THE FRENCH HOUSE

I've slept all day. But I worked all night.   So it's crossed itself out, and I'm writing Yukon and book and then got a 600 mile drive down to France which I'm really looking forward to.   I so miss that place when I'm not there.   I tend to write white, so I'm trying to do all the dark shadowy stuff now and leave the birds and whispering trees to when I arrive. I suspect there will be an electric storm which there usually is but the skies are so clear. And the ciccadas chirping away, the cows, those so pretty cows with their big eyes and long eye lashes in the neighbouring fields and the frogs and ducks who have hopefully found mates by now, because if not they will be making a hell of a noise in the pond in the hamlet.   And going to the market on Thursdays in Villefranche and buying far too much fruit and vegetables.   And gazing at the wonderful castle in Najac and always saying and thinking how wonderful it is.   And knowing when I'm there Tom will be asking for a dog, and why can't we have a dog, and if we lived in France with that space and that countryside and that lifestyle we would have a couple of dogs, because we would need them.   And the quiches in the local patisserie. They are to die for.   I wouldn't touch quiche in this country.  I'm sure they've put magic mushroom in it or something there. I could live off the things.  And that journey with all those tolls, ouch.  And the Parisien version of the North Circular which is just as bad as ours but they clear up crashes much more efficiently.    I want to sit out on the terrace and gaze out over the hamlet, and see how that huge walnut tree has grown outside the bedroom window.   And see if we've got honey bees like we did a few years ago, because this time i wouldn't get rid of the hive.   I miss the French house.