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.

To Whom?

Who is it that reads my Blog? They never actually say anything, but I know that some few people do. Well, about ten people a day, most days, although that is hardly seismic.

Do they think it is absolute rubbish. Or do they think that I might have a point? Not that it matters. I Blog for me and my ability to put words on paper.

And maybe some other ghastly working class woman will try to do the same. I have never had any allusions about me. I have always known who I am. Much as I might have preferred otherwise. I just learned how to use words for my pleasure.

Brussels.

What a horror story. They change with the wind and never actually get elected. But all too often Germans. That bunch who got beaten after slaughtering six million jews. Although perhaps some of you don’t remember that.

Yes, it is embedded in my psyche. I was eight years old when I discovered this and I don’t feel any less horror now.

I was required to watch this as a school child, while that particular German generation were not. Much too distressing for them, no doubt. And so they continue to pretend that it was just a minor aberration.

No, I won’t ever get over this. I lived my first years of life of a War in London. Constant bombing and fear. This is a terrible thing to do to a small child in pursuit of annihilating an entire race. And make no mistake. That was what it was all about.

So they lost. Or did they? I was still going hungry while recourses were being poured into Germany.

But don’t worry about it. I will likely be dead in another twenty odd years and then everyone can forget that it ever happened.

What?

I wrote this ghastly diatribe to my eldest two children today. And then I sent it. God forbid. But who can care when push comes to shove. It was true according to how I feel. Which I have never been very good at expressing. Take the blame and then shut up. Don’t pass the buck. It was all my fault.

But it wasn’t. Well, some of it probably, but not entirely. And I am certainly not going to bore the life out of anyone with the details.

However, have you ever heard of Mucky Hunslet? It was a horror story to some not so very gently born people like me. it was seriously fucking awful. Lavatory in your garden? No chance. The Communal Lavatory was down the road a bit, presuming, that you could find your way in the dark. What a laugh that was not..

But Mucky Hunslet was Community. And long gone now. Sad to say. Kieth Warterhouse was born there and he knew what it was. Mucky Hunslet was a good place.

But I am currently more interested in my Septic Tank which is no odds to anyone other than Brussels.

I have been ordered to get it emptied. Does it need to be emptied? Almost certainly not. And I would know if it did. You don’t live on top of a septic tank for thirty years without knowing if it isn’t behaving itself.

But never mind. Just get it sucked out and then get on with it all until the next time they have nothing better to do than harass me.

I