Round here, news travels slow. Especially as I don't watch telly (it's upstairs in the cold bedroom - I live in the warm kitchen), don't listen to the radio (ditto) and I don't read newspapers. And for some reason (probably the fact that I've been concentrating on survival; cutting wood and keeping the fire going) I haven't bothered to check out the BBC's news and sports websites lately.

So it came as a bit of a shock to hear of Georgie Best's very sad death.

Undoubtedly, he was the greatest player of all time (only Pele and Aldershot's Bobby Howfield come close). And I consider myself fortunate to have witnessed his wizardry and genius on a handful of occasions.

Perhaps the most memorable was when he scored six against Northampton. Unfortunately, at the time, I was a Cobblers supporter, living with Mum in Adnitt Road (just round the corner from the ground) during my college days. If I remember correctly, he'd just come back from suspension and I presume he had something to prove. And prove it he did. In the end, even the Cobblers' players were applauding. And I was there. Fantastic.

Another time was at a packed Stamford Bridge against Chelsea and 'Chopper' Harris. Ran rings round the bloke. And his mercurial display that day hushed the crowd, almost into silence. Then, for some reason, can't remember what, the ref sent him off. (What!?) I remember he sat on the pitch shaking his head in disbelief. As did most of the crowd - apart from the brain donors down 'The Shed' end; living proof that Darwin was right. Maybe it was the only way of stopping him that day.

The enormous frustration I felt that afternoon at being robbed of enjoying his magical artistry for a full ninety minutes, was the same frustration that footie fans throughout the whole world felt when he effectively hung up his boots at just 28 years of age.

Such a shame. Such a crying shame.

Besides memories of seeing him in action, another fond memory is his famous football quote which is right up there with Shanks' immortal "life and death" classic...

"I spent most of my fortune on birds, booze and living the high life. The rest I just squandered."

Ah, thanks Georgie.

Thanks for everything.

P.S. - An old college chum has just reminded me of another priceless quote. The one by a waiter who delivered more Champagne to Georgie's hotel room where he was confronted by the sight of Bestie and Miss World in a bed littered with thousands of pound notes, the winnings from a night at a casino. Making his exit, the waiter famously asked "Oh Georgie, where did it all go wrong...?"

Brilliant.

TUESDAY - It's changing. I noticed it driving back from seeing the farmer whose barn we're hoping to buy. Spent a couple of hours with him and Richard, the estate agent, marking out the hectare of land he's including with the barn. Turns out it's more than a hectare. Lucky us. And it was a lovely clear, sunny day again. That magnificent view went on for miles. Wonderful.

Anyway, heading back north from the sunny Correze, I noticed ominous clouds in the distance. Then, at sunset, under the clouds, driving through the high point of La Cortine, a ghostly pinky-grey light that heralds a change in the weather dramatically transformed the landscape.

Snow's a-coming.

WEDNESDAY - Woke up and looked out the window half expecting to see a white blanket. But it hadn't arrived. Damned cold though. Absolutely f f f freezing. With a chill wind. And frost.

Spent the afternoon chainsawing logs after I'd visited the hardware shop for chain sharpening equipment. Seem to be getting through the wood at a fair old rate. Blazing cuisiniere (it's a sort of antiquated Aga/Rayburn stove thingie in the kitchen, still does its job, Fred Dibnah would have loved it). Keeps the house warm. Actually, it doesn't. It just keeps that side of the kitchen warmish. The rest of the place is freezing. Howling gale under the front door. Makes going to bed interesting. Thank heavens for the electric blanket. Put it on for about an hour. Hang the expense! And curled up under the covers with my brill Irvin flying jacket on top. Wearing a smelly teeshirt.

THURSDAY - Woke up and looked out the window convinced I'd see a covering of snow. Still hadn't arrived. Cut some more logs. And this evening I visited Isabelle and Christian (dressed in two pullies, a ski hat, a thick storm jacket, scarf and gloves, just to walk a hundred yards!) to see Maurice who was seeing them for supper. He's the chap who works at the local Renault garage at Aubusson. Been working on my old Land Rover. Or rather his service technicians have. Fitting a new Weber carb, oil change, etc. Needed to see him to confirm when I can collect. Tomorrow apparently, around 3pm. Isabelle's kindly offered to drive me there to pick it up.

