Autumn is
definitely here and very fancy opulent leaves are spreading themselves over the
barn. I am yearly amazed by this show. I
don’t do anything at all to make it happen, though Karl, our friend who works
like a human cannon ball and helps Mike with the garden, spent a little time
earlier this year disposing of competing stuff.
He works so speedily, though, he
probably only took 10 minutes to do the job.
The dog has
had her first bath. When she came to us
last year, she refused the bath very strongly, but she has since taken to
wading in rivers, streams and ponds (not swimming, paws have to be on the
ground) so I thought she might be willing to finally try a tub soak. And she was – took to it like a dog to
water! She has been scratching a lot
lately and, as we couldn’t find any sign of fleas, mites or other pests, we
thought it might be eczema. So I carted
her into the bath and sluiced her down with some fine beeswax soap which my
sister, Helen, makes from the bees she keeps in her Leeds garden. I do remember her saying it was good for skin
complaints and Dolly gave every appearance of enjoying it.
Other than
that, I have been making jam with figs picked from a huge tree belonging to our
friends, the Roxburghs, Roxburgh pears
and our own apples; also a rather peculiar looking recipe which involved
butternut squash, sugar and oranges. The
fig stuff is really good but I’m deeply uncertain about the orange squash
business.
Now that I
live on the edge of a French village in the Dordogne, I jam-make, knit and sew
– all activities I didn’t subscribe to in London, and was beginning to think
that Mike was putting some sort of Stepford additive in my tea.
My friend, Brenda, thinks we have become more domestic because there is a limited range of things
to do down here. Not much in the way of
libraries – certainly no evening classes, swimming pool half an hour away and
cinema at least three quarters of an hour.
Though there are meetings with friends and lunches and beautiful walks
with the dog. I also leap about and wave my arms
rather foolishly at a Zumba class once a week – supposedly slower than the real
thing and suited to oldies - Zumba for Golden Years. And we organise quizzes to raise funds for Médecins Sans Frontières, a
truly good cause.
If I am
becoming a Stepford wife, I am still rather feral. The kitchen floor is habitually dirty. I have rather given up on it. The pot sink in the kitchen is very ancient
and rather charming but, in line with its age, is also rather incontinent. It leaks water down the side of the drainer onto
the floor. Every time you do some task
at the taps, water splashes under your feet and then wet foot marks follow –
also paw marks if the dog is keeping you company. I do make some effort but continual mopping
is no fun. If I can remember I may try
spreading a towel on the floor before I do anything. I could also make a lot more effort in the
garden. I instigated a herb bed when we
first came here but weed it only spasmodically.
If it doesn’t rain, I might give it a go tomorrow. I might also make an attempt to produce some
marmalade, though that does look like a fiddly task. Separating the peel from the pith looks no fun
at all.
After six
years in France I finally have a French mobile phone. The French rates used to be so expensive that
it cost no more to use my English mobile.
But things are now changing thanks to EU rulings and the French rates
are now cheaper. I set up my new account
on the internet and was asked to key in a pin number to use when I add credit
to the account. So I used numbers from
my birth date. “Never do that,” said a
helpful friend, “It’s easy for other people to guess it”. If anyone would like to break into my mobile
account to add some credit to my phone, they are welcome.
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