No Place Like Home

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.  Believe me when I say the way we are living at present is humble at best or basic for want of a better word, but we are glad to be back. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it has.  Strangely, calling France 'home' has never tripped off the tongue easily, but this time it does.

Circumstances meant our stay in the UK was much longer than we had first intended.  Our journey back was uneventful.  The LGB disguised as White Van Man was pulled over by customs.   When he got out as requested Mr Customs said ‘I used to have one of those’ The LGB thought he was referring to his trusty VW van.  He was actually referring to the neck cushion the LGB still had hugging his neck like a pet ferret.  Just ten minutes earlier he had walked into the Eurotunnel building with it around his neck and me bent double laughing at him and still a few hours later put diesel in the van with his appendage still attached.  And he accuses me of having ‘blonde’ moments, the cheek of the man.

No great surprises awaited us; the neighbours spied our arrival within seconds, there was nothing nasty lurking in the post box and the grass and weeds were waist high - happy days. We walked around grinning like Cheshire cats, happy to be back – to be home. 

Tackling the Jungle

The LGB had hardly started strimming before the local farmer called by and offered to cut the grass for us (I think he felt sorry for the LGB!) and the next day Hugh arrived with his strimmer to give us a hand. Our first night back we stayed with The Old Bones On Bikes and Thursday evening ate with the Welsh Contingent; good food, laughter, banter and easy company - back to normal. 

In a Lather

All good things come to an end.  The euphoria lasted all of a day before I discovered a sodding mouse had moved into a chest of drawers in the garage. Obviously thinking I had nothing better to do during these lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer he left his mark over seven drawers of clean, ironed clothing. 

Now there is nothing I like better than to spend a few hours in the local launderette where the smell of wet doggy blankets assails the nostrils at a hundred paces and strangers' short and curlies cling to the glass of the washing machine door.  Where is the Levi man in his undies when you need him?  I filled two 18kg machines and a 10kg machine.  I usually like to live and let live with critters but……..

Sadly the other things that had grown were the two of us!  I think our clothing was giving us hints whilst we were in the UK but the scales on our return confirmed the bad news when it squealed in breathless agony as we stepped on and each of us declared they must be wrong or faulty.  

What happens when we return to the UK, I don’t quite know.  We seem to go into famine mode and seek out all the things that aren't readily available to us living in the wilds of woolly.  We indulge in the odd Indian take-away (even though the LGB makes a mean Indian).  We enjoy a portion of fish and chips, especially when they are eaten from the paper on the coast at Seahouses in Northumberland.   Pub grub, a couple of restaurant visits and my Dad’s sweetie drawer all help to expand the waistline. A little helping of will power would solve the problem but will power is on ration when we are in the UK.  So we just get fatter.  I have a feeling the strimming will be a lot easier to tackle than the slimming!

Health and Safety won't allow the newspaper any longer!

Just in passing, I would like to say the Charente is very hilly! I only went for a 4 mile ride and it was tougher than 20 miles in Hampshire!  This could put a spoke in my cycling career!

  

My Ride in Photos

When I last posted I had no photos so for the last couple of rides I have taken out my trusted little Samsung.  This one behaves and the photos end up where I can upload them.

I usually head straight for the ford for no other reason than loving the route.  It's just down the road and a nice tranquil start to a ride.  This marks the Hampshire/Berkshire border.

I'm not sure how much use the little red box gets in this quiet lane.

I love this entrance.  The big house?  Not really for me, but I would love to have a look around nonetheless.  Nosey?  Me?    
                

I was dismayed this morning to see a dead swan on the road ahead.

On closer inspection I identified it as a cygnus tesco bagus!  I should have gone to Specsavers.  

This is what you would call a country pub.

St James' Church, Finchampstead is set in a beautiful position within a pretty village with little more than a pub and a few houses.

That's me!

I was having a little gander at the lake when I spied a cyclist heading off down a path.  I took the same route and enjoyed a wonderful ride around the lakes.  I only passed two people who appeared to be bird watching.  I am feeling a lot more comfortable being in secluded places alone.

