Mainly domestic

 

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.