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.