We return to France on Tuesday.  The hills of the Charente will be a challenge I'm sure.  

Hopefully, some building progress too.

On Yer Bike!

Apologies for posting without photos, but I have a new camera and being the techno whizz I am I can't work out how to upload photos.  Thank you for the advice some of you have offered but I still can't do it!

I've bought a new bicycle and before I go any further I will offer my beginner’s tips in case there are any other cycling virgins out there.

Handy Hints

Thongs are a big no no unless you are up for a little masochistic bottom flossing.

When planning a route avoid places with names like; Bramshill, Farley Hill, The Downs, Lower or Upper anywhere because the clue is in the name – chuffing hills.  If you go whizzing down a hill, the wind whooshing through your hair, legs akimbo, inevitably you have to get back up the other side.

Keep your mouth closed.  Flies supposedly contain some protein but I would rather have a handful of peanuts any day.  

Choose your cycling clothing carefully

courtesy of howtospendit.ft.com

I think I paid more for this push-bike than I did for my first car.  In fact I paid more for the blooming helmet than my first car.  My old bicycle is hard work; I can only equate the difficulty of riding it to a jockey riding a donkey in the Grand National.  Whilst my new bike is not quite a thoroughbred it is proving to be a good little runner. I figured if I paid a little more for a bike guilt alone may will get me out riding.  

I have many pieces of exercise equipment.  I have an exercise ball, an abdominal roller, a lateral thigh stepper, a dyna-band, a chest flexer and a mat to name but a few.  In the old house I always managed to get these into the water heater cupboard and squeeze the door closed.  They never saw the light of day again until the next piece was shoe-horned in.  I am sure a psychoanalyst would have a field day about some event during P.E. in early childhood, a Freudian gym-slip or something.  It is a standing joke now if I see a piece of equipment and mention that it looks good the LGB will ask if it will fit in the cupboard!  So, my thinking is that the bike won't fit in a cupboard and each time I pass it in the garage it will look at me accusingly and remind me that I could have had a nice little beach holiday sipping Pina Coladas for the price I paid for Bella the bike.

I rode it back the 13 kilometers from the shop the day I bought it and nearly put it straight out to pasture.  Only yards from the shop a van pulled across in front of me. I had to get off and walk up one hill. I felt every bump on the road and I thought I may have to have the seat surgically removed at the end of the ride. But I persevered and we now have a passionate love affair going on.

What to wear?  I wanted to look the part but didn't want people thinking 'who does she think she is Lance Armstrong?' Minus the drugs of course, well I do pop the odd Ibuprofen, just for the sore muscles, you understand.  But I have now treated myself to a cyclist's jacket.  It has little pockets on the back for my phone (in case I fall off or get lost), some money (I might need a drink or nourishment or a taxi home), tissues (it’s a runny nose hobby) and of course my lippy (a girl can't leave home without it).   I have also purchased a skort, which is a pair of shorts with a skirt attached and I wear that over my leggings.  I figured it would be a little less scary for drivers coming up behind me and encountering my big arse. They would recognise me as a female in a skort and not as an eclipse of the sun.

I have done a few 9 to 11 kilometer rides and was pretty chuffed to do 25 kilometers one day.  There are no great speeds involved during my rides but I did reach 24 miles an hour going downhill.  That almost made the 30 mile an hour road signs worthwhile. I don’t plan my routes, I just head off.  Dad lives in a lovely area in Hampshire.  I meander up and down lanes; all the places you wouldn't go with a car. I daydream about which gated house I would buy if I won the lottery.  I convert garages and out-houses into beautiful abodes.  I have found terraced cottages overlooking village greens that I never knew existed and small business tucked away behind trees.  I avoid pot holes and when some idiot passes a little too close for comfort I shout 'tosser' and hope he can't lip read in his rear view mirror.

I am frequently overtaken by uber fit young things and wrinkly old things.  Today the only things I managed to pass were a rabbit grazing in the hedgerow and an old biddy with a zimmer frame, no really.  On one ride I thought I would go left at the roundabout until I noticed a fellow cyclist complete with high definition yellow jacket ahead of me.  I knew with a little push I could overtake her.  So, I went for it and I did!  Yay, give that gal the yellow jersey!  How sad am I?

