The End.

My one and only favourite daughter in law died yesterday.  My grandson just happens to be here at the moment.

She was however an ex daughter in law.  Shit happens.  But she never ceased to be one of my most favourite people.  Probably the only one if truth is known.

So this is an eulogy to her.  She never told any of us that she was dying from Cancer.  No sob stories from her.  She didn’t want us to know.

She was not the easiest of people.  Actually she was raving crackers.  But guess what?  She liked me.  And made me feel as though she really did like me.  So it all comes down to me in the end.  I have just lost one of those rare women who don’t see their mothers in law as a threat.

She was tall and leggy and very pretty.  She could wear shoes that most of us wouldn’t dare to even think of wearing.  And oh my God, she didn’t half work, although a teensy bit too New Age for me.  But I did love her.

I am devastated.

Her name was Fiona.  Ma Belle Fille.

If there should be some sort of life hereafter, which I personally doubt, then ma belle fille will be there.

Sleep in peace sweet thing.

Books.

I own hundreds of books. I have bookcases all over the place, and books up the stairs because I have run out of space for any more book cases.
Am I a book hoarder, you might ask yourselves?

When I moved here twenty-five years ago I came with about fifty books, some of which I had already read, but I had by then discovered the fact that some books are very much worth re reading.

But since I can go through five books in a week when the mood takes me, they didn’t last very long. This was utter catastrophe. English books were impossible to buy in France in those days, so I read them over and over again. I can now quote the opening sentence to far too many books, and not just Rebecca.
And the last sentence of  The Sun Also Rises. “Isn’t it pretty to think so.”

I didn’t have a computer, so no chance of Amazon, which I didn’t know even existed.

In truth, I went to England to visit my children with the only intention of buying books, but they don’t know that. And at three hundred pounds a throw for ferry fares, these were very expensive second hand paper backs, although I did inadvertently pick up a couple of First Edition Hard Backs, which I will never part with.

Intermarche in Pontivy eventually got around to displaying about six up to date titles which I would gaze at longingly, but at the equivalent of ten pounds a throw I couldn’t afford more than one of those. Oh the agony of deciding which one.

It was a long time ago, and things have changed. Other expats gave me books, and I went to Amazon for the real goodies.
I now have every book ever written by Nevil Shute. Every book written by Elizabeth George. And every book written by Diana Gabaldon in The Outlander series. Plus a few more. Too many to mention now. But all worth rereading. I will never again be without a book to read.

But I will never forget the agony and the fear of never having a new book to read.

I sometimes think of The Pioneers who went out into the Western Hinterland with nothing much more than a Bible. No wonder they knew their Scriptures.

Actually, I know a few quotes from The Bible, Old and New, but that is more to do with my Grandmother and a desire to soak up words.
That is what it is really all about. The passion for words. Even if they are the words of other people.