Zut alors, Saturday moaning already. Where does the time go? Have had a merveilleux week with my trois visiting lovelies. Blue skies and brilliant sunshine throughout. Such a shame the weather wasn't that good for Deek's stay just before the girlies arrived. That's nearly two weeks of visitors. Two weeks of conversing and making teas and aperitifs for more than one. Gonna be a bit strange tomorrow afternoon when I'm back on ma todde.
Weather's been so good that we've even managed a couple of trips to the local lake. About fifteen miles away. Great for swimming. And hardly anyone there. For the first trip we took the camper and a fair bit of grub. Couple of baguettes, few cheeses, some pate, bit of salad and a Thermos of coffee. Had a very lazy afternoon just slobbing around sunbathing. And dogwalking. And cooling off with leisurely swims.
Nipped over there again late yesterday afternoon. Just for a quick evening dip. Ended up staying there for well over an hour. Place was almost deserted. Had our fave little beach to ourselves. It's about thirty foot long and under some trees. Off the beaten track. Faces the evening sun. Very peaceful.
At one point I remember squinting out to the opposite shore, across sparkly sunshine dancing in ripples and thinking of all those London commuters barging their way home. Or working late for an unappreciative boss or uncaring directors. Or drowning sorrows in an overcrowded bar after a stressful week. And for a brief second I thought... do I miss all that... would I rather be there... or would I rather be here beneath a clear blue sky, by a peaceful lake, with my three little lovelies and my two little terriers?
When me old mate Dick (or 'Deek' as he's known around these parts) came to stay last week, he brought along his newish SLR digital camera and various lenses. Seemed to snap anything that moved. And quite a few things that didn't. Emailed me a few of his faves. Must say they're rather impressive, though some aren't exactly flattering.
A few more snappies of Felletin's almost famous annual 'brocante' market, as visited yesterday by birthday boy and his trio of luverly assistants. (At my age one requires all the assistance one can get.)
Very enjoyable anniversaire today. Well, technically yesterday. Celebrated in style with my trio of luverlies. Visited sunny Felletin for a morning coffee. Seemed strangely quiet. Discovered quite by chance that it was the day of the almost famous 'brocante' market. So everyone was out there on the edge of town. Luckily had my camera with me so took a few snaps. Then returned home for bit of a nosh-up. Bread'n'fromage. Suddenly realised it was 4pm. Running out of time. Half the village was due to come round for a few evening drinks. Walked the dogs then had a quick shower. Freezing cold. This is what happens with a houseful of girls. Hot water gets used up quick and one forgets to switch the water heater on. Discovered an old armpit spray at the back of the shower-room shelf. Yves Saint Laurent. Sprayed the old pits. Then sprayed again. And again. Didn't seem to be working. But it was. Stank to high heavens. Still do. Natives arrived at about 7.30. Champagne corks popped. One flew right over the house. Much merriment, gay banter (didn't understand a word but that's half the fun) and general bonhomie. Everyone left at around 9.30, just after the demolishing of le gateau. Cleared up, walked the dogs then fell asleep in the telly chair. A parfait end to a parfait jour. Thanks gals. Efforts much appreciated. (Party pic shows early arrivals. Numbers doubled a coupla minutes later. Honest guv. Would hate anyone to think I ain't that popular.)
Me old mate 'Planet Brain' has apparently driven back home to the Cesspit safely after his brief stay here in the back of beyond, thus defying all expectations. Received the following message from him yesterday in which he had the gall to question my magnificent 6-5 victory in the Memory Olympics... (Unfortunately, though not surprisingly, due to a combination of incompetence and unfamiliarity with the workings of bloggeax, the doddery old git sent his message via a posting made some time ago where it was unlikely to be seen by anyone other than myself - it and my response deserve a better fate so I include them here for all to see.)
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A lifelong aversion to porkys, fibs and the like compels me to bring to light a shameful case of 'economie avec la verite'. I refer of course to Frank's misleading assertion that it was he himself who took gold in the Memory Olympics (23.08.2008). While it is true that 'Charles Bronson' was a strong move that briefly brought the crowd (Sprocket et Jock) to its feet, the coup de gras (or lawnmower as we in Angleterre know it) was Deek's perfectly executed 'Ivor Cutler' which left Frank a struggling runner-up in the event.
