Holby City.

I have just watched the last episode ever of Holby City.  I already knew what had happened due to Daily Mail Headlines, but I watched it anyway.

It was, as ever, rivetingly awful, but then it always has been.  Mad Doctors rampaging around having nervous breakdowns in the middle of Surgery on some poor soul who probably didn’t want to be there anyway.  Shut up and take the pill, or whatever.  My equally mad associate will take over.  And who knows, you might actually survive.  Some of them did.  I think.  I hope.

Murder was not uncommon although most of those went unnoticed by the hierarchy.  The rest of them finished up in psychiatric wards somewhere near you.  All absolutely brilliant so they could be back practising again by now.  I use the word Practising loosely.

Jaq popped her clogs in a frightfully boring way.  They missed a trick there.  But all of her organs got donated to some deserving soul.  Apart from her brain which was the only real problem.   No surprises there.

I hesitate to admit that I nearly cried.  But the rest of them will probably migrate to Casualty, which is equally as rivetingly awful.  Whatever you do don’t miss it.  Unless your social life is a bit more fascinating than mine.

Sweeties.

I woke up this morning, totally confused and with a thumping headache. Unable to concentrate on anything. So my Tax Return has had to wait for another day.

Was it the lost hour? Or perhaps pay back for the smart arsed Blog I wrote yesterday about Dementia?

Nope, neither of those. Just self inflicted Sugar Brain Fog.

I don’t eat a lot of sugar because I know what it does to me. But I forget sometimes. So it could have been The Blog after all.

Dementia.

“I Dunno”.   I find myself repeatedly saying that these days.  It’s really boring but I don’t know how to stop.  Probably because it is true.  Although I largely attribute this to a genuine lack of understanding of what on earth is going on.

However, there is not much doubt that my short term memory isn’t quite so hot as it used to be.  Twice yesterday Robin Dominic told me something or another about something, which instantly left my mind.  Mind you, it was just gossip.

Fortunately I find these lapses hilariously funny, which leads me to suspect that if everyone laughed then it wouldn’t matter.  But instead of that they just get cross and exasperated, which must be awful when you only forgot something that almost certainly wasn’t worth remembering in the first place.

To progress this just a little.  “Who are you?”   “I am your son.”   “Hallo.  Nice to meet you.”   Come on, this is funny.  Especially if you can’t remember what a little shit he once was.

I can’t help but wonder if it occurs to our children that this is a teensy bit genetic and could happen to them one day.

No, I don’t think I’ve got Dementia.  At least not yet.  And I do know that the last thing to go will be my understanding about money.  So no chance of Power of Attorney.

And No, Robin Dominic isn’t unkind to me.  Well, not often, except sometimes first thing in the morning.  But that passes.  And I laugh. 

So if any of you out there have concerns about elderly parents then try laughing.  I mean, don’t let them out on their own if you can avoid that.  Just batten down the doors and windows.  They will make enough racket to wake you up if they are trying to escape.  But then if you laugh then they probably won’t want to because it is more fun at home.  It is all so simple.

And at least you won’t have to sell the family inheritance to put them into care.

There is obviously much more to this but dealing with it has to start somewhere  beyond anger and frustration.  And laughter always was the best medicine..

Walkies.

Nightmare.

I only walked O’Connor about twenty yards down the road, to have a look at a hedge Robin Dominic was working on for a neighbour. O’Connor misses Robin Dominic when he isn’t at home, poor little soul. So I thought it would be a treat for both of them. Ha!

He nearly had me over three times on the way there and twice on the way back.

Practically half died of fright at every approaching car and tried to take off for home at the sound of the chain saw, let alone the look of it. That’ll larn ‘im. I hope.

He spends half his life trying to escape and join in whatever fun he thinks is going on beyond the gate. Well, he saw a teensy bit of it today and wasn’t at all keen.