Today I headed off in the rain.  That’s dedication for you!  I just followed my nose. I go down cul-de-sacs and back up again, along unadopted roads and if the name of a road takes my fancy how can I resist turning down it?  Today it was Nutbean Lane and it didn't disappoint.  I approached an old man with a walking stick and a dog and as I drew alongside I said 'good morning'.  The poor old fellow visibly jumped and yelled 'Aaaaahhh' before returning my greeting. I apologised for frightening him and cycled on giggling I'm ashamed to say.

En route I decided I would like to go further than my previous 25 km. I thought 32 km (20 miles) would be a good distance. I was pleased as punch when I reached my goal, but that quickly dissipated when I realised I hadn't yet reached home.  By now I was struggling a little.  My thoughts turned from beautiful lottery win homes to the length of the NHS waiting list for a couple of replacement knees.  I won’t even go into how my derriere was feeling and my nether regions are fairly well padded, how do these skinny Tour de France riders keep going?

With no membership to Roadside Recovery I had no choice but to carry on.  I was pretty chuffed to get back all red faced and wobbly legged to tell Dad I had just cycled 35.405568 kilometers.  He said he had been tip-toeing around the house because he thought I was still in bed!

I am reporting my progress in kilometres because that is what I am now used to since living in France. Okay, I'm lying. I am really doing it because  35.405568 km sounds so much further than 22 miles!

For now I am thoroughly enjoying the freedom the bike offers.  I am not so sure how enthusiastic I will be around the hills of the Charente.  Holland looks like an appealing place to live.  I wonder if I pushed reaaalllly hard do you think I could get the bike in the water heater cupboard?

Mind the Gap

I have been asked why I haven't been posting on the blog.  Well there is not a lot of building going on at the moment. We are still in the UK.  This is how I came to be on the 8 o’clock commuter train from Richmond to Waterloo. 

It is not a mode of travel I have often taken and a number of things struck me.  As the doors opened I was sucked onto the train with the crowd with barely the need to use my feet.  I had to stop myself from greeting the hoards with a ‘Bonjour, tout le monde’. 

With standing room only for the plebs I had my nose pressed up against the glass door to the first class carriage looking in at the privileged few and feeling a certain amount of seat envy.  While the hoi polloi stood and jostled for a little personal space the lucky buggers behind the glass not only had the luxury of one comfy seat but also a spare one next to them allowing them to spread one bum cheek on each seat if the fancy took them.  

These people probably travel on the same train day in day out, surrounded by the same faces but there was no interaction.  Each one was ensconced in their own little bubble world of techno gadgets.  Wires were hanging out of ear-holes,  thumbs were texting with dizzying speed in danger of being disjointed, kindles were being flicked, laptops were being tapped and one first classer was watching Jeremy Clarkson on Top Gear whilst texting on his gismo – show off!  More amazingly some were playing with their Pou!  No, not pooh - Pou! These people are adopting Pous. A Pou is a virtual I don't quite know what who live in fear of being neglected, starved or deprived of sleep and if you don't feed, clothe, tickle and take care of them they die!  Oh, don't ask!  It's enough of a worry for me to decide what to cook for the two of us each evening without having to remember to feed, clothe and put to bed some virtual alien pet. 

The Pous have been dressed in their Sunday best

Say please!
(photos google.com)

The technophobe that I am prayed the LGB wouldn't phone me because that would have meant getting out my little Nokia pay-as-you-go and I could not face the elbow nudging and giggles that would ensue from the state of the arters with their super-duper all singing all dancing gadgets. But I am sticking with my little relic, my little dinosaur of the mobile world because I know how to send a text on it and it is very useful to call the LGB and b*ll*ck him when I lose him in the supermarket.  (He is the only man I know who loves shopping and can spend twenty minutes in the biscuit aisle.) Besides I really shouldn't be let lose with anything of any more technical than a tin opener these days because my 'blonde moments' are getting more frequent, as the LGB likes to point out. I put the kettle on the hob for a cuppa last week - electric kettles do not like gas hobs, they simply melt!

