Its raining in France. I spent hours cutting down the dead wood in the garden yesterday until it was dark, talking to the cows, then realising I was wearing red and some of them were bulls. I can now see the wood for the trees and know its easier to cut out dead wood in the garden than it is to do so from life. Easier to recognise for one thing.
I had a blue finch tap on the window this morning. I open the window and the bloomin thing flies off. It does that every morning about eight. I go downstairs, do some work, up again and slept till one. The beds are bliss here.
Everything is closed in France today. There is a festival or something. Its like a day long lunch. The French are lazy and rude (in my opinion) but I love their country. Tarpaulin laying tomorrow and change over. I am not into gardening. Its something that needs to be done, and I treat it like a metaphor for life rather than a pleasure. The French family staying in the give have had lousy weather but they have been wonderful. Perfect guests. They read a lot and go out and explore looking at me lugging tree trunks and looking evil with the cutters like some crazed killer on the outlook for brambles or anything that looks like it has a prick.
I look at the BBC news. Its no different from ITV other than on BBC they say the same thing but without a smile. Boy is it rubbish out there. And Cliff Richard has been accused of something and there’s an asteroid coming towards earth. And everyone is still blowing up everyone else. And Cameron looks tanned and like a cabbage patch doll from his Portuguese holiday.
Must eat loads of cake and have sex but not at the same time before the asteroid hits. But both must be of a very high quality.
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