Queen's Jubilee

 Not being a royalist I tried to avoid the celebrations. Unfortunately as I joined a new group which had planned a celebration.  All my principles  dissolved  when I saw the enthusiasm of the women. They all turned up dressed in red, white and blue. They had planned a great party. The room was decorated and the table was laid out for the tea. On seeing the food and drink my willpower to keep to my year long diet dissipated. I became a greedy, gormandising cake-eating monster.

 The jugs of fruit drenched in Pimms and decorated with umbrellas graced the tables. Well it would have been churlish to have refused a glass of that wouldn't it. 

So I ate a macaroon and a large slice of date and walnut cake and a portion of a delicious home made Victoria sponge.

The Irish Colleen

 The Rugby Team and the Girl in the Red Mini-Skirt

She had that Pre-Raphaelite hair, masses of it but red. Redheads are not supposed to wear scarlet but it did not matter it was part of her attraction. She sat legs crossed, elbows on the table supporting the hand with the cigarette and blowing smoke through her luscious bright, shiny red lips.  Red hair, red lips red skirt, mini of course, it was a combination the young rugby team were unable to resist. She emptied one glass and drew towards her another pint of the amber liquid which  seemed to glow with her radiance and seemed more so as it  contrasted to her dark haired, black clothed, thin companion. 

The rugby team jostled for positions. They either sat next to her or in front of her in rows of two or three like an audience. She knew very well that she was holding court and revelled in it. They hung on her every word, panted at every movement and fidgeted with desire.

Their faces were like open books. Eyes wide open in disbelief. Was she real? Would they get to touch her? Who would be the lucky one?

The younger children who previously had  had the attention of the rugby team tried to break it up by running round in and out and shouting rude comments. They soon realised that this was more important than their games. They were being ignored so they drew back and hung around the periphery watching intently and creating a second audience. 

A group of people on the deck above leaned over the veranda and watched creating an enthralled  gallery.

At this point the manager of the team arrived with a camera and the lads jumped up to pose. They surrounded the girls like background scenery and smiled and joked while the camera flashed.

The team pleased the audience and entertained them by singing coarse rugby songs, not comparably to Irish love songs but the colleen didn't seem to mind. She was coming to the end of her second or third pint and was drunk with the liquor and the adoration.

The finale occurred with her chosen one when they stood up to kiss surrounded by the sportsmen and encouraged by comments like harder, press harder, more, more,longer, longer.

The Prologue

The team made their way to the vehicle deck strutting and jostling for positions. Some still singing - not together but each alone in some sort of competition to be , to be what? Bigger, louder, more noticed, sexier? I don't think they even knew.

The two Irish colleens tottered behind them. Miss red skirt in the highest, strappiest sandals I've ever seen. Her eyes looked dulled by drink now and she clung unsteadily to her friend.

They watched as the glass door swung shut in front of them almost knocking them over. Not one of the rugby team even looked around or waved. They turned around and joined the younger children who had followed them. They smiled sadly and walked away.

Inspiration

 So Manda Scott we need a new genre do we? Give me a break. First it "Misery Memoirs" then it was "Up-lift" stories. Why, why, why should my writing fit into a genre?  I suppose it is coming from the publishers and since the publishers receive more submissions than they can even read why should they determine what we should read? Dare I suggest that they tell us what is popular via their sales and that is determined by their marketing. 

 I've never been a push over. I detest being told how or what to write. I write from my soul and if that lives outside all the boxes then so be it.

Taking a step sideways this morning when reading Mslexia I realised something. I have been writing for a long time, forty years or so. I have written and self published a semi-autobiographical book, a dozen or so short stories, numerous poems, some articles and had letters to magazines and newspapers published.

I am not disabled. I haven't been in an accident. My family is fine. My witch has communicated all she can.   I am writing fewer and fewer posts on my three blogs. Does writing rely on unusual experiences? I have never been proficient at writing about make believe or fantasy. 

Here I am back to Arnold Bennet, "the interestingness of ordinariness".

Why would anyone want to read about me now, at 80, sitting in front of the TV and worrying about the state of the world politically and environmentally? I can't even go on demos, or contribute to an informative magazine like I used to. I just click like on Facebook and know I can't do more.

If I die

 

My life seems very strange these days. Our group seems too have been split asunder and I can’t even visit folks. Still we have so many ways to communicate – e-mail, messenger, telephone even snail mail and amazingly,  video calls. Even so, I sometimes wonder how many days it would be before I was found if I fell or had a heart attack. My cleaner comes once a fortnight so the maximum would be thirteen days I suppose. Would the cats eat me in that time.

Geneviève's Story in French

 La balade d'aujourd'hui nous mènera dans un charmant village, mais ce dont je veux vous divertir est un sujet qui m'est très cher... on ne peut pas visiter un village sans croiser deux grands yeux ronds qui nous fixent... Nous appelons eux, errants, abandonnés, ou caniveaux, ce sont les SDF du village.. des chats croisent nos allées, tantôt ils viennent nous faire signe en nous demandant de l'amour, tantôt ils disparaissent sous des planches ou au détour d'une rue... Nous en croisons quelques-uns des assiettes pleines de croquettes.. et on devine la gentillesse de certains villageois... il y a quelques associations qui tentent de limiter la misère et la triste condition de ces chats errants... mais il y en a souvent trop... et le combat c'est très dur...