I googled 'old fashioned mobile phones' and an image of mine actually came up.
This one is the newer version!
(photo theappslab.com)

Another thing that struck me was that I stuck out/stood out like a sore thumb or an overgrown Little Red Riding Hood in my red coat.  I seemed to have broken the commuter dress code that stipulates mornings must be monochrome. ‘You vill not vear colour, you vill not speak to your neighbour, you vill not make eye contact’.

I was meeting a friend later in the day so with time to kill I trotted off to the Tate Modern for a mooch.  I think a visit to any art exhibition would beg the question ‘But is it art?’ I am more of a grand master gal myself.  Dali’s plastic Lobster Telephone just doesn't float my boat (or ring my bell), having said that I love street art and graffiti but I will save that for another post too, together with my visit to The Light Show at the Southbank Centre.

Shivering on a platform waiting for another train, the lady next to me commented on the weather.  As we chatted and established that she was Austrian living in London and I was English living in France she commented that ‘Nobody is at home’!  How true!  We parted company smiling.  My opinion of the miserable commuters was changing. Later I asked a lad for the direction to the nearest tube station.  He was carrying his lunch but turned around and walked me back some way to an information board to show me where to go before retracing his steps.  I have visited London a few times since I have been back and have been pleasantly surprised by how friendly and helpful people have been.  I wasn't too impressed however to be offered a seat on the tube by a young lady.  I'm not sure if she thought I was old or pregnant!  Just a spot of wind love!

There is an amazing employee at Mortlake station called Daniel who greeted us on two occasions with a huge grin, joked and told us the best deal for travelling.  We watched him greet the other commuters by name and they greeted him likewise.  The punk ticket inspector at another station happily posed for photos for us and a flower seller gave us directions with good cheer when I thought she may have been sick to the back teeth of tourists asking the way.  I was heartened by the responses I got from them and others including policemen and a road sweeper.

What a legend.  You just have to smile!
My photo

                                                                       

So, for anyone who says The Smoke is an unfriendly inhospitable place I would have to disagree.  Perhaps my attitude has changed since living in France.  In France it is the norm to walk into a room and greet everyone.  People say ‘bonjour’ just joining the queue in the local shop, walking into the doctor’s surgery or into a bar.  Strangers wish you ‘bon apetit’ in restaurants and even when they walk past when you are munching a sandwich on a park bench.  I like these little niceties.  I do pass little comments and interact with strangers more, whether that comes with age or living in France I am not sure.  But will someone tell the LGB I still don’t do noise and heavy conversation first thing in the morning!  Sometimes silence is golden!

You can take the girl out of the town............

but you can’t take the town out of the girl. I use the term girl very loosely.  I was born in West London and raised in suburbia in Berkshire but I have always thought of myself as a country girl at heart.  It must go back to my roots.  My family on my paternal side are from farmland Wales (no sheep jokes, thank you) and my maternal side are from the bogs of rural Ireland (rumour has it via France, booted out during the revolution).

I love my own company.  I would venture into any large city on my own yet I am not terribly comfortable walking in quiet locations alone. I experienced a ‘girl about town’ moment of fretfulness recently when I was recycling on the outskirts of a local village.  The rubbish and recycling bins are tucked away in a little area opposite the cemetery behind some hedging, next to some woodland.  It was dusk as I was emptying the van and thinking to myself it was a little bit of a spooky place to be all alone.  My imagination always goes into overdrive. Who would notice if somebody leapt out of a wheelie bin to...... to what?  It's not like people round here do their recycling wearing a Rolex watch or the Crown Jewels or carrying a wallet stuffed with notes. It would also be highly unlikely that someone would  snuggle down amongst the black sacks in such a remote spot in the hope of a potential victim turning up.  They could be there days nestled between last weeks chicken carcass and the used kitty litter.  I was startled out of my daydream when I heard the clippety clop of footsteps.  I looked across the road to see a man and his lass walking past the cemetery. 

