So, you see it has all mounted up on the desk...Things that need to be done...and now I have given myself the extra pressure of a blog, a Facebook page, and so far I have managed to avoid Twitter because of the stress of it all. I have a recording from childhood of my mothers voice in my head on repeat. Right now she is at 78rpm, her voice getting shriller by the minute, and the more pressure I put myself under to complete something, the more she will shriek about my tardiness...
I remember a therapist telling me once that I had to kill my mother (well obviously not really, otherwise I would have been banged up for over twenty years now.) But symbolically. He gave me a pillow and suggested I punch it and scream at my mother. But I couldn't do it...I just couldn't. He said I would never get rid of the voice if I couldn't kill her there and then as a pillow. But I could hear the therapist's wife upstairs in the kitchen, offering her children lunch. Well I figured if I could hear her, then she could most certainly hear me. I put this to the therapist and he reassured me that his wife could hear nothing.
I didn't believe him and so I was unable to deliver more than a feeble and feathery whisper into my billowy parent, before she was quick to remind that I was a failure at therapy too.
So I have repaired to the local bar and met up with two inspiring friends. Peter Poplaski http://blog.seniorennet.be/peterpoplaski and Marcus Reichert http://www.marcusreichert.com/ and under the influence of a citron presse and some very tall and inspiring tales, I have put off paperwork for another day.
This could be a reason why I live in the Cevennes. There are plenty of fellow desk dodgers and a wealth of subjects of a more pressing nature to be discussed dissected and dispatched. Anyway, I must buy some more staples before I can think of undertaking any form of paperwork. Shut up Mother!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
I seem to Have lost my title
This is fairly indicative of all areas of my life. Sometimes I am Mrs homemaker, sometimes Ms Action woman, sometimes Granny (I like those times) and sometimes La dame avec le deux chiens. It is hard being so may things to myself!! Actually in this instance I have tried being Ms Techno Whiz, but failed miserably in understanding how to change the colour on this text, and in doing so have deleted the title of the blog. Any advice on how to rectify this would be most welcome.
Today was market day. In our village we have two market days a week. Tuesday is small and just the bare essentials, but friday is a proper market, and as summer progresses it overflows the village square and becomes a fair metropolis of soap, and jewelry sellers, african textiles, fossils and semi precious stones: A Peruvian bag seller and a maker of quaint mobiles fashioned out of maize kernels1
On tuesday this week I bought some fairly expensive beauty products all neatly wrapped and placed in a vibrant pink carrier. I then went to the food market carrying my basket and my pink carrier. I bought all
my veggies, bread and oils etc. At home, some four hours later I realised I had left the pretty pink carrier on the last veggie stand I visited. Tuesday was my Mrs Airhead day!
Surrender was the word that came to mind on this discovery....Surrender. Otherwise my neck would start to cease up and I could become mean and spiteful. So surrender then.
Today I gathered my Mrs Housekeeper chattels and set off early to the friday market. I wandered about a bit, looking at some Kantha quilts for 135 euro, that I sell in the shop for 85 quid, and then I made my way to the veggie stand. My eye caressed the vine tomatoes, pootled over the rock melons and came to rest on a vibrant pink carrier bag containing fairly expensive beauty products. "Alors! Monsieur Legume vous et tres sympathique". I swear I nearly kissed him, both cheeks, and a third if you are a protestant..... No..no..no. Not a third cheek! A third kiss! ....Silly.
Monsieur Legume looked rather surprised, even at my restraint, and wished me a fine afternoon and a very good weekend. Miss Because Your Worth It has had a good day and is now wallowing in the silky finish that only a fairly expensive french face cream can provide.
Today was market day. In our village we have two market days a week. Tuesday is small and just the bare essentials, but friday is a proper market, and as summer progresses it overflows the village square and becomes a fair metropolis of soap, and jewelry sellers, african textiles, fossils and semi precious stones: A Peruvian bag seller and a maker of quaint mobiles fashioned out of maize kernels1
On tuesday this week I bought some fairly expensive beauty products all neatly wrapped and placed in a vibrant pink carrier. I then went to the food market carrying my basket and my pink carrier. I bought all
my veggies, bread and oils etc. At home, some four hours later I realised I had left the pretty pink carrier on the last veggie stand I visited. Tuesday was my Mrs Airhead day!