Inevitably, they invited me to join them for supper. While I was saying "non merci, must get back to make sure the fire stays alight" Christian set out a plate and cutlery under my nose. You don't argue with Christian, especially when he's had a couple of Ricards and he's holding a knife. Or Isabelle for that matter. Delicious garlic moules again. And some superb wines. Conversation inevitably centred on the imminent arrival of snow. One metre thick by morning, according to Christian. What a joker.

Then walked home.

After midnight. Just looked out the kitchen window. Into the dark night. Pitch black, apart from the street light, by the 'Poussanges' sign, down by the road.

On hot summer nights, dozens of moths and insects flutter in the light's warm orange glow. Orange dots flickering against black. I remember it well.

But now it's snowflakes.

Big ones. Fluttering orange against black.

Ah well, here we go...

FRIDAY - Woke up and looked oot the windae...

Sunday soiree. Pished oot ma'heed. Nae ma fault...

Walked ma wee doggies roond the reservoir a'Magnat ce soir. Nae bother. Tres bonnie. Drove home. Fed the wee bastards. Sat ootside ma hoose wi'a wee scotch an' mae wee canine chums, in the almost pitch noir, apres la soleil had disparued. Mindin' ma' ain business. Peace and quiet. An' a wee roolie on the go. Sprockie a'groolin' an' barkin' a' the chill breeze. Wee Jockie a' lookin' fae trooble. Tres content. Tous seul.

Alain appears oot the gloamin' in tha' distance. Wi' a bucket. Feeds his hoonds.

"Bon soiree! Ca va?" je shoots. He says summa' in response. Dinnae ken wha'. Amble up to him. Shake hands. I explain why ah've put up the red and white tape roond ma garden perimeter (it's to keep that wee scally Adrien and his shyte motorbike oot). Alain nods sympathetically, then burbles away. Dinnae understand a word. Apart from "d'ye fancy a wee Ricard avec moi et Colette?": "Okey-dokey, oui, s'il vous plat, mon plaisir, merci bucket."

Wi' ma solitude wi' a wee dram in the soiree gloamin' havin' bin a wee bit curtailed by his arrival, ah'm a wee bit pished off. Och, well. C'est la vie.

Slung an autre log sur le feu and ambled off tae Alain an' Colettes'. Dooned a coupla tres grandes Ricards. Wi' a wee bit o' gay banter. The weather. An' survival withoot Georgie. They seem genuinely concerned fer ma' welfare. Can I cook, do the washing, am I warm enough, do you need some more wood...? Have you heard from Georgina, is she well, when's she coming back...? (These people are wonderful neighbours. I really should be far more grateful.) Then Colette's brother appears. More gay banter. Nae, je ne suis pas anglais. Je suis ecossais. Et je n'ai pas un probleme avec le froid. Quel froid? C'est tres chaud pour Novembre, n'est ce pas? Then wee Adrien appears. Seems a wee bit miffed that I have the audacity to visit someone other than his famille in the village. Demands that I turn up at his hoose fae' a wee Ricard aussi. So I leave. And visit his hoose. Pished. Dinnae care. His mother, Isabelle (correct spelling at last), offers me another damned Ricard. Oui, s'il tu plait. She's still excited aboot seein' wotsisname, thingie, er, Moby(!) last night at Clermont Ferrand. Thrilled tae bits. "Aime-tu Moby, Gordonne?" "Er, non... Trop disco pour moi. Je prefer Texas, les ecossais. They were sur le television programme d'anglais la soiree derniere avec Jools Holland. Superbe. J'aime la chanteuse Sharleen Spiteri." "Ah oui. J'ai le cd neuf de Texas. Veut-tu borrow it?" "Oui, s'il tu plait. Merci." Then Christian turns up after a day out hunting. La chasse. "Ah, Gordonne. Veut-tu manger avec nous ce soir?" "Non, merci. Je suis too pished mate. Bin bevvying avec Alain. Et maintenant ici."

As ah've said before, oot here "non" means "yes". So I have the pleasure (encore) of sharing their supper. Superbe. As usual.

An hour later I stagger oot their hoose and crawl back tae ma' place wi' Isabelle's 'Texas' cd. Poured masel' un autre wee scotch and am noo bloggin' wi' that wee jessie Sharleen warblin' a' full volume oot the gettie blaster (that first track's a belter). An' ah jaist rooled a wee roolie wi' the glue on th' ootside. Sticky fingers. Baccy in my lappy. Shyte. Pished.

