Charlotte.

Charlotte. The Fat, Pig Pug. Poor little soul. Rescued at the age of seven, and then almost immediately went blind and demented. But I would have had her anyway, even if I had known, because there is absolutely nothing about her to dislike.

Fortunately, she is not of my heart, but I doubt that I am of hers either. Just a food provider. So there will be no crying or wailing when the inevitable day arrives.

She has completely forgotten that the lavatory is in the garden, but I can’t get upset about a very old mat. And picking up shit off a mat is easier than picking it up off the grass.

However, she has no problem whatsoever in remembering that it is Breakfast or Dinner Time, and exactly where her food bowl is.

She is company of a kind, and gets me out of bed in the morning. And doesn’t she half let me know if I oversleep.

She follows me around, but only because my feet tell her where to go. Or perhaps because she thinks there might be a treat at the end of it.

The noises she makes in passing are horrendous and enough to make you think she is about to expire, or is in dire agony, so I don’t think I will have another Pug.

I tell myself that there will be no more Dogs after her. But I suspect that this is wishful thinking.

I know now that there will never be another Hamlet. But I also know that I was so very lucky to have had him.
Cue Tissue.

A Friend.

I need a friend. I really seriously need a friend. I have a couple of friends who are both male and often very kind to me, but it’s a female friend that I need.

Sadly, women don’t like me all that much. And I have no idea for why. I cannot think of anything that I ever did, or anything that I can do to change this.

But six months ago a couple moved into the house next door to me. They are the son and daughter in law of my long known Parisian neighbours who were often absent in Paris.
And today I took them, or her, a couple of The Hydrangea Cuttings that I didn’t sell at The Brocante. And glory be, she knew exactly who I am. She knew my name, that only The French use, and The English never do.
I have been Mitch since I was knee high in Angleterre. But I bought this house from French neighbours, so only they know that my name is Maureen. But then The French put an entirely different inflection on this horrible name. And it is almost acceptable.
How would you like to be called Mau? It’s horrible.

So somebody has mentioned me to her, hopefully kindly.
I do, as it happens, cut their front verges while I am cutting my own, but it only takes me about ten minutes longer, which I have been doing for many a long year. So nothing much at all, really.

As it happens, her English is about as good as my French, which isn’t all that good.

But might I have found a friend? I do so hope so.

Maureen Eleanor Mitchell.

Brocante. Part Two.

Okay, I think I have almost recovered from The Brocante last Sunday. It pissed down, so I was drenched by 10am.
And then this very nice man next to me let me budge up under his awning. So I didn’t get quite so wet after that.

I had a bit of a wander around, in the vain hope of getting some advice, but no one else, French or English, had ever done this before. What a laugh. However, none of them looked like prats, so I decided that I didn’t either.

But oh my goodness, I didn’t half learn a lot. Should I ever need to know this again. Which I doubt.

Put a price on everything. No one likes to ask how much because they don’t want to have to say No Thank You.
One Euro seems to be the going rate, and since you will only be selling old rubbish that you don’t want, then One Euro is better than having to cart it back home again.

Don’t eat your packed lunch before 10am. But someone will be making much more money than you are by selling food. Ditto booze. Oh, and coffee. No Tea. Take your own Tea.

Take some sort of umbrella if it looks even remotely like rain. Or better still, don’t go.

So what was my sum total?

I bought a really neat Meat Cleaver for 10 Euros, for which I have been looking for many a long moon. And a very nice and totally useless, painted metal thingy for One Euro which will be great when I have to bring in my much treasured Cacti come Winter. My Cacti spend all Summer, for what it is worth, in the garden. I must be mad.

I sold eight of my Hydrangea cuttings for One Euro each, and have since worried that they might not get treated all that well. Hydrangeas are much more susceptible to neglect than most people realise. They ever need water. But they do have to be on their own eventually.

I also picked up four Elizabeth George novels that I didn’t have, and for nothing. That was a really good one. I am a passionate fan of Elizabeth George. She is American. But like Diana Gabaldon, her research is phenomenal. These two women know their subjects. And both are pretty glorious.

So all in all a really nice day. I eventually staggered home at 4pm, having scuppered a bottle of cheap Fizz that I just happened to have had in the back of my van. Quite by accident, of course.

I am not sure if I will ever do this again. I simply don’t own that much that I would seriously want to get rid of, apart from plants, which I can always give away.

I met a few really nice people who I almost certainly will never see again. More is the pity. But maybe I might.