not that I think he does this on purpose, but I do suspect that he thinks it will keep me going into my dotage, which ain’t that far away. Who could possibly forget how to turn on a washing machine? Although don’t count on that. I just might.

We also don’t agree about how to hang washing on the line. My methods are perfect because I hang them up with intent to keep clothes in shape having first given them a good shake to get rid of creases. While he hangs them up any old how. I could have made a rod for my own back here. But never mind.

I used to be an ironer extraordinaire in the days when I owned a Laundry, but that nearly finished me off altogether because everything had to be perfect. There wasn’t any other way for me. And I did charge quite a lot.

The Washing Machine is now nearly twenty years old and didn’t even cost all that much at the time. But then I never treat machinery badly because I know how it feels.

It’s the Italian thing from my paternal grandmother, although I don’t think she ever owned a washing machine in her life.

And it’s why I was a good Wren Air Mechanic. I have a passion for machinery.

Write.

But what about? I am suffering withdrawal symptoms again, so this must be one of my communication phases. Probably coming up New Moon. Not that it matters. You either feel it or you don’t. When it happens is irrelevant.

Rain, rain and yet more rain, so the wooden garden chairs remain untreated. They were given to me and are really nice, which means that I have to try to protect them. But then I do have a habit of affording personalities to inanimate objects. And who’s to say I’m wrong. Have you ever asked your furniture how it feels?

I never have. I just assume that it wants to be loved and protected. Some of it was a tree once, often stolen from foreign lands, which makes it so much worse if it isn’t loved.

Most of my furniture was abandoned more than fifty years ago, until I rescued it from The Tip, or worse. It will well outlive me. And so I will go on.

However, some trees need to be culled to help the other trees grow. I am not averse to burning such wood because it helps The Planet and saves electricity and wood ash is good for the Roses anyway. I’ve got a lot of Roses in my very small garden, all with a wonderful scent. I feed them recycled Tea as well. Nothing goes to waste around here.

Except Effing Plastic. I loathe plastic. I see no purpose to it whatsoever. Three quarters of my rubbish is plastic and the Plastic Recycling Bin is always full. How did this happen?

For now I shall hope for a bit of temporary Global Warming. The River Blavet rises but it won’t get me.

I do so love Mountains, but it was only last week that I realised that I live on the top of a rather small mountain. I just never get to see it in context because I am there at the top. Now isn’t that a thing.

A Mess of Potage.

Full Moon has passed yet again, so I am more or less back to equilibrium. God knows why I had this inflicted upon me, but at least I now know why I feel so utterly dreadful for five days. And I know now that it will pass. I also know that all phases of The Moon affect me in some way or another. Sometimes I am more kind and other times not so much. Sometimes I am more articulate and other times I become speechless. But I can’t be bothered to work out which and when.

The Septic Tank got emptied and yes it was knocking on Full. But it has been six years. And t it wasn’t about to overflow.

Anyway, this really nice man phoned me at 8.15 am and said he was arriving tout de suite. I tried to put him off until the next day, but he wasn’t having it, although I have no idea of what he actually said. So it was get on with it time.

And by the time I had locked The Rotten Little Pisser in the house and unbarred the gate then he turned up. But the last thing I needed was O’Connor falling in the shit tank. Been there and done that with Charlotte The Pug.

It was a totally professional job. The first time ever in thirty years, although you would go a long way to beat your average Farmer at 30 Euros a throw.

This one cost me 242 Euros. Yes, I bounced off the wall. Thank God for The Food Bank is all I can say about that.

Every thing else is done now. Carte de Sejour, Health Insurance and my Tax Return. But only until next year. God help me if I go completely doolally in the meantime. But would this be such a bad idea, I have to ask myself?

However, when it comes to money I very much doubt that this will happen. The Mitchells always know exactly what they are worth, even if it isn’t a lot.

What else? I watered The Quince Tree in my neighbour’s garden and then it pissed down. Quinces don’t do well without water.

Fed their cat, although I haven’t seen her for a while. Just a load of other stray cats. Heaven alone knows how many. Word gets around in Cat Speak.

I am not actually a Cat Person. I lost that when my Singapore Cat died which was a very long time ago.

Hamlet, The Afghan. Never to be repeated. But in the Awful Stakes then O’Connor is running like a vey good second, but only just.

Which leads me to suspect that I will never be a People Person. But then I can’t say that I want to be.

Life goes on in this peculiar Breton backwater for where I was so fortunate to land up, albeit by accident.

The Universe has been very kind to me.