Surrender was the word that came to mind on this discovery....Surrender. Otherwise my neck would start to cease up and I could become mean and spiteful. So surrender then.
Today I gathered my Mrs Housekeeper chattels and set off early to the friday market. I wandered about a bit, looking at some Kantha quilts for 135 euro, that I sell in the shop for 85 quid, and then I made my way to the veggie stand. My eye caressed the vine tomatoes, pootled over the rock melons and came to rest on a vibrant pink carrier bag containing fairly expensive beauty products. "Alors! Monsieur Legume vous et tres sympathique". I swear I nearly kissed him, both cheeks, and a third if you are a protestant..... No..no..no. Not a third cheek! A third kiss! ....Silly.
Monsieur Legume looked rather surprised, even at my restraint, and wished me a fine afternoon and a very good weekend. Miss Because Your Worth It has had a good day and is now wallowing in the silky finish that only a fairly expensive french face cream can provide.
I seem to Have lost my title
This is fairly indicative of all areas of my life. Sometimes I am Mrs homemaker, sometimes Ms Action woman, sometimes Granny (I like those times) and sometimes La dame avec le deux chiens. It is hard being so may things to myself!! Actually in this instance I have tried being Ms Techno Whiz, but failed miserably in understanding how to change the colour on this text, and in doing so have deleted the title of the blog. Any advice on how to rectify this would be most welcome.
Today was market day. In our village we have two market days a week. Tuesday is small and just the bare essentials, but friday is a proper market, and a summer progresses it overflows the village square and becomes a fair metropolis of soap, and jewelry sellers, african textiles, fossils and semi precious stones.
On tuesday this week I bought some rather expensive beauty products all neatly wrapped and placed in a vibrant pink carrier. I then went to the food market carrying my basket and my pink carrier. I bought all
my veggies, bread and oils etc. At home, some four hours later I realised I had left the pretty pink carrier on the last veggie stand I visited. Tuesday was my Mrs Airhead day!
Surrender was the word that came to mind on this discovery....Surrender. Otherwise my neck would start to cease up and I could become mean and spiteful. So surrender then.
Today I gathered my Mrs Housekeeper chattels and set off early to the friday market. I wandered about a bit, looking at some Kantha quilts for 135 euro, that I sell in the shop for 85 quid, and then I made my way to the veggie stand. My eye caressed the vine tomatoes, pootled over the rock melons and came to rest on a vibrant pink carrier bag containing fairly expensive beauty products. "Alors! Monsieur Legume vous et tres sympathique". I swear I nearly kissed him, both cheeks, and a third if you are a protestant..... No..no..no. Not a third cheek! A third kiss! ....Silly.
Monsieur Legume looked rather surprised, even at my restraint, and wished me a fine afternoon and a very good weekend. Miss Because Your Worth It is now appreciating the fine tuning that only a fairly expensive french face cream can provide.
Today was market day. In our village we have two market days a week. Tuesday is small and just the bare essentials, but friday is a proper market, and a summer progresses it overflows the village square and becomes a fair metropolis of soap, and jewelry sellers, african textiles, fossils and semi precious stones.
On tuesday this week I bought some rather expensive beauty products all neatly wrapped and placed in a vibrant pink carrier. I then went to the food market carrying my basket and my pink carrier. I bought all
my veggies, bread and oils etc. At home, some four hours later I realised I had left the pretty pink carrier on the last veggie stand I visited. Tuesday was my Mrs Airhead day!
Surrender was the word that came to mind on this discovery....Surrender. Otherwise my neck would start to cease up and I could become mean and spiteful. So surrender then.
