Tuesday, 9 July 2013

Bed of roses

Life is not, sometimes, yes, yesterday, bucket of wilting ragwort with an occasional spritely red tulip amongst the faded yellow. Actually it wasn't all bad at all, I just had a headache and the boy was vacillating between vile crossness and manic stupidity. He was tired and hot and headachy too — ultra high pressure it was, with vast cauliflower clouds as he put it — poetic.
Today, same weather, same mother and boy, but roses . . . perhaps not a bed of, but certainly a good vase full. We talked a lot, went for a walk in a village, previously unexplored (by us), went to Carcassonne to get his phone fixed by the miserable bastards in Boeig Beoig Boueyg (however you spell it) telecom, forgot the phone, much to the only-just-hidden pleasure of the sulky 'jeune', and  adjourned to the square to drink foot high fruit cocktails.
Found the boy some shoes he liked and two t-shirts that weren't black and a daft t-shirt with bluebirds on it for Mark; on our return home, the dog hadn't peed on the sofa, and the donkey birds in the garden had been replaced by two pairs of musical songsters, twittering happily in the early afternoon sunshine.



As a celebration of the rosier days: petals collected by the boy, and syrup he made subsequently after an afternoon of 'airsoft' gun practise . . .

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