Och well.

C'est la vie.

Un autre dimanche a la belle Fance. Avec beaucoup de soleil.

Feck moi. Pished or wha'?!

PS - Aargh!! Monday morning. Just read this nonsense. Almost deleted it but decided to keep it in just to remind myself about the dangers of Ricard, my crass stupidity when I'm pished, my ridiculous schitzophrenia (shyte, how do you spell that word?) about being Scottish when I'm obviously English (no you're not, yes I am, no you're not, yes I am) and the massively anti-social aspect of playing loud music at 1am when the entire village is trying to get some sleep. Eejit.

2am. Just taken dogs out for a quick walk. Avoids puddles happening overnight. They've been kipping all evening and they're kipping again now. I too kipped this evening. Dog tired. Been a long day. Wide awake now. Best do a blog. Always makes me nod off. Probably has the same effect on my readers (I presume that's plural).

Had a 10.30am appointment earlier today (technically yesterday) which meant planning ahead yesterday (technically the day before yesterday). Had to get some attire organised, get an early night and set the alarm for 6am. It's years since I've had an appointment (well, six months actually) so I was a nervous wreck. Hate being late.

Woke up at one minute to six. Sat bolt upright waiting for the alarm, just to see if it worked. Five minutes later it rang. Made cuppa. Went back to bed. Nodded off. Woken at seven by clanging church bells, Alain's baying hounds and Jock and Sprocket going bonkers. Panic. Late. Had shower after I'd spent what felt like hours re-sticking the bin liner to the shower wall (no tiles yet). Spotted a stranger's face in the mirror. Arrgh! Better shave. Shaved. Got dressed. Walked dogs. 8am already. Time to leave. Said goodbye to dogs. Back at about four lads. Sad little faces. Went out front door. Opened car door. Nope. Can't do it. They'll have to come. Went back indoors. Picked up dog blanket, dog bed and water bowl. Filled jamjar with water. Somehow got collars and leads on jumping dogs. Slung the lot in the car. 8.20am. Twenty minutes late. Drove off. Arrived 9.20 at service station outside Tulle. Blistering pace. Gave dogs quick walk (how come they always manage to hurtle off in different directions, Jock to the left, Sprock to the right, ripping my outstretched arms from their sockets, then suddenly swap positions so that I'm cross-armed and spinning, just as someone walks past looking somewhat bemused, cheerily saying 'bonjour'? And how come Jock always manages to run through my legs a couple of times so I end up with my right ankle round my left ear and my left hand under my crotch and halfway up my bum with Sprocket pulling me hopping sideways just as a pretty gal languidly glides past? Eh? Well, I'll tell you. Lack of training and a total lack of respect for the boss. That's how.) Somehow got mutts back in car. Bought a coffee. Had a roll-up, standing outside, by the bin. Watched in disbelief as J and S went bananas as an elderly couple walked past the car with what looked like a long-legged rat on a lead. Not my dogs missus. Waited for the couple to disappear. Ran to car, jumped in and hurtled off. Damn. 9.35. Just under an hour to get thirty miles. What!!!!? That's bags of time y'eejit. Nae bother. Calm down. Rolled into Le Pescher at 10.20. Walked dogs. Bought baguette. Turned up at the caff at 10.30 on the dot. Just as Richard and his chum arrived. Parfait.

Richard is the Glaswegian estate agent for our intended barn. His chum is Steve (I think), an English builder. Together we're about to storm up to the barn so Steve can give me a rough idea of the cost of 'doing' the rear wall (needs money throwing at it - the question is, how much, when and how?).