Ces chats ont leur propre histoire et même très belle... et certains villages sont fiers de les raconter.... En l'an de grâce 1338, dans un village de Gascoge appelé le Roméo célèbre pour son beau collage construit il y a vingt ans, vécurent heureux Vincent et Mariette. Il était bûcheron et sa femme l'accompagnait souvent dans la forêt pour faire des barons. Ils travaillaient dur mais avec la volaille, le porc, les légumes et les fruits du jardin la table était pleine. Ils étaient mariés depuis trois ans lorsque Mariette a donné naissance à une petite fille qu'ils ont prénommée Angéline. Malheureusement, Vincent s'est fait renverser par un arbre qu'il était en train d'abattre. Mariette, inconsolable, se laissa périr et deux mois plus tard, elle fut retrouvée morte tenant Angeline dans ses bras.

Mariette, inconsolable, se laissa périr et deux mois plus tard, elle fut retrouvée morte tenant Angeline dans ses bras. La petite a été récupérée par une voisine et a grandi avec ses enfants comme leur sœur. Angeline a montré une grande attirance pour les chats. Il y en avait toujours deux ou trois autour d'elle qui, la nuit, dormaient dans son lit. Elle partageait souvent son école avec eux. Angéline, au fil des ans, est devenue une jeune fille forte qui aidait bien ses parents adoptifs dans les travaux des champs, toujours accompagnée de ses chats. En 1342 et les deux années suivantes, l'hiver est rude et le printemps et l'été si pluvieux qu'il est impossible d'ensemencer les champs. Un grand discours s'ensuit et malgré la distribution par le seigneur Arnaud d'Aux des réserves des collégiues, les habitants du Roméo n'ont bientôt plus rien à craindre. Ils ont alors pensé aux nombreux chats du village et ont fabriqué une gibelotte. Les parents d'Angeline, sachant combien elle aimait les siens, ont convenu qu'elle garderait un chat et un chaton à condition de bien les cacher car tout ce que les voisins demandaient était de leur tordre le cou. Ainsi, la journée, Angeline a enfermé les deux minous dans le grenier et la nuit, elle les a laissés chasser. � Mais la famine s'intensifiait et de nombreux villageois moururent. Angéline et ses parents gagnaient misérablement leur vie en cueillant des racines dans les bois et parfois des champignons, mais c'était misérable. Très maigres, ils ont tout de même réussi à surmonter cette triste période et les temps plus doux permettent enfin de faire vivre une vendange. Mais à La Romieu, où les chats avaient disparu, les rats avaient proliféré au point de menacer les cultures. Angéline, avec d'infinies précautions avait pu cacher ses chats et avait eu plusieurs portées. Une vingtaine de commis occupaient le grenier. Heureusement la maison était isolée Les villageois se lamentaient sur les dégâts causés par les rats. C'est alors qu'Angéline a annoncé qu'elle allait libérer une vingtaine de chatons que les locaux pourraient adopter. Les rats disparaissent rapidement et c'est ainsi qu'Angéline a sauvé Roméo d'un nouveau malheur. La légende raconte aussi que le visage d'Angeline, au fil des ans, ressemblait de plus en plus à un chat et que ses oreilles se transformaient en oreilles de chat. C'est en écoutant une grand-mère raconter à ses petits-enfants la légende des chats d'Angéline, qu'un sculpteur orléan a eu l'idée de lui redonner vie en déposant des sculptures de chats sur la place. Cette histoire ne s'est pas déroulée en Provence, mais traîner avec le chat, on ne risque que de s'enrichir », écrivait Colette dans Les Vrilles de la Vigne. Nos ancêtres appliquaient cette maxime au pied de la lettre à une époque où les chats n'étaient pas en odeur de sainteté. La raison ? a été affirmé dans la campagne que certains chats étaient capables d'apporter de la richesse à leur propriétaire. Ces matous d'un genre particulier étaient nommés "matous" en Provence. Voici mes amis, je suis très heureuse d'être entourée de chats, ma Julia pourrait parfois jouer à maman... et aujourd'hui des jours paisibles coulent dans mes cabanons que je leur ai construits.. rien que de l'amour et du respect... c'est ce que je a appris... Je vous souhaite une très belle journée avec du soleil plein la tête et le coeur, et de belles découvertes pour égayer vos balades... Soyez heureux, prenez bien soin de vous et de ceux qui vous sont chers. Bisous à tous, merci infiniment pour votre fidélité, pour votre bienveillance, pour votre belle amitié, pour vos messages chaleureux et merci aussi pour tous vos nombreux partages qui me font si plaisir. Avec toute ma sincère amitié, ..... Je vous le dirai demain.

