The morning before....

For a couple of months now I have been very VERY sensible about eating and consuming DRINK . . . all blown in one day of festivities.
Carnaval started with lavish meat fest as film reveals. 8.00 in the morning. Chorizo, slabs of bacon, sausages oozing in grease, white bread, bits of preserved duck fat, and as much hearty red wine you could shake a 'carabène' at.
Mark turned slightly pale and headed off home to eat some hippy food; I waded in and tested the fare.
After a few blanquettes and chardonnays on the tour of the cafés it was time for a very late lunch. I did avoid the fois gras, not for any particular reasons of animal ethics, (which were by that time rather shredded) but because I remember last year feeling somewhat . . . close to death by the time we had to hit the square again.
Gambas, followed by magret de canard, which was delicious. Not a vegetable in sight except for a wilting leaf next to the gambas. Tiramasu. Hot chocolate as I have given up coffee . . . ugh.
Oh, let me sleep, but no, we all created massive group indigestion by dancing around to carnival tunes, and then it was time to go out again.
More chardonnay, pastis, etc, although I did pad it all out with evil WATER. 'It rusts you', people said, but I really didn't want to visit memories of lying in bed, groaning and watching the Waltons as I was unable to change channels (the days before remotes).
After the tour, back in café, lots more jiggling, getting quite entertaining now with people standing on chairs singing about having no trousers on and then adding visuals.
Fancied a small fruit salad, or a perhaps even a whole sun dried tomato canapé (not a sofa), but instead there was a vast array of fois gras on toast, duck bits, white bread rolls, sausage rolls, brie, chorizo and jambon du pays. Decided to start blanquette diet on the spot, and joined in with more carnival jiggling - YMCA and even Plastic Bertrand?!
Only one member of our group pushed the satin-covered boat out a little too far. Although quite slight in frame, and having drunk several months worth of Ricard over the day, he did still manage to perform, with the odd lurch into the crowd; then back at the café he became strangely fixated with asking me what the translation of: "Oo, aa, will you be my girl" was in French.
Off out again for the 10.00 p.m tour, pushing our stomachs before us, more wine, pastis, etc etc,
then back to burn the carnival effigy. Was rather relieved to find we were not going to eat onion soup at 1.30 in the morning, which I have done with another band before.
Home.
Today, have gained seemingly 2 kilos.
Back to the pumkin seeds, veg etc, but will enjoy that culinary departure again next year.

Le sorti...

Great time had by all despite later rain.
Me with newly 'primped' colorette, and faluche (hat) rather squashed by the precipitation.
Way too much wine and food, aching body parts, quiet day today . . .

19th Feb 2011...Carnaval.

Yes folks the year has spun round again to this foolish time.
be in Limoux 11.00 ish in the square, to see Me and Mark dressed in...?
Or 5.00, 10.00 to see the traditional swishy satin stuff.

End of the world. 12? 21? Dec 2012 Bugarach

Well, which is it?
Seems there is a choice of dates regarding the fin du monde. Or maybe we are in for it two times - the first date might not quite end enough - lets leave it 9 days and have another go?
Either way, it's going to be interesting up there in that small village, although probably not for the inhabitants, unless they are planning were to sell/rent their abodes out for a huge sum and bugger off to somewhere with palm trees and curving white beaches.
Think I might start a secondary end-of-world theory to appose the main 'around-here' theory that a space ship is going to appear from under, or within, Bugarach mountain, possibly chauffeured by the Green Lizard people.
There is without doubt a space vessel under our shed.  I've often heard odd clanking in there, and someone has been at the jam stocks, and I'm sure once or twice I have seen rats carrying large pieces of sheet steel towards the noble structure after dark. It would explain why Mark can never find any tools - nothing to do with me . . .
Rats are far more likely to inherit the world, or at least its smoking remains, than lizards, or is it that giant lizards are going to arrive from space? Will have to question the small brown ones in the garden. I observed a few yesterday basking in the early spring sun. They didn't seem to be any different - no sitting in deck chairs with smug expressions or looking at estate agent magazines from galaxies beyond.
Just looked up some Mayan info; there is another date. The 23rd Dec 2012 which is heralded as IT. So perhaps December is going to be less heavy on the Christmas madness, a little more concentrated on the DIY side perhaps. Bunkers and the like. Bricolage should do well.
Perhaps it's all true.
I did see a film at the cinema, when I was about eleven, about The Nazca lines in Peru: the immense patterns drawn on the Earth's surface that can really only be appreciated as forms of animals, etc, from the air. If anyone is really anticipating the arrival of a passing space vessel, there might be a better choice of bus stop, not rural France.

yellow wool, sun's rays, happy dog.

And happy us. What a great few days, very aware of the lack of water around however. Could do with a wet spring.
I looked in my diary for this time last year and we did have a similar episode of sun-filled days, before a massive dump of snow squashed the over-optimistic almond blossom and nest builders. Maybe not this year, hope not, the woodpile is rapidly reaching the sawdust and beetles level.
Today preparation of CARNAVAL. Check out the Limoux square next Saturday at 10.30 to see Mark dressed in a way he might have been about 30 years ago . . .

Its Tuesday, it must be Esperaza...

Just back from the UK where weather was like here today, perhaps slightly more vile, only just . . .
Cannot find USB cable to load up recently taken snaps so here is one of Mark's favourite places. Not.
On a Tuesday and Wednesday he loads up his ancient tan leather greek bag with music and heads to the MJC building in above-mentioned town.
I like this edifice. It should really be on the outskirts of some mouldering Russian industrial town, an occasional venue for a vodka-laced dance event - echoing concrete and David Lynch film set corridors. The 'caretaker' (odd word to use when describing the gentleman in question) has asked Mark many times not to stick posters on the wall of the 'music room' - small dingy room with Dickensian desks and matching dust, presumably as this could leave small grease marks on the ancient, grimy, cracked paintwork. He has also requested that the windows always remain closed so the piano cannot be heard especially between 12.00 and 2.00 p.m when he has his siesta . . .