Quentin Wilson. Game, set and match.
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Cher Deek,
Am highly relieved that you appear to have returned home safely. Hope the trip was enjoyable, sunny and without mishap or unplanned deviation. Did you stop for luncheon in a pleasant little restaurant? Did you stop off in Sees for an afternoon cuppa? Or, as suspected, did you make a few wrong turns, get hopelessly lost and finally make it by the skin of your teeth to the ferry at Caen just as the ramp was being lifted?
Very many thanks for all the photos.
Well done in remembering the Quentin chap. A brilliant attempt at snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. However, after due consultation with the panel of judges, judge rather, I regret to inform you of the following: yes, un point for the correct(ish) answer but... minus un point for an incorrect spelling (it's 'Willson' not 'Wilson' - a common error and one which I frankly wouldn't expect from an educated wiseguy and experienced competitor such as your good self) and... another minus un for a blatant demonstration of smartarseism.
I await your response and expected outburst of indignant outrage with eager anticipation.
In the same way that Vinnie Van Gogh famously painted the room he'd readied for Gauguin's visit, I did a quick snap of the loft room I'd tidied up in readiness for me old mate Dick's arrival (pretentious? moi?). You'll no doubt notice that I haven't quite finished painting it yet (an understatement if ever there was one). That's because every time I splosh the stuff on the plasterboards, it immediately disappears due to the fact it's like painting bleedin' blotting paper. Hence my request to old 'Planet Brain' to turn up with gallons of some waterproofing stuff (I understand proper DIYers refer to it as 'sealant') called PVA, which he very kindly duly did (along with teabags, choccy bics and a Saturday Telegraph - the buying of which was apparently a somewhat embarrassing exercise due to his namby-pamby, non-facist, political leanings). Should keep me busy through winter.
Any road up..., where was I? Ah yes, so while I was up in the loft I snapped a shot of the southerly view in which you may notice a distant triangular shaped green field. This is a local high point which I sometimes climb with the dogs when I'm feeling particularly adventurous. Good views from the top and you can even spot our shack. Took Dick up there when he was here but unfortunately the weather was a bit iffy. I think he quite enjoyed it... once he'd recovered from exhaustion.
Have just tidied it again in readiness for today's arrival of Georgie, Don and Helen who are popping over for a long week-end (apparently I have a birthday looming). Have to pick 'em up at Limoges airport at 1.15 which means leaving at around 10.30. Blimey, that's in an hour's time. Better get shifting.
Well, Dick finally arrived. Late Monday afternoon. Took a wrong turn somewhere around Gueret and headed off towards Switzerland. Had a very pleasant Monday soiree reminiscing and quoffing vin rose in the evening sun, followed by a somewhat drunken attempt to knock up a spag bol for supper. Or was it a pork chop or deux? Can't remember.
Memory blanks have been much in evidence throughout this week. No surprise though. After all, we're both on the slow side of soixante. As a result of which we've invented the 'Memory Olympics'. So far, I think I'm in the gold medal position (scores are currently 5-4, I think), having leapt into the lead by remembering the name 'Leslie Phillips'. Or was it wotsisname... thingy out of Fools and Horses? Anyway, no matter.
The game, fierce competition rather, started in Aubusson on Tuesday morning as we sat outside a caff. Neither of us could remember the name of that chap in 'The Magnificent Seven'. Thingy. He of the slight moustache and stocky build who also starred in some film about giving New York yobbos a taste of their own medicine. Decided we weren't going to budge until one of us remembered. Thought we'd be stuck there for hours. Days even. Maybe even weeks. Then, out of le bleu, it suddenly came to moi. Charles Bronson.
Since then, various conversations have come to grinding halts as our geriatric minds have gone totally blank when trying to recall a multitude of names and facts. Scores have been levelled and the lead's changed hands with alarming frequency as our collective grey matter struggled to recall names such as Ivor Cutler, er..., and others that have now slipped my mind. Anyway, as I said, I'm currently winning 5-4..., I think.
