One of the joys of being a doddery old hermit recluse tucked away in the back of beyond is that one can, if one so chooses, completely lose touch with the outside world. This one (i.e. moi) tends to do exactly that with a degree of frequency that would make Howard Hughes seem positively gregarious by comparison. Especially on Sundays.

Sundays are my days of rest. This, of course, implies that all the other days are days of work. Hmm..., well, they probably would be had I not cultivated a natural tendency towards laziness ever since my first day at school. Laziness was the one subject I really excelled at - I have numerous school reports to prove it. Always amazed me how teachers, right through school and college, never appreciated just how hard I worked at being lazy. Sometimes, quite often actually, I'd finish a lesson feeling totally exhausted by the amount of effort I'd put into doing absolutely nothing. And did I ever get the credit I deserved? No. Never. Not even once.

Er, where was I? Ah yes, Sundays. Or, more specifically, last Sunday. Or, to be exact, yesterday.

So there I was, exhausted from a week of doing nothing, taking it easy by surfing the internet for dilapidated country cottages and magnificent old British bangers (bikes not sausages), dressed in the dog-chewed rag that used to be a dressing gown, quietly going about my business without the interruption of uninvited guests from the outside world, either in person or via TV or radio, when I had a brainwave. Instead of wearing myself out doing nothing, I'd relax by actually doing something. But what? Eventually decided to continue painting the boudoir. Started this mammoth project over a year ago. Did three walls then ran out of steam. Now was the time to pick up where I left off. Picked up a paintbrush, opened the paint tin, gave what was left of the paint a good old stir (paint and water content had, of course, separated), then went downstairs and made a cuppa to recover from these exertions, noticed the kitchen stove needed another log, noticed the indoor log stash was bereft of logs thus requiring replenishment by a trip outside to the logpile with wheelbarrow, which in turn required a change of clothing from ripped dressing gown raggery to something more appropriate but equally raggery, went back upstairs, got changed, chained Sprock to bannister post, opened front door, went outside, loaded barrow, returned with logs, forcibly removed Sprock from doorstep (grass was a bit wet and he hates getting his feet damp - strange for a hunting terrier), returned to barrow, Sprock returned to doorstep, once again forcibly removed him, returned to barrow, Sprock returned to doorstep, repeated this exercise a few times, eventually charged straight at the disobedient little git with the barrowful of logs, dog ran for cover, logs flew out of barrow when wheel hit step, I ended face down in the few logs that remained in the barrow, reversed, cleared fallen logs from doorstep, carried remaining logs from barrow to indoors, put one in the stove, returned barrow to shed, locked shed, returned to chateau, kicked Sprock off the doorstep, went back upstairs, put lid back on paint pot, returned to kitchen, sat down, had fag and cuppa, totally fattygayed. Decided to continue (er, I mean commence) painting tomorrow, which is today. I'll make a start soon. Maybe.

With the exertions of not painting behind moi, I then recovered from the ordeal by relaxing on the settee. Thought about switching on the radio or telly but decided not to as this would put me in touch with the outside world. Far better to simply sit there watching the dust sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the front windows with occasional glances to the many big cobwebs decorating the ceiling beams. Besides, couldn't be arsed to lean across and grope under last night's dishes on the coffee table in a knackering attempt to find the twiddler (or 'remote' as I believe it's referred to in more civilised environs). After all, this is surely what Sundays are all about.

After a while (could have been five minutes, could have been half an hour - I lose all track of time when my mind's wandering), I decided to get back in touch with the outside world by phoning my sister's tribe and then Georgie. This may be considered a simple exercise by those of a less reclusive nature than myself but to an old hermit comme moi who rarely says anything more than "bonjour" or "sit" or "come here y'wee bastards" or "no, you greedy mutts, you've just had a chew; do you know how much these damned things cost?", the prospect of engaging in conversation with anyone, especially loved ones across the channel who always expect a full rundown of how things are going out here and who are always disappointed my usual grunted retort of "okay, bit cloudy", is, to put it bluntly, somewhat daunting.

Anyway, phone calls done, I then returned to the sanctuary of the sunlit settee, found the twiddler, put on the telly in search of a good old black and white Sunday afternoon film, couldn't find one, homed in on the snooker final instead and immediately fell asleep. Woke up at about five, attacked the dirty dishes, grabbed the camera, slung mutts in dogwagon and headed up the lightning tree for a dogwalk. Am acutely aware of boring readers (should that be plural?) senseless with flowery descriptions of dogwalks, so I'll keep this one simple... parked in field, walked dogs around adjacent field, took photos of splendid evening sky, went home.

Perhaps worth mentioning that while I was up there, enjoying the solitude that can only be found in an area as remote as the famously uninhabited Creuse region of France, the local farmer (well, actually his dad) appeared in the distance driving his rusty old Renault van down the dusty old track. As he passed me he stopped and we had a quick chat. As usual, I stated the bleedin' obvious: "I'm dogwalking and taking photos, lovely evening," and, as usual, he responded with some expression I didn't understand. Whatever it was, I answered "yes", thereby taking a 50/50 chance that he wouldn't think me barking bonkers. However, his bemused facial expression suggested "no" was the answer he expected. Maybe he'd asked if I minded his intrusion while he quickly checked his cattle. Or maybe not.

Communication, or lack of it rather: that's the problem when two hermit recluses bump into each other. Especially on a Sunday's eve in the middle of nowhere. Ho hum. C'est la vie.

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