Yesterday (technically the day before yesterday), I'd emailed Richard our details. Full names, places of birth, dates of birth, etc. Being a Glaswegian, he'd previously remarked on my Scottish name. And I'd fuddled and duddled about being Scottish (I automatically blether away in my Scots accent when I'm with fellow brethren). He asked me where I was born. Shyte! The birth details! Er, Cambridge, I mumbled. Where? Cambridge, okay? Then I had to go into how Mum was an Edinburgh lassie. A Kelly (no, it's not Irish and heaven help anyone who so implied when Mum was around). Spent most of her life apologising to us for 'dropping' her bonnie wee bairns south of the border. Then told Richard about being raised on porrage with salt. Eugh! And Arbroath smokies. Eugh! And exploding bacon. Exploding bacon? Yup. Mum's speciality. Hopeless cook. Used to burn the bacon every time. So when you attacked it with a fork, it exploded. Couldn't understand why all my school mates raved about rashers - until I went to scout camp aged thirteen. But the real clincher was my decision to play for Scotland and not England (never happened of course, but it could've). I imagined Alf Ramsey ringing me up. You're in lad. Pack your boots. Er, sorry Alf. Tommy Docherty's just been on the blower. Wants me in the team... to work on Dave Mackay's tackling, Denis Law's overhead kicking and Jim Baxter's keepy-uppying. Sorry mate.

Ahem.

After a quick coffee, Richard, Steve and I head off. Park part of the way up the track that leads to the barn. Walk the half mile to the top. Even in misty damp cloud, the location's stunning. We check out the barn's back wall. Steve says it's not as bad as he expected. Shouldn't be too much trouble. Can the dilapidated house be saved? Maybe... could cost though. We inspect it closer. Steve likes it. Thinks it's well worth saving. Recommends a temporary flat roof structure. Fairly simple. (I like this man.) By this time, Sprocket's disappeared. Eventually spot a wagging tail protruding from a rapidly deepening hole in the distance. He's after moles again. Meanwhile Jock's rolling in horse poo. Loves the stuff. Paws in the air. Blissful grin. Damn. It's gonna be a long and smelly journey home. Walk back to the cars. Sign Richard's 'Compte de Vente' (or whatever the damned thing's called). Get Steve's business card. Shake hands and disappear. Job done. Head for home.

Just been downstairs to make another cuppa. Jock's on the couch. Fast asleep. Stuck another coupla logs in the cuisiniere for him. Still has brown shoulders. Still stinks. Mind you, when I put that after-shave on this morning (technically yesterday morning) he probably thought 'why's he putting that stinking shyte on his moosh?' And Sprock's fast asleep on the bedroom chair. Wonder if they're dreaming of that hill with a barn?

Right. I'm nodding off now. 4.15am. Been a long day.

Pleasant dreams.

First the bad news... Georgie's left me. Gone back to the UK. (Hasn't left in the 'split-up, divided our records, tapes and cds, and gone our separate ways' sense, I hasten to add. At least I don't think so.)

Now the good news... She'll be back for the occasional long week-end. And maybe permanently in six months' time. We'll have to see how it goes. (At least the toothpaste will now be squeezed at the end instead of the middle.)

Strange. We came out here on Friday the 13th of May. And it's now the 13th of November. Exactly six months. Long enough to realise we want to make a go of it (I think it's 'we' and not just 'I'!). But also, long enough to realise that we can't have long-term prospects with short-term resources. So Georgie's gone back to the UK to work in publishing again, staying with Donnie in Putney.

Meanwhile, I have to seriously start thinking about how I can earn a bob or two. Tricky. Maybe I should start contacting publishers about writing a book. I've a few ideas on that front. Or maybe I should seriously start painting and drawing again. After all, that's what I do, or should have done rather, when I left art school, all that time ago, instead of going into stupid graphic design and advertising. Hmm... lot of thinking to do. Then doing. And now's the time to do it.

One thing's for sure. I ain't gonna be defeated. And I ain't going back to the UK to live in a backwater suburb, stacking shelves in Sainsbury's, waiting for a pathetic pension, watching a single bar in an electric fire eat away at a diminishing pile of coins in a jamjar. No way.

Yes, I'm here for good. And it's gonna work. There's no alternative. And, all being well, Georgie'll be back here too. That's my ambition. That's what I'm aiming for. That's my ideal.

Aha!

Hmm... I think I've just twigged what an old mate of mine, John Woods, was on about when he left a cryptic comment in one of my recent blog updates - the one about considering a ridiculous, and perhaps totally unnecessary, barn purchase. Said something about 'can you put your hands on your head, oh yeah?' Total bloody jibberish. But maybe it's a line from that Supertramp song 'Dreamer'. So I'm a dreamer, huh? Well, maybe. But I actually think that you have to have an aim and then go for it. No point in settling for second best.

Which brings me on to the long considered question of house plans...