Another exercise which is currently taxing our tiny brains is trying to work out the worst record of all time. Dick reckons it's 'My Way', not only because of its over-exposure in thingy bars..., y'know..., wotstheirnames..., er, yodel..., no, karaoke - that's the fella - bars, but also because his Auntie Pam (name changed to protect the innocent) insisted on having it played at her funeral. So it's a good shout. Others he suggested included 'The Birdie Song', 'Two Little Boys' and 'Grandad' by..., thingy..., er..., nah, forgotten - good job Dick's down the garden reading or it'd be 5-5. Clive somebody..., nah it's gone. My front runners include Rolf Harris's 'Stairway to Heaven', Jasper Carrot's infernal 'Funky Moped', Cream's 'Wrapping Paper' (am tempted to provide a You Tube link but it could be dangerous for those of a nervous disposition) and almost anything by Cliff Richard or Barry Manilow. Mind you, I've just remembered the magnificent offerings of Mrs Miller - one of which I proudly present here...
Lastly, whilst on the subject of Dick and I becoming further and further removed from the fine young specimens of homo sapiens that we once were, it's perhaps worth noting our shared ability of nodding off at the oddest moments. For example, we both nodded off the other soiree within the first quarter of an hour of watching the dvd 'Saving Private Ryan'. Then last night I nodded off in the first minute of the England Czecho footy highlights. And I've just spotted that Dick's currently showing no signs of movement while reading a book beneath the apple tree. Hopefully he's nodded off again. Otherwise I'd better phone for an ambulance. Better go check.
P.S. - Not only is Dick 'Bleedin Planet Brain' Davis still alive and kicking but he's just had the temerity to accuse me of spelling 'quoffing' incorrectly. This resulted in a colourful interchange of derisory remarks followed by a quick Googling for a dictionary. Upon entering my version of the word in question, the following jibberish appeared on the screen: No such word. Did you mean 'quaffing'?
5-5.
Buggerre.
P.P.S. - Whilst recalling a delicious story of how he rebuilt his old Francis-Barnett motorcycle in our old college classroom (I remember this well), 'Planet Brain' opined that the engine was a mere 125ccs. I naturally reminded the forgetful old duffer that the Fanny-B Plover engine, as everyone in the galaxy knows, was of 150cc cylinder displacement. Or, to be more accurate, 149ccs. This bone of contention has now become the deciding factor in which of us glories with gold or sulks with silver at the 2008 Memory Olympics. It's a nail-biting finish. I shall now consult the internet for further enlightenment...
An old college chum's coming to stay for a few days. Should be here sometime this afternoon. Planned to do a bit of tidying over the week-end but, true to form, didn't really get around to it due to being diverted by Radio 5 Live footy matches, the Olympics, the Czech round of Moto GP, shopping, dogwalking, washing and drying, woodstacking (Christian and Hadrian turned up with a pick-up and trailerful on Saturday) and downright laziness. Eventually forced myself into action late Sunday afternoon. Made up the spare bed, did a spot of dusting and Hoovering but then discovered a pile of old motorbike mags so got diverted again. Haven't even started on the kitchen or anywhere else downstairs. And there are stacks of cobwebs and dead flies everywhere. Being a hermit recluse I'm used to 'em but I suppose they could be rather off-putting to a visitor from the so-called civilised world. Looks like I have a busy morning ahead armed with dustpan, brush and cobweb stick. Running out of time. And what am I doing? Blogging with a fag or two, slurping cuppas and watching the Olympics. Daft, eh? Still, weather's improved. Nice and sunny but with a slightly chilly breeze. Hopefully it'll stay fine for my chum's stay. And maybe he'll lend a hand at tidying up. Or maybe he'll turn up, take a quick look at the house and book into the local hotel.
Spotted a big deer on this afternoon's dogwalk. Stood boldly in the middle of a hillside field, a mere sixty yards away, as we ambled along a valley path. Normally deer just dart off at first sight of us, more often than not chased by a yipping Sprocket. But this one didn't. Just stood its ground, perfectly still, staring at us. And somewhat surprisingly, the ever-vigilant Sprocket didn't spot it even though he shot a few glances in the deer's direction.
