Shite.

I didn’t really want to do this, but my youngest son is often not even polite to me.

I don’t understand why this should be so. I have no real idea of what on earth I did to him that should make him so despise me.

Or his brothers for that matter. But there you go. The more you try then the more you will be found wanting.

But this particular little shit isn’t going to get the better me. Too old and too hard bent am I.

I tried to drive the car today but I couldn’t get the seat forward, so finished up with short legs to no where.

But I’ll tell you what, when I pay for the two new Tyres I will get that seat sorted. This is My Car. And my son can stuff himself up where ever he pleases.

My only mistake was that I thought he was on my side. Silly old me.

Don’t try me, our kid. Your Mother isn’t quite past it yet.

The French Language.

Oui. Non. La. La La. La la la. All different with inflections. As though that would matter to me. Anyway, let’s not get silly about this. These will do if you have nothing better to say.

There are always ways by which, or whatever.

When I first arrived here I had no conception. I didn’t even know what a foreign language was. Or that other people didn’t speak English.

Life was hard for a bit. What? But you only need to now me when push comes to shove.

I only ever learned Proper French, so never quite got the Coloquial thing. But then I don’t need to. All French people speak proper French when necessary. Meanwhile, your average Brit can’t even speak English.

Definitely Some Ado About Nothing.

My Leaseholders have kicked off yet again, just when I thought that they had all buggered off to get on with it with their Right to Manage.

Coupled with my Managing Agent who never quite understood that they had lost.

So now they are both threatening me. They are both going to see me, Jimmy. They have all missed who Jimmy actually is. My name is Jimmy.

More lost sleep and stress that I can do without. For Fuck’s sake, I am eighty one years old and a bit more smart than any of them. And at least I can still read a Lease, which most of them seem to be incapable of doing.

All odds to no one. The Freehold belongs to me. Try that one for size. I own the land on which they live. Which is almost certainly the root of the problem.

So they can all fuck off. I lost my marbles about three years ago. Take that one to Court.

Distress.

You can’t actually write about Distress on a Blog, can you. Rhetorical Question.

Especially when you don’t even know why you are distressed and so have no means by which to explain.

Everything is awful? No, that won’t do. I only ever have a problem at Full Moon and I am well able to cope with that. But that is past, at least for a while.

And what is Everything? I don’t even know what this means. Nothing is ever Everything.

It can’t possibly this horrible Virus, can it? I have about a Nil chance of catching that, so why would I have just about given up the ghost?

I am permanently moribund these days and often can’t even be asked to get out of bed, beyond feeding The Dog, The Cat and The Birds. Oh, and picking up The Dog Shit. Rotten little shit. He shits a lot. If I can’t find at least three then there must be some of them lurking in the house which I am going to stand on eventually.

So I stay in bed and say horrible things to people who say horrible things to me on this misbegotten Forum which makes no sense to me at all. But at least I am articulate and don’t have a problem with Grammar. I know the difference between, well, whatever. Is that a Win? Probably not. Besides, it is considered to be frightfully bad manners to point out Bad Grammar. God knows why. I mean, kill the barstards. Why not? They don’t play fair, so why should I? But I don’t have an answer to that. Probably something to do with all things being equal eventually.

Horses for Courses.

I would so dearly like to write something frightfully intellectual, but I suspect that I am a bit too close to basic ordinary.

I have thoughts and ideas that are a bit beyond my norm, but then I have trouble putting them into coherent speech. And any real intellectual can spot a chancer. That much I do know. Although I doubt that too many of those read this Blog.

Oh, believe me, I have had my What The Fuck Moments, but they only last for about five minutes before they become common place. And almost certainly someone else thought about it long before I did. Like back to Stonehenge or even longer.

I don’t really want to consider the pointlessness of Human Life. You might as well give up and die if you go down that road. And I have absolutely no intention of dying anytime soon, mainly because I intend to screw as much money as is possible from The British State Pension System which is bloody diabolical. So obviously my intentions are not altruistic, which might be a bit of a pity. But there you go. At least I am not a hypocrite. Or at least, I hope not.

I do have a few favourite expression, but those are the thoughts of other people, and not my own, so not actually pertinent.

In fact I doubt that I have ever had an Original Thought. Or if I ever did then I have forgotten it.

No. I am not a sad person. I always hope that people will be a bit more kind to each other. But only because thoughtless cruelty is so much more damaging to those who dispense it.

Meanwhile, Rotten Little Swine doesn’t have a nasty bone in his body.

Effing Doors.

Okay. Done the rotten Roof. Well, two of them actually. And now to The Doors. Three of them. Don’t ask. I expect that it was three houses once upon a time. You know, two irks and one peasant farmer.

Second estimate for three doors coming up and another really nice man. But still looking like 9,000 Euros no matter how I string it.

My son, dear of him tries to help, but always comes across as treating his mother like an idiot. I don’t actually know if he thinks that I am. But when it comes to Pounds, Shillings and Pence then the Sun will go down on me. And since I will be paying The Bill then I want the ins and outs of the cat’s backside.

What Exotic Wood, Monsieur? Is there more than one kind? Are any of them less expensive? Guess what. It would appear to be so. Oak is the first. I never got around to asking about the others. Suffice to know, but there are four other kinds that they don’t particularly want to tell me about. Why?

Same old same old. White hair and she must have lost her marbles. No, I do not believe that The French are inherently dishonest.

Anyway, I managed to upset absolutely everyone today, even those who were trying to help me. But since only I will be paying The Bill, then assuming that I can’t speak or understand French would be a very silly thing to do.

This is wherein it gets a bit shitty. I cut to the chase while everyone else is being Polite. I don’t do Polite when it comes to 9,000 Euros. But I do suspect that they have got me on this one.

Oh. This one didn’t like Rotten Little Swine. Poor Little Swine. He only wanted to be Friends. So short of 1,000 Euros off the price then this one is on a loser. But I do have to say that I would sell Rotten Little Swine down the river for 1,000 Euros. If anyone else was daft enough to have him.

Death.

I really didn’t want to do this today, or any day for that matter.

But one of my Breton neighbours has died. What he died of is not that important.

I have lived in the house of his Grandfather for twenty eight years now. It is still a bit of a hovel. Not much has changed, but it has always been a happy house for me.

Alain told me about sitting in the big, open grate and talking to his Pappy when he was very young. And about the fun times he had in the house next door with his sister Katy and her soon to be husband Christian and Anne Marie, his soon to be wife. That was so long ago and long before I came here.

Their Grandfather gave them both a plot of land on which to build their houses, just across the lane, neither of which are a patch on what I bought. I can only hope that they know that I love this house and that I learned to love them as well.

Monsieur le Hyiaric came from peasant stock and after The War. I don’t even know who he was. But if this house was good enough for him then it is certainly good enough for me.

I am so sad to see the death of his Grandson. Alain le Hyiaric was a thoroughly nice man.