come on in, the water's lovely.

Odd things seasons . . .

I cannot now recall that feeling of hardly being able to drag oneself to the fridge for a bottle of slightly cool water, or driving up to the top of a local hill to locate a pocket of non-fetid hot air. When socks are a mysterious collection of unfamiliar things hidden at the back of the drawer and a small salad is sufficient for lunch.

Have been fighting an urge today to lie on the sofa under all available blankets with the dogs, eat chocolate and watch daft films featuring Hugh Grant.
We are all obviously supposed to hibernate between January and April, crawl into a big pile of leaves and emerge blinking in the delicate pale sunlight of spring, unwashed but enthused; ready for the new year.

I was idly perusing youtube for some info to show Ezra about the coldest place to live on earth. There it was, a small settlement in deepest Siberia. A group of lonely houses in a white expanse. A large sign proudly stated the coldest record of recent times - seventy five degrees! The local 'weather man', dressed in a light jumper (as it was only - thirty two degrees) was describing how you would literally freeze outside in a couple of minutes if not wearing the right clothing, (presumably three ski combinations inside a hollowed-out yak).

Getting the car out to go to Super U to get a new gas bottle suddenly seemed a thing of joy and wonder.

Blues removal.

I woke up this morning.
This was true, which was already good; not everyone can say they woke up this morning, but I suppose if they couldn't say that they had woken up this morning, they would no longer be with us. Anyway, I did, and I felt a bit crap, partly due the January 'Jack The Ripper' weather, but partly as Mark is about to depart to the land of clogs and round cheeses for 2 weeks. What can we do when we feel like this?

For me, its commencement of small unimportant tedious jobs, which give a feeling of accomplishment (sad) then lead on to the bigger picture.

Todays prime example of tedious job was washing the car. This is our noble old Kangoo: filthy, stinky and beaten on all sides including the roof, where I backed into an overhanging sign which said: do not reverse here, in a car park. The cat has started a new hobby of getting in the car, getting trapped and peeing on the seats . . . nice! So the overall feeling of getting in the car recently has been . . . depressing.
An hour later we had a beautiful shining thing sitting on the drive: amazing! A sponge, two buckets of water lightly anointed with floor cleaner, quick hoover round, and my mood changed to positive — was even able to go to the bank and make a R.D.V that I had been putting off.

Mood changes are a strange thing. Must read up on what the function of feeling crap actually is, there must be a reason for it. Perhaps some people never do feel down, but then you wouldn't really appreciate when you were feeling very 'up'. Think I must stop here, and make a cup of tea, or take the dogs out.

Washing as art

Tracy Emin's bed be damned.
This is far more interesting.
I have lost our clothes airer. It is red and about two meters long; how is it possible to lose such an item? It's not even in the garage. I think someone must have taken it on our open art day. Good luck to them - it was more annoying than a deck chair to erect, and strangely space consuming in its angularness.

Make your own Tate installation. One very long piece of string and various bits of furniture to attach it to. The string position can be varied according to where the sun's rays enter the house during the day, or whether the fire is lit.
I have further site-specific pieces on the outside walls of the house, and on the terrace if it's raining.
Clothes as ancient as some of ours have stories to tell, especially if they have come from a vide grenier (car boot sale) first.
The oldest item on display in the current exhibition is Mark's 'Criminal' long sleeved t-shirt. Purchased in the clearance department (who on earth could be this shape?) of T.K. Maxx about nine years ago, this garment has been worn during gigs, house moving, gardening, midday naps, hikes, cooking, jogging, and other 'stuff' . . .  Roll over Tracy.

Happy new year.

It's a funny time this 'out with old, in with the new' thing.
What resolutions this morning, to be un-done by teatime. For me: less swearing — this one never works, create more oxygen (buy more trees) not a difficult one, give up being cross, impossible, due to womeny age-crisis time, but at least, more tolerant in annoying situations.

2010. What to hope for, what to set out to achieve.

I would like to create a studio; the corner of our busy sitting room has become a little cramped — mostly occupied by a christmas tree at the moment.
Mark is going to sell the 'gamelan' and start other music project ideas in its place. Ezra will hopefully learn to do his homework in advance, and maybe the dogs will make an effort not to decorate the house in an unwanted fashion. Now, for time-honoured N.Y Day walk in the wind, especially laid on for blowing away the collected cobwebs of 2009.

A different kind of dog.

The Hothouse compound is guarded by our two Italian greyhounds.
People stop transfixed by the runtyness of the tiny one. The sheer audacity of his presence is impressive; the way he draws himself up to the size of say, a frozen chicken, and hurls forth abuse in his tiny rapid-fire barks.

These are house dogs, bred for human contact. Their mission is to snuggle with their owners as much as possible, preferably amongst velvet and pure wool.
Actually they are great walkers and racers too, but primarily weedy, snuggling warmth-leeches unlike the dogs of these collars.
These are macho earth-caked hairy dogs with huge yelpy voices and blood in mind. Dogs of 'la chasse' (hunting).

We have quite a few that turn up in the garden with jingly collar bells, somehow way off the scent, or perhaps in secret search of a soft sofa . . . 

When we first arrived in France, 'la chasse' seemed a strange, gruesome idea, but over the years I have come to view in a different way. It's so much of the way of life for many people here, as much as the 'potager' (veg patch) is for providing food and satisfaction in a certain expected order of the turning year.
Spring: preparing ground, sowing, gathering wild asparagus etc. Summer: lettuce, tomatoes, cherries, strawberries, apricots, watering. Autumn: harvest, mushroom-picking, cutting back, bonfires. Winter: 'la chasse'.
I have never participated (except for a couple of times of nearly being shot) but can imagine the fresh, crisp air, the thrill of the chase, dividing of the beast(s) amongst friends, wine consumed, all to be . . . enjoyable. I think.
Anyway, if we are prepared to eat meat, we should also perhaps be aware of the reality of the animal's demise. We are all too accustomed to the safe, cling-film packets of pink and red stuff on the supermarket shelves: de-skinned, de-boned, de-feathered, oven ready.

And goodwill to all men

Even to Ezra who woke us up crashing about at 5.00 am — still, I'm sure we all did the same at eleven years old.

Excellent Christmas day. Brilliant presents all round, lunch in the sun, walk above Limoux, far too much chocolate and a viewing of an awful 'Carry On' film from   Ezra's stocking.

Only 2 shopping days to Christmas

Festive lunacy is upon us.
Yesterday, the local supermarket was full of people staggering under the weight of enlarged duck livers in jars, 'buche de Noel' and daft gold/red china.
It's scary to think that all over France, Spain, the UK and generally a lot of the planet, people are engaged in this PANIC to buy stuff for one day . . . the celebration of the birth of one small human a very long time ago.
Do most people actually remember what the event is? Has the possibility that Marks and Spencer might have run out of their platinum label Christmas puds become more important.

Don't know what I believe, but I'm going to go and do a church crawl on Christmas eve, starting in Pieusse, where Mark is playing their new church harmonium, and then possibly to a freezing abby out in the sticks for midnight mass.

Sorry for Scrooge-like sentiments, but . . . really! I think it was working in advertising for too many years — 'Boot's' Christmas press shows in July complete with log fires, carol singers etc.

Here is a lovely sunrise to evoke peace, reflection and serenity as we head out once more to the shops to cross another vital thing of the Chistmastide list.

Bonnes Fêtes.