I called ‘Bon soir' and monsieur returned a salutation but his lass, the cow, didn't answer.  I’m not casting aspersions over some woman I have never met; she really was a cow of the heifer variety.    I love the unexpected sights of country living. He was nonchalantly leading her along the road towards the village.  I am not sure where he was coming from with his bovine friend or where he was going or what his intentions were, I was just relieved that I wasn't in imminent danger of being mugged for my empty jam jars by one man and his cow!

On the way home from choir I passed a couple of wild boars just up the road from the house.  I took a wide berth and slowed down but the little bugger head butted the side of the van and left a scratch down the side.  I presume his tusks made the scratch and it wasn't a wanton act of vandalism with a key.  I was a little disconcerted as we had walked that route in the dark at about the same time a few weeks back and it had gone through my mind then that we may have a close encounter with a sus scrofa and what would I do.  I decided I would hide behind a lamp post, well, not exactly hide as that implies I wouldn't be seen and I most certainly would be seen, even standing sideways breathing in.  However, there are no lamp posts!  Run?  I understand they can run quite fast and I can't! Maybe I should carry an emergency packet of pork scratchings or a pot of terrine de sanglier to waft at it's snout as a warning as to where he could end up. Seriously, what does one do in this instance?  I don’t think I will be walking home in the dark again any time soon. 

It was like this, but MUCH bigger, naturally, and lighter.
(Courtesy of Wikipedia)

I am now moving around the land when it is dark with a certain amount of trepidation.  During the summer I was scanning the awning for snakes before entering, I am now scanning the area for boars before exiting.  These creatures didn't look at all like some I had previously seen from a distance, they were more like little prehistoric mini woolly mammoths.  No, they weren't sheep and I wasn't drunk. 

Don't say I didn't warn you!

I went across to tell the French neighbour we would be away for a while.  When we got to saying our see you soons and have a nice time he raised his hand and in not so much of a girl about town moment but more a Deb in the hood or Deb from the block moment I actually gave him a high five.  A real 'yo bro, gimme a high five' jobbie!  I was absolutely mortified and can feel a blush coming up (again) just thinking about it.  I realised a slap too late he was just waving me off.  He flinched and looked a little startled.  I don't know what on earth possessed me to do it, I never do high fives! I hate it when sportsmen do it or contestants on shows when they get an answer right or anybody doing it.  The only high five I have ever done was more of a low five to a three year old. I can add a 75 year old Frenchman to that now!

(courtesy of cheezburger)

Some You Win & Some You Lose!

“Are you shopping with your wife today?”  the cheery assistant asked my Dad.  “No, this is my daughter.”  My Father is 76 years old.  Thanks love, you've really made my Easter!  I can only cling for dear life to the hope that she thought he was my Sugar Daddy.  Now, give me another pot of that wrinkle cream.

But some you win……… 

Oscar, Tony, Emmy be off with you, you can keep your awards.  I have been nominated for a Liebster Award.  Well knock me down with a feather!  I’m chuffed to bits. Thank you Multifarious Meanderings  for your nomination. 

I'm proud as a peacock's a...... oops wrong picture

I'm proud as a peacock!

This is what it is all about.

The Rules

1. Thank and link back to the blogger who presented you with the award. 
2. List 11 random facts about yourself.
3. Answer 11 questions from the blogger who nominated you.
4. Create 11 questions for your nominees. 
5. Present/nominate a Liebster Blog Award 11 newbie bloggers! 

I’m not going to go into a Gwyneth Paltrow speech but I will say  thank you to Multifarious Meanderings for her nomination.  Have a peep at her blog some time; I want to write like her when I grow up.        Thank you to all of you for reading the blog. I enjoy writing it and it is always nice to get your comments and feedback and know that there is someone out there enjoying it. Oh, and Alan for suggesting I start a blog. The Liebster award is for blogs with fewer than 200 members (I well and truly qualify in that respect).

wikipedia

So, now I am meant to write 11 things about myself!  I suggest you make yourself comfortable on a bed of nails to keep yourself awake with a packet of Wasabi peas in case the nails don’t work.  Seriously, this is a hard one.