Recently, as described in earlier postings, we've been considering going for (again!) that house near Tulle that we originally planned on buying. However, as it transpired, we didn't. Nearly did though!

Then I sort of started concentrating on our present house. Making plans for its renovation. Thinking long-term. Living here forever. But... it just didn't feel right. This house, impressive as it one day may be, was only bought as a short-term investment to get us back on the French property ladder, following the sale of our first little holiday shack. And, at first, Georgie didn't feel it was really what she wanted. After all, it was my hasty choice, not her's. Strangely though, she now feels very at home here. And quite likes the area. However...

Then I discovered 'that' barn (see previous posting 'Completely fou'). And I asked myself one question: which is your 'forever' house; the barn or Poussanges? And you know what? I imagined them both in their finished states. Completely renovated. And, for me, the barn just edged it by virtue of its position, superb view and relative isolation. Location in other words - word rather. Also, I've heard rumours that nearby Brive has just been given the green light for an airport. Plus it's near the Dordogne Gorges region. Very pretty.

So, after having had a second visit, this time with a surveyor friend, and having talked to the vendors again, and having discovered that there IS a connected water supply (very important and a complete surprise), we put in an offer. A derisory one. Which, of course, was rejected. Then I talked a wee bit more with the agent. A Glaswegian. But I didn'ae hold that against him. And, to cut a long story short, we agreed a price. Which has now been accepted by the vendors.

So there you have it. Yes, it's a dream. But, as I said before, if you don't aim for it, you don't get it. And I'm going for it.

Strange. Whenever I've gone for a property I've always asked myself "can you play Led Zep here at full volume without disturbing the neighbours?" - not that I'd ever do so but it's a pleasant thought. And so far, the answer's always been "no".

This time, it's "yes".

The Portaloo's gone. Never really understood why it was there. The workmen seemed to pee behind the church wall most of the time, with their heads peering over the top, facing our house. Confused me at first. I used to wave and shout 'bonjour', without realising what they were up to. And they'd always politely wave back. Then hurriedly look down. Presumably to cuss a momentarily misdirected aim. And shake a wet trainer.

The grass has been re-seeded where white vans have scarred the holy ground over a long, hot summer. The carpenters have put the finishing touches to their impressive handiwork. And the gaffers, Monsieurs Gregoire and Breuil, have turned the key in their new church door for the very last time. Disappeared off into the winter mists. Another job well done.

Poussanges' newly renovated church is now ready for action.

That action apparently kicks off with a morning mass next Saturday, followed by a tea party (or would that be a coffee party?) with the padre and his flock, which, somewhat alarmingly, now includes Georgie et moi. We received our invitation last week. So I suppose we'll have to go. Well, more accurately, I'll have to go (Georgie's now back in the UK - er, I'll explain more later).

Anyway, the prospect of attending a Catholic mass (I'm Church of Scotland) and singing from a French hymn sheet (I can't sing, I don't know the tunes and I can hardly read a word of French) hardly fills me with eager anticipation. So it's gonna be horrendous. Shall have to hide up the derriere somewhere and mime. Or sing 'Flower of Scotland'. Or make noises that could be interpreted as Gregorian chanting. But there's no getting out of it. I just gotta go. If I didn't, I'd be marked as a social outcast. The mouton noire of the village. "That's him. He's the one. Lives right next door to the church and he couldn't even be bothered to turn up at the opening service. Damned foreigner." So, better see if I can dig out the iron and find a shirt and tie. Come to think of it, I think I've forgotten how to tie a tie.

Lovely church though. And the crowning glory has to be the new bells. Trouble is, following a lengthy period of silence, ever since we've been here in fact, the sound of hammers against 'les cloches' has come as a bit of a shock. Especially first thing in the morning.

Every hour (luckily, from midnight to 6am excluded) they clang away, peeling out the appropriate hour, followed by three sets of three little bell chimes and climaxing with a jolly old ding-dong when all the bells clang away in, as far as I can make out, a somewhat jazz-influenced, free-form manner. Then, five minutes later, there appears to be another round of clanging, presumably to remind you that five minutes have passed since the hour. A boon if you're running late for an appointment. Not that anyone around here has such things.