Hard to believe? Well, yes. But there was a simple explanation: the deer had disguised itself as a cow. Er, not literally. But by standing at the far edge of a small herd of about a dozen or so cattle, it became almost invisible. Same colour and roughly the same height. And, interestingly, the cows played ball. Didn't bat an eyelid at the deer's intrusion. Fascinating to watch. Only when we were almost out of sight did the deer break ranks and slowly amble off back towards the woods.
But sadly its days are probably numbered. The 'chasse' (hunting) season starts on Sunday.
As any regular readers (what regular readers?) may have noticed, this here laptop was recently invaded by them thar virus thingies. Resulted in a trip to the computery man in Aubusson who informed me that major surgery was necessary. Lost everything: photos, emails, email addresses, house addresses, phone numbers - the lot. Still have a few details in a tattered little old black book but they're probably hopelessly out of date. This means that any old friends and acquaintances (what old friends and acquaintances?) will no doubt think that my future lack of contact indicates that I've crossed them off my Christmas card list, which isn't the case at all. So..., if you're an old chum and you just happen to have popped in here to check that I'm not yet pushing up daisies, do please once again gimme your contact details. This time I'll keep everything in a new black book and not in this confounded bloody computer.
Farmer still hasn't cut his wheatfield up by the cemetery. Can't help thinking he's leaving it a bit late. All the other ones have been done. Still, what do I know. He's the expert. Yeah, I know I've shot it before, but I couldn't resist shooting it again. Looks so bloody marvellous in the warm evening sun. And because it's been left so long, the wheat's turned from golden yellow to pale blonde. Maybe next time I come up here it'll all be gone. Or maybe he's been at the Ricard and forgotten all about it. Hope it doesn't rain.
Days are getting shorter and mornings and evenings are getting slightly chillier. Thought about putting a sweater on last night as I sat outside, whisky in hand, watching the swallows chasing insects in the last of the sun. But didn't of course. Couldn't be arsed.
It's a relaxing time of day. At around eight o'clock the dogs have been walked and fed and everyone's indoors having their suppers. So it's quiet too. Been quite noisy recently what with the hamlet being invaded by relatives and kids. The August break. A few of the kids (Speccy and his gang - but he doesn'ae appear to be wearing specs any more) have put up three tents in the churchyard. Been kipping there for the last four or five nights. Even stayed put during the thunderstorms. Worried parents and grandparents do a lot of checking up on 'em but the kids insist they're okay and tell the elders to bugger off.
For last evening's walk I once again did the cemetery run. I make no apologies for taking a few more snaps, this time with the wideangle jobbie. All too soon it'll be winter again and that sunlit trail will return to being just a distant memory as we splosh through mud and slush beneath grey clouds and stormy skies. By checking out this and other postings, I'll at least be able to remind myself of those glorious summer walks in shorts and teeshirt.
Felletin's international song and dance festival is currently in full swing. So everywhere you go you can be virtually guaranteed a spontaneous outburst of leaping around accompanied by whoops, screams, bongos, woodwind, flutes, guitars and much enthusiastic singing. Marvellous stuff. Discovered a bunch of Mexicans this morning strutting their stuff in the churchyard.
So..., where was I? Ah yes, trying to get the hang of this new camera. Because it has a wideangle lens, I'm having to get used to getting in really close for portraits, otherwise subjects disappear off into the distance. Sprocket's a willing poseur due to his natural curiosity. But wee Jocky ain't. Hates having his picture taken. Similarly, most of the people in the hamlet. Managed to snap Christian though, with the inevitable Ricard. But Isabelle wouldn't play ball (accidentally managed to catch her serving peaches in one of the next posting's market scenes). Nor Didier who recently severed tendons, nerves and blood vessels in his arm when a metal chimney liner fell onto it from high above. Had about thirty or more stitches. Movement slowly returning to fingers, but not thumb. Hopefully he'll be okay in the end. Have so far only had a very few willing sitters: one of Katrine and Davids' daughters (completely forgotten her name), some South American (Equador?) visitors and a charming couple of their dancers (it's currently Felletin's international song and dance week - the last photo's a good example of not getting in close enough).
I appear to be under attack by some kind of computer virus. May not be able to do much more blogging. Will attempt to see if the computery man in Aubusson can sort it out. Computers - hate 'em.