Story from Geneviève

 

Mes petites madeleines

Today's walk will lead us to a charming village, but what I want to entertain you about is a topic very dear to me... we can't visit a village without crossing two big, round eyes staring at us... We call them, strays, abandoned, or gutters, they are the SDFs of the village .. cats cross our walks, sometimes they come waving at us asking for love, sometimes they disappear under some boards or around a street... We encounter a few plates full of kibble .. and we guess the kindness of some villagers... there are a few associations that try to limit the misery and sad condition of these stray cats... but there are often too many... and the fight is very tough...

These cats have their own story and even very beautiful... and some villages are proud to tell them....

In the year of grace 1338, in a village of Gascoge called the Romeo famous for its beautiful collage built twenty years ago, lived happily Vincent and Mariette. He was a lumberjack and his wife often accompanied him to the forest to make barons. They worked hard but with the poultry, pork, vegetables and fruit from the garden the table was full.

They had been married for three years when Mariette gave birth to a little girl who they named Angeline.

Sadly Vincent got run over by a tree he was taking down.

Mariette, inconsolable, let herself perish and two months later, she was found dead holding Angeline in her arms.

The little one was picked up by a neighbor and grew up with her children like their sister. Angeline showed a great attraction to cats. There were always two or three around her who, at night, slept in her bed. She often shared her school with them.

Angeline, over the years, became a strong young girl who helped her adoptive parents well in the field work, always accompanied by her cats. In 1342 and the following two years, the winter was harsh and the spring and summer so rainy that it was impossible to seed the fields.

A great discourse followed and despite the distribution by the Lord Arnaud d'Aux of the reserves of the collegiues, the inhabitants of the Romeo soon had nothing to worry about. They then thought about the so many cats in the village and made a gibelotte.

Angeline's parents, knowing how much she loved hers, agreed that she would keep a cat and a kitten on condition to hide them well because all the neighbors asked was to twist their necks. So during the day Angeline locked the two kitties in the attic and at night let them out to hunt. �

But famine was intensifying and many villagers died. Angeline and her parents made a miserable living by picking roots in the woods and sometimes mushrooms, but it was wretched.

Very skinny, they still managed to overcome this sad period and the gentler times finally allow a harvest to live on.

But in La Romieu, where the cats had disappeared, the rats had proliferated to the point of threatening the crops. Angeline, with infinite precautions had been able to hide her cats and had several litters.

There were about twenty clerks occupying the attic. Luckily the house was isolated

Villagers were lamenting over the damage the rats caused.

It's then that Angeline announced that she was going to release about twenty kittens that the locals could adopt.

Rats are disappearing quickly and this is how Angeline saved Romeo from a new misfortune.

Legend also has it that Angeline's face, over the years, looked more and more like a cat and her ears turned into cat ears.

It was while listening to a grandmother tell her grandchildren about the legend of Angeline's cats, that an Orléan sculptor came up with the idea of bringing it back to life by dropping cat sculptures around the square.

This story did not take place in Provence, but

to hang out with the cat, you only risk getting richer," wrote Colette in Les Vrilles de la Vine. Our ancestors applied this maxim to the foot of the letter in times when cats were not in the smell of holiness. The reason? It was claimed in the campaign that some cats were capable of bringing wealth to their owner.

These matous of a particular kind were named "matots" in Provence.

Here are my friends, I'm very happy to be surrounded by cats, my Julia could play mom sometimes... and today peaceful days flow in my sheds I built for them.. nothing but love and respect... that's what i was taught...

I wish you a very nice day with sun full of head and heart, and beautiful discoveries to brighten your walks ...

Be happy, take good care of yourself and those dear to you.

Kisses to all, thank you so much for your fidelity, for your kindness, for your beautiful friendship, for your warm messages and thank you also for all your many shares that make me so happy.

With all my sincere friendship, ..... I'll tell you tomorrow.

Gardening in Brittany

 How I became an obsessional gardener

Six years ago I bought a house in Brittany. Yes a house. What I didn’t realise at the time was that I had bought a field. This house had the three most important things the TV programmes advise us to look for, that is ..location, location, location! My house is the only one in the lane, has an unrestricted view down to the Rance and up to the village church. So it’s traffic free, noise free and absolutely paradisaical. The field is bordered by poplar trees to the south and west, two hundred year old oaks to the east and I have planted hornbeams to the north.

I had lived in an upstairs flat in England for twenty tears and didn’t even have a window box. I had no intention of gardening. I moved to France to spend my retirement writing and painting. So how did it happen that I now go to bed planning the next for months gardening, I wake up eager to get on with the daily sowing/ planting/weeding/mowing or pruning.

I believe that to be a good gardener one needs patience, energy, time and knowledge. We can acquire knowledge from books and gardening friends and I had these aplenty. Alas I had and still have not, the first three.

I began six years ago by making a path to the clothes-line so as not to get my feet wet when pegging out the washing. Next I thought a few plants in front of my south facing windows. Then I stopped saying to myself if I make more garden then I shall I have to weed it, ugh! Oh and by the way this garden is 5,000 square metres in size.