I'm getting used to it now. Rather like it in fact. However, when the bells first kicked off at 7am about a week ago, I was inevitably fast asleep. After a few clangs, I stirred. Then I vaguely assumed a very dim form of consciousness. Then I sort of opened an eye as I became slowly aware of an absolute cacophony of sounds from hell. The bells were shock enough. Not just for me, but also for Alain's five hunting hounds, kenneled by the church wall. Their immediate reaction was to howl at full volume. Which, of course, set off Jock and Sprocket, who began barking madly and jumping at the bedroom window, ready to rip the vocal chords and jugulars from the necks of their baying hound neighbours (any excuse for a punch-up). What made matters worse was that Jock and Sprocket have an annoying habit of fighting each other whenever they get over-excited. Ever witnessed two terriers fighting? Especially a bad tempered Scots git and a manic psychopathic Patterdale? Frightening.

So there I was, wide awake, having fallen out of bed in a vain attempt to stop our two cuddly little pooches murdering each other, with bells ringing, hounds baying and Georgie screaming "what the...?". An absolute nightmare. Hopefully you can imagine the bedlam. It's simply too difficult, nay impossible, to accurately describe.

Then it happened again, an hour later. And again. And again.

Now, a week later, it's all calmed down a bit. Alain's hounds still sing along, but not quite so vociferously. Jock and Sprocket still go apeshit, but with slightly less venom. And I, as I said, am beginning to enjoy the pleasant sound of village church bells, but I still don't look forward to midnight (correction, 11pm. - they don't ring at midnight).

Hang on, it's just struck eight. A straight eight, with no extra clangings. Sounded rather lovely. Maybe all the previous additional ringings were all part of a carefully planned trial run designed to drive us locals mad. So that when the straight chimes were introduced (as now apparently), there'd be a great sense of relief all round. Cunning plan, huh? Or maybe the fancy Dan clangs are reserved for Sundays.

Talking of which, did a spot of weeding this afternoon. Hunched over for a couple of hours. Bit of a stiff back now.

Er, hunch... back...

Come to think of it, I seem to be looking more and more like Charles Laughton.

The bells, the bells...

PS - Monday midday... just struck twelve. The full caboodle. Twelve clangs, three sets of three mini-clangers and a final all-action, all-clanging finale. Can't work it out. But gimme time, gimme time...

Having decided not to proceed with an offer to buy that house near Tulle, I've now spotted another shack that's tickling my fancy. It's a smelly old barn that requires extensive and, no doubt, hugely expensive renovations, perched on top of an isolated hillside.

In its favour, it has a breathtaking view over the Dordogne region and, er, very little else (apart from some dilapidated old ruin of a house which could also be renovated - but only by someone with LOADS of dosh). And it's ludicrously overpriced. And impossible to get to without a Land Rover or a team of llamas. But I like it.

Dragged Georgie over there to view it yesterday and, as you can see, she was somewhat shell-shocked (understatement) and obviously thinks, probably quite correctly, that I've completely lost my marbles. Gah-gah. Cuckoo. Semolina pudding-ding-ding. Chirrup, chirrup. Squelch.

Last night we were invited round for supper at Isobel and Christian's where we had bread and garlic sausage charcuterie followed by superb home-cooked moules. Delicious.

Conversation, as ever, was enthusiastic though somewhat lacking in understanding. Mind you, it never seems to be a problem. I think they quite enjoy our stuttering attempts at garbled French. At some stage the conversation moved on to the prickly subject of relationships with neighbours and I chipped in with a brief story of a mother and daughter who constantly visited us (oh for some privacy!) in our previous French village where we had a tumbledown holiday cottage.

Sylvie, the daughter bless her, was, and probably still is, a thity-something human cannonball of a colossus, weighing about twenty stones, who mostly achieved forward motion with the assistance of a terribly over-stressed 50cc Peugeot moped. I gather her massive bulk was due to some form of glandular problem rather than over-eating (they almost considered food a luxury because of their poverty).

Anyway, once a year, Sylvie would join a crowd of malfunctioning locals for an eagerly anticipated coach trip to Lourdes where she hoped divine intervention would alleviate her slight (or rather large, actually) problem.

On her last trip there, she unfortunately toppled over and suffered a twisted ankle and was consequently consigned to a fairly substantial wheelchair. Thus she became the only person I've ever heard of who went to Lourdes seeking a miraculous cure for one ailment and, instead, departed having gained another. Poor thing.

Ah well, the Lord doth indeed move in mysterious ways.