I won’t be doing that again in a hurry. Although I do have to say that I was suitably impressed with my footwork. I am not quite as decrepit as I thought I was.

Banque Alimentaire.

The Food Bank.  What a brave and stoic bunch they are, these volunteers, some of whom are not a lot younger than I.  Two years of Covid and never missed a beat.  There they still are, every week.

And now we have some immigrants as well.  So it’s a bit of a fib to say that all of these immigrants are heading for England.  Obviously some of them have a bit more sense.  And they all speak English, if not much French.  But then my French isn’t all that good either.  Heaven knows how the stoics manage.  English doesn’t come easily to the French.  Or perhaps like me they are afraid of making fools of themselves.

As usual I yet again received enough to feed both me and Robin Dominic quite adequately.  And it is all jolly good stuff, although I don’t actually eat all that much these days.  This is mainly due to not doing a lot.  Too bloody cold and wet.  So I sit in bed most of the time with a hot water bottle and my precious lap top.  

I think I was a bit of a feather in their caps as the first English woman to appear.  I probably still am the only one, or at least as far as I know.  The English are notoriously stupid about Food Banks.  There is no shame attached to it here.  In fact everyone is so very kind.

The French invented Food Banks just after The War when half of the population were starving and didn’t have the motivation to feel ashamed.  France has been at this one for a very long time.  They even do Fund Raisers on television these days.

The Full Moon is high in the sky tonight.  So I should perk up a bit shortly.  I love the Moon so I don’t really understand why it creases me so much when it is at it’s most beautiful.  Something to do with gravity apparently.  Nothing peculiar about, but it does only do this to me for about a week.  And by now, of course, I know that it will pass.

The Broad Beans are on the up, all of which have germinated.  I planted those just before Full Moon, as is the way with rural peasants.  Don’t ask.  I don’t know.

The Robin Bird is looking fat and healthy as are the rest of the glorious conglomeration, most of which I don’t know the breed of.  It doesn’t matter.  They are all beautiful and lighten my mornings somewhat.  All there in a heart beat the minute I put their food out.

Dog, Birds and Cats.  Life goes on.  They all need feeding and I always managed to do this.  I so want them to stay you see.

Saturday and nothing much to do today, unless I think of something.  I do spend a lot of time thinking.  This helps to pass the time when I am bored witless.

Oh, I got a Swede from The Food Bank yesterday.  A good time to make Pasties.  The French don’t really understand Swedes.  All Cattle Food to them, but English peculiarities are beginning to creep in.  You still can’t buy a Free Bentos Tinned Pie.  They are missing a trick there, along with Tea Bags.  French Tea Bags remain absolutely awful.  But at least you can buy a Kettle these days.  There was a time, although I won’t go into that.  Needless to say it got frightfully boring when my English Kettle packed it’s hand in.

Mais En Y Var.  It is daylight now.  O’Connor dragged himself out of his bed and Peed and Pooped in the garden.  Not that this is anything to rely on. He is almost certainly peeing somewhere in the house as I write.  Dear of him.  He simply doesn’t understand.

Thirty years sounds like such a long time.  Longer than I have ever lived anywhere else.  But it has all passed in a flash of good memories.

I have been so very fortunate. In my latter years.

A Prude.

Of what Gender is A Prude? I have been thinking about this and come to no conclusion so far. But then do I need to?

I don’t understand the desire to talk about whatever it is that opposing genders get up to, unless they have this inexplicable desire to procreate. Which becomes even more inexplicable as the years go by. But two of the same gender are never going to get anywhere. They could chop it off, but I don’t think they have managed to grown one yet.

The truth of the matter is probably related to no choice at all. And Sheesh, The Human Race thinks it is in charge? What a laugh when far too many of them have gone raving mad.

However, my point was that I would prefer not to talk about this because it is all a bit yucky. A Prude you see. Jesus Christ, think about it. And then don’t tell me.

Bob’s your Uncle and Fanny’s your Aunt.

Gender.

