after a short interval..

Sorry about that.
I meant to write, I really did, all through a glorious early Spring that followed a busy January, but ... I must be on a well-paved path to Hell.
Some people still write to us imagining we are lounging around in perfect sunshine, ignoring the times I tell them how relieved we are that we put in a woodburner two years ago, that many nights in January drop below minus 10, that it can rain from November to January non-stop, and, that in the height of summer we shut the house up tight to keep out the heat and stay in like moles, if we can. Even our friend Ted, who used to take Naturist holidays in Croatia, was beaten indoors by our August sun.
May and June, then September and occasionally October are the lounging months, if we can ignore the ongoing work.
I can, Paul can't.
He is now engaged on the last big decorating job, the 50 foot Salon. He prepares, I will paint, and I look with trepidation at the acreage of wall. A later report may address the vexed question of French paint, (shudders and rolls eyes.)


It's cold today, after temperatures that nearly reached 100 degrees in May. I'm considering putting the duvet back, unheard of in June, and we have to dodge sudden downpours, - yesterday we had hail and a storm, and we picked a sunny interlude on Sunday morning to go and vote.

To be on the Electoral Roll, able to vote in National 'Parliamentary' elections, one has to be a citizen. (Images here of funny red hats, sans culottes and shouts of 'aux armes, citoyens'.) So we can't do that, but we have inscribed to the right to vote in local elections for the Maire and Council and in European elections. We have our 'Pli Electoral', a sort of voting identity card which is stamped each time one votes, so we found them in the filing cabinet, (that was a rare thing, being able to find what we were looking for in the filing cabinet,) and had a good look at the Party 'infos'.

These arrive in the week before the election. The poor post-woman hauls round to every household a bulging A5 brown envelope, stuffed with colourful, thin, re-cyclable papers which carry the information of all the parties, candidates, policy outlines and so on. Either you take a selection with you to the Polling Station, or you can collect a handful there. The shots of Sarkhozy on BBC news showed him collecting his handful. He seemed to be looking, puzzled, for his UMP leaflet; I wondered for a moment if some wag had hidden them.
Therefore, you walk into the booth with a handful of confetti and no-one knows which one you are going to use. For it is by selecting one sheet and putting it in the provided brown envelope that you register your vote.
No need to put a cross, a tick or press a chad while wondering if you've remembered a candidate's name and logo correctly or whether you have inadvertantly voted for the Monster Raving Teddy Bear's Anti-European Libertarian Front - yes they have a fair few of these in France too. Pop in the paper, discard the rest with the heap in the booth which the Officer is supposed to have removed but hasn't, happily a lot were Front Nationale, go to the box, pop in your brown envelope, sign your name et voilà, civic duty done.
And, had I chosen to, I could have taken with me a slip of blank white paper and put that in, to register one of many 'votes blanches', which are counted and declared.

The Maire then shook our hands and thanked us for exercising 'le droit et le devoir' - the right and the duty, and off we went with an au revoir.

Back then to an afternoon lounging watching the rain, fretting about the seedlings I want to plant out, the pots I want to re-arrange on the new courtyard... Oh well, I won't need to water them.
Speak soon.
At least, I intend to...