Today I gathered my Mrs Housekeeper chattels and set off early to the friday market. I wandered about a bit, looking at some Kantha quilts for 135 euro, that I sell in the shop for 85 quid, and then I made my way to the veggie stand. My eye caressed the vine tomatoes, pootled over the rock melons and came to rest on a vibrant pink carrier bag containing fairly expensive beauty products. "Alors! Monsieur Legume vous et tres sympathique". I swear I nearly kissed him, both cheeks, and a third if you are a protestant..... No..no..no. Not a third cheek! A third kiss! ....Silly.
Monsieur Legume looked rather surprised, even at my restraint, and wished me a fine afternoon and a very good weekend. Miss Because Your Worth It is now appreciating the fine tuning that only a fairly expensive french face cream can provide.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Everybody gets to go to the moon in June.
OK. So I spoke too soon about summer and sun, heat and dust. After a week or so (part of which I was back in Blighty) the weather has changed to sort of how it should have been in April. All the roses are over however and the garden looks green and lush but devoid of any colour.
I took a week back in the UK to re-arrange the showroom and add a few new goodies. www.wattswishedfor.com and was surprised to see how, quite unconsciously, I seem to be creating little pockets of varying nationalities in my displays. I now have a very british corner, which looks sweet and makes me want to be living in an english country garden again. However I have to pinch myself and remember that the sun only shines approx two weeks a year and the concept of heat on the body is unknown to the pallid Brits.
So I was outta there quick as you can say "Cook me up a kipper". Problem was the ever accommodating Ryanair only have one flight to Nimes at 6.25 am. That means leaving Norfolk at 3 am. Thats not funny.
Anyway I made it and arrived home at 10am and went straight to bed.
I have been in a relationship now for seventeen years with the Old Etonian fishmonger Mike Gurney.
I can't live with him because he smells of fish; and fish and fabric do not mix due to absorbency issues.
It is fair to say I love him, but his habits don't please me. I think one needs to be meticulous about one's dress code if one is involved with fish. The Fishmonger though will clean himself up for a coming event, and then moments before we get in the car to leave he will remember he neglected to remove kippers from his smoking kiln. He will return to the car some twenty minutes later with a tray of kippers to drop at his shop (on the way to the wedding!) The shop however is not on the way to the wedding and the car
and his suit are now impregnated with the smell of prime smoked herring, I am angry, and the poor unsuspecting wedding guests blissfully studying their hymn sheets will shortly be on the move to a distant pew once said Fishmonger sidles in to a back row position. What an embarrassment he was to his poor children at school gatherings. There are more stories about the Fishmonger that will out over these pages if I am diligent and committed to writing. For now though I am back where the sun is shining and the whippets are happy to see me.
I took a week back in the UK to re-arrange the showroom and add a few new goodies. www.wattswishedfor.com and was surprised to see how, quite unconsciously, I seem to be creating little pockets of varying nationalities in my displays. I now have a very british corner, which looks sweet and makes me want to be living in an english country garden again. However I have to pinch myself and remember that the sun only shines approx two weeks a year and the concept of heat on the body is unknown to the pallid Brits.
So I was outta there quick as you can say "Cook me up a kipper". Problem was the ever accommodating Ryanair only have one flight to Nimes at 6.25 am. That means leaving Norfolk at 3 am. Thats not funny.
Anyway I made it and arrived home at 10am and went straight to bed.
I have been in a relationship now for seventeen years with the Old Etonian fishmonger Mike Gurney.
I can't live with him because he smells of fish; and fish and fabric do not mix due to absorbency issues.
It is fair to say I love him, but his habits don't please me. I think one needs to be meticulous about one's dress code if one is involved with fish. The Fishmonger though will clean himself up for a coming event, and then moments before we get in the car to leave he will remember he neglected to remove kippers from his smoking kiln. He will return to the car some twenty minutes later with a tray of kippers to drop at his shop (on the way to the wedding!) The shop however is not on the way to the wedding and the car
and his suit are now impregnated with the smell of prime smoked herring, I am angry, and the poor unsuspecting wedding guests blissfully studying their hymn sheets will shortly be on the move to a distant pew once said Fishmonger sidles in to a back row position. What an embarrassment he was to his poor children at school gatherings. There are more stories about the Fishmonger that will out over these pages if I am diligent and committed to writing. For now though I am back where the sun is shining and the whippets are happy to see me.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Cherry Time.