Here goes;

    I make little heaps around the place that drive the LGB mad.  A little heap at the bottom of the stairs (ladder these days) ready to go upstairs.  A little heap at the top of the stairs ready to go downstairs.  A little heap at the  door ready to go to the garage.  A little heap in the garage to go to the house.  You get the picture I’m sure.

    I’m a pescetarian, a fishy vegetable eater.  The LGB says I am just a pesky nuisance.  It irks him somewhat when he cooks to have to make two different meals. I manage, what can I say? I must admit I do feel a nuisance when we are invited to dinner, but I really am more than happy to eat just the vegetables.

   I didn't finish my degree and one day I would like to.

    The older I get the more impatient I get.

    I hate prejudice.  There are good people and there are bad people in every race and creed.  Thankfully the good outweigh the bad.

   I’m a fidget.  I can’t sit still for long.  The LGB counts how many seconds I can sit still while I am reading in bed ………… about nine!

    Ummmm………..I’m struggling.  I used to play goal shooter for the school netball team and left back in the school hockey team!  I told you I was struggling!

    I don’t like the cold……….and I don’t like the heat!  Twenty six degrees will do me fine.

    I miss my ginger hair.  Not because it has fallen out (well not all of it) it’s just not ginger any more.

    What do you mean I’ve still got two to go.  

I used to work as a film extra.  I worked on 102 Dalmations (the LGB says I was the 102^nd dog – that’s not nice L).

    I am scared of all you Grammar Police out there!  Despite being TEFL trained I know my grammar is not up to scratch.  I often write as I speak but I have learnt not to get OFF OF the bus. (Thanks Al!  Ooohh, that hurt! That's twice I've thanked you in one blog.  They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.  I said THEY say!)

Now I have to answer 11 questions from Multifarious Meanderings. 

What’s your favourite smell?

The first one that comes to mind is basil.  Basil means summer has arrived.  Simple lunches in the sunshine; garden picked tomatoes  with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and basil and a hunk of fresh bread.  Delicious!

Where would you like to go if you had an all-expenses paid trip?

At the moment I would go anywhere the wallet holder would like to take me.  Somewhere we could spend the morning exploring the area and the afternoon relaxing.  Lovely little restaurants within walking distance serving up good simple food.  Italy?

What was your favourite book when you were little?

Comics were my thing.  Dad had a newsagent so I had access to every comic available.  Bunty and Judy were favourites but the book would have to be Heidi.

Sweet or savoury?

It was always sweet but these days I am going more for savoury. 

You have an evening just for you. What do you do?

A glass of sparkling wine with nibbles or popcorn, a stack of magazines and my feet up on the sofa.

Beach or lake?

I love them both, but it would have to be the beach. I love waves crashing along the shore but I’m not so keen on sand in my crevices and sandwiches.

You can only take one thing with you on a desert island… What do you choose?

I have always said it would be mascara; I wouldn't want to frighten the natives if I bumped into them. Maybe a library worth of reading on my kindle (I am a recent convert).  However, the LGB would be useful; he could build a shelter, find food and make me laugh. 

What do you look for in a blog?

Humour and honesty.  I like the blogger to have made a little effort.  I like their own thoughts and words.  

One thing you can’t stand.

On a serious note; injustice, especially against ‘the little people’ and snakes (not injustice against snakes – I don’t like snakes).

One thing that makes you happy.

Watching small children always brings a smile.  They have no inhibitions. 

You have to give up one thing. What would your biggest sacrifice be?

Eating.

Well, that bit is over.  Here are my questions. 

What’s your favourite book or film (or both).

What annoys you?

Do you have any bad habits?

What is your favourite city?

What would your last meal be?

What is your fondest memory?

Who/what inspires you?

What do you look for in a blog?

If you could time travel where would you go?

What three words would describe you?

What would you like to do before you die?