Or is it Sex?  I might have lost the plot here, if there ever was one.  I don’t want to go into detail because it is all much too graphic for me, presuming I would even understand what they are talking about.

I was born a A Prude you see.  Although there is no space on my Birth Certificate that states this.  Why not?  I surely can’t be the only Prude in The World who doesn’t want to know what other Genders get up to whenever.  Whenever what, you might asks?  Well, I don’t fucking know.  How could I?

Sorry for what appears to be a swear word, although I have never sussed for why.  Some smart arse many years ago said that it came from the charge of  “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge”.  But then I don’t know what that is either.  So what the fuck am I supposed to make of that?

In the meanwhile the rest of you can gender along together.  I don’t want to know.  But if you do then do me a favour and talk about it amongst yourselves because it all sounds very boring to me.

Even More Not Much Fun.

Phew. The Door Man has been and gone. Although I’m nor sure if “Phew” was quite the right word. He can and he can’t, if you see what I mean. Mais Oui. That means, But Yes. As if that makes any sense. I only want a couple of very expensive doors. I don’t actually need them.

I did have a bit of difficulty in explaining the dog flap and that some other dog I might get in the future could be a bit bigger than O’Connor. But I don’t think he got that. Like everyone else around here he must think that I am on my last legs. Well, I’m not, okay. But I would almost certainly get another Dachshund, ghastly though they are. I cannot live without a dog. It simply isn’t possible for me.

O’Connor pissed all over the floor in grand excitement at the meeting of yet another possible friend. He thinks that everybody likes him. Bloody idiot that he is.

In the end we settled for Un Gros Chat. I shall leave you all to sort that one out.

Two doors? I don’t expect to get any change from 3,500 Euros. So a distinct possibility that I have just done in excess of 4,000 Euros today, what with the car and the doors. But hey ho. Who cares. I shall go back to being mingy tomorrow.

Not Much Fun.

Got a bill for The Car today for 650 Euros, shit. But all perfectly logical, which is all that I have ever required from anyone. And I do trust my Garage Man, albeit not absolutely. So tell me about it. He thinks I am mad and I think he is hilarious. My ghastly French notwithstanding.

Something to do with a Timing Belt. I have no real idea of what one of those is. I only ever did really understand Aeroplane Engines, which aren’t quite the same thing, although one might wonder these days.

Anyway, this is going to knock a chunk of my next round of New Doors, one of which will require a Dog Flap. Try saying that in French. God knows how O’Connor will deal with this. It could be a hands and knees job to teach him. Or he will stay in the house and pee everywhere even more often than he does now. Who could blame him? Dear Little Shit.

O’Connor is currently smelling Russian Invaders and spends a lot of time manning the defences of the Garden Gate so perhaps that will drive him through any new Dog Flap.

Must have another drink. This helps to improve my French.

Even More Fun.

Bought more Candles today and a bloody great bag of Sea Salt. The latter is for salting meat currently in the freezer. This is not difficult to do. Everybody must have a Cook Book if Google goes down. Buckets are useful but I have several of those.

Robin Dominic has a lot of fuel for the Chain Saw for dealing with wood for the Wood Burner and he did spend an inordinate amount of money on an Axe. Probably the only thing he inherited from his mother. Don’t ever stint on tools or machinery. A bit odd perhaps from a woman, but my paternal grandmother was Italian. Italians understand machinery, although I don’t suppose that my grandmother did. But I do.

Personally, I wasn’t frightfully impressed with Italy on the only occasion that I visited, but that is either here nor there.

The rest of my family were Bog Irish. Celt you see. So, you and whose army?

I did succumb to another Gas Bottle that had rocketed in price almost overnight. And Fuel has gone up a bit.

I can only speculate about Putin. But the prevailing wind in Brittany is from the West, so all of his nasty shit will be blown back on Russia. I have to wonder if he has thought about this.

Bonne Chance to you all.