It is cherry time here in the Cevennes, South of France. I have watched them develop, over the month, from my walks along the banks of the Vidoroule with the whippets. We have a local, rather neglected orchard, but this year they are prolific and suddenly the orchard it full with gatherers and their dogs, all chattering and barking under the trees. Huge baskets brimming over with the fruit. The whippets and I were deprived of our sneaky pocketful yesterday! Yes. I have a cherry loving whippet.
Then suddenly the clocktower strikes mid day and everything stops...silence... As if by magic tables and table cloths appear, bottles are uncorked and bread, cheese and saucison are liberally spread amongst the workers.
I love this about France. and I hate this about France. Generally this 12pm curfew is when I stick my head out of the door with the intention to hunt down a fresh croissant or a pint of coveted fresh milk. No chance.Everything shuts for three hours.
My body clock has no parity with that of my french cousins. I am slowly learning to understand that I have to do everything that applies to my bodily and household functions before mid day and then I can do what I get paid for apres midi. Most places are open from 3pm to 7pm, most especially all the favoured brocante shops that I love to haunt and cherry pick from!!
However, back to the orchard and today I noticed that one of the trees had died. Curled and brown it had just given up the ghost mid yield. The cherries were still relatively healthy, but unripe on it's branches,
but there was no one at all home. Neglected unborn children, still feeling the sun, but no chance of ever
coming to full term. It was quite a sad sight, as it stood, forlorn, along with all the others in the orchard healthy and heavy with ripe fruit.
Once I could manage to separate the farmer's spaniel from the jaws of my whippets, I asked him what was the problem. The reply came as a familiar french shrug...je n'sais pas. C'est une maladie!
If you have to be sick or even dying, so much better I feel to be suffering from a "maladie" than a disease. There is romance in a maladie. It conjures up pre Raphaelite women in languorous poses on velvet chaises. I liked this image and transposed it immediately onto the poor cherry tree. She was simply over come with the heat and demands of her children. Not dying, just in a faint for the season. The farmer seemed unconcerned and continued plucking the ripe fat healthy cherries. Very like the Pre Raphaelite painters I am lead to believe.
Then suddenly the clocktower strikes mid day and everything stops...silence... As if by magic tables and table cloths appear, bottles are uncorked and bread, cheese and saucison are liberally spread amongst the workers.
I love this about France. and I hate this about France. Generally this 12pm curfew is when I stick my head out of the door with the intention to hunt down a fresh croissant or a pint of coveted fresh milk. No chance.Everything shuts for three hours.
My body clock has no parity with that of my french cousins. I am slowly learning to understand that I have to do everything that applies to my bodily and household functions before mid day and then I can do what I get paid for apres midi. Most places are open from 3pm to 7pm, most especially all the favoured brocante shops that I love to haunt and cherry pick from!!
However, back to the orchard and today I noticed that one of the trees had died. Curled and brown it had just given up the ghost mid yield. The cherries were still relatively healthy, but unripe on it's branches,
but there was no one at all home. Neglected unborn children, still feeling the sun, but no chance of ever
coming to full term. It was quite a sad sight, as it stood, forlorn, along with all the others in the orchard healthy and heavy with ripe fruit.
Once I could manage to separate the farmer's spaniel from the jaws of my whippets, I asked him what was the problem. The reply came as a familiar french shrug...je n'sais pas. C'est une maladie!
If you have to be sick or even dying, so much better I feel to be suffering from a "maladie" than a disease. There is romance in a maladie. It conjures up pre Raphaelite women in languorous poses on velvet chaises. I liked this image and transposed it immediately onto the poor cherry tree. She was simply over come with the heat and demands of her children. Not dying, just in a faint for the season. The farmer seemed unconcerned and continued plucking the ripe fat healthy cherries. Very like the Pre Raphaelite painters I am lead to believe.
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The Fishmonger
The Fishmonger beside a tinkling stream.
The whippet walk
Mazet