I now have to nominate 11 blogs for the award.  Herein lays the problem.  As I rarely have internet access I only have time to explore a few blogs.  I would love to read more because they take up far less room than magazines.   I will tell you the ones I dip into and will also nominate other blogs at a later date.

All About Niamh   Julie and Paul were hit head-on with every parents nightmare - a child with cancer.  She writes about it in a moving and humorous way.

St Bloggie de Riviere   This is an honorary award because someone beat me to it.  Having done a little research on the Liebster Award, you can apparently give honorary awards where the blog can accept without answering the questions and nominating. 

Old Bones on Bikes  Mary & Alan cycle many thousands of miles and I am there with every turn of the pedal.  This award is also honorary because they are not blogging until their next adventure.

Basque Farmhouse in France  Beautiful photos and delicious recipes.

I do read a couple of other blogs but they have over 200 members.  

A fellow blogger suggested I put a widget on the blog so that she could subscribe and get notifications of new blogs, so you will find 2 widgets at the top right of the page.

And Finally

Enjoy your Easter!

Happy St Patrick's Day

Counting Sheep

I often find myself counting backwards from a zillion to enduce a little slumber when it evades me in the wee small hours, but to no avail.  My efforts at counting sheep don’t help either.  I like to count my sheep one at a time as they jump over a hedge, but I always get the miscreant masticating mutton who rebels and doesn't want to follow the crowd (or sheep) and stops to ruminate on a juicy blade of grass and then I forget where I am. 
My best escape from insomnia is singing a chorus to a song over and over again.  Not out loud because that would wake the LGB up and he would be none too pleased because by the time I start the singing I will already have tossed and turned and disturbed him, switched the light back on and read until I could keep my eyes open no longer, switched the light off to huffs and puffs from the other end of the duvet, snuggled back under the duvet and immediately become a member of the Wide Awake Club again.  So I just sing in my head. I compose (in my head also) the most amazing literary masterpieces worthy of a nomination for the shortlist of Dozy Author of the Year and witty, informative posts for the blog during these restless times.  The words pour forth out of the darkness but when the morning comes I can never remember a ruddy word!  Actually, on this occasion I do remember thinking about St Patrick’s Day but little more.

Insomniac wanted for sheep census

I touched on St Valentine in my last post, this time I feel St Patrick is worthy of a little mention (in a non-liturgical way) if only because my maternal grandparents were Irish and of course he is always a good reason to have a little shindig.  I wrote that the LGB doesn't celebrate St Valentine’s Day but strangely he is always ready to raise a pint of Guinness to St Patrick. His parents were Irish (not St Pat's, the LGB's) and he is often asked what part of Ireland he comes from even by the Irish. They mistake his Northumbrian accent for an Irish one. I put their mistake down to his leprechaunian good looks!

 T

Those of you who know him best know how appropriate the image on the right is!

I think I would have had a lot of time for St Pat, rumour has it he drove all the snakes out of Ireland.  It’s just a shame he didn’t move his way around Europe and do a little snake droving there.  I really don’t like snakes.  It’s only in recent years I have I been able to even look at them on television. You can tell me until I’m blue in the face that they are more scared of me but it doesn’t wash.   When we moved to France we lived in a house with a round bedroom that opened onto the garden.  A very long snake got in one day.  My immediate response was to shut the door.  The LGB wasn’t too impressed because he was still in the room.  He was even less impressed when I threw in a Vileda squidgy mop for him to fight it off!  I have been trapped on the terrace by one that I swear was giving me the evil eye.  I’ve been far too close for comfort to a coiled heap when picking tomatoes and had one in the caravan awning.  I go into panic mode and my brain turns to blamanche.  I would put them in Room 101 along with spiders, flies, mosquitoes and rats.

Back to St. Paddy.  There will be many the world over having a shindig and enjoying the craic today. There will be parades and celebrations in New York, Dublin, Boston, Sydney and at D & C’s in Courcôme, France (which is where we should be).  So, Happy St Patrick’s Day to you one and all.

May the roof above us never fall in,
And may we friends beneath it never fall out. 

Probably not the most appropriate toast from a builder and labourer but the sentiment is there!