I do not close my bedroom shutters in Sigoules, and am usually awake at daybreak. Six telephone cables, stretched loosely along the street, pass the now double-glazed tall window. There is a lamp fixed to the outside wall on my right. As I stirred very early this morning, a fluorescent flash, lit by this illumination, streaked diagonally upwards across the panes, to perch momentarily on the topmost wire, then, emblazoned against the deep indigo of the pre-dawn sky visible above the trees opposite, to dart away. An early bird indeed.
The local people think I am joking when I tell them it is far warmer in Minstead than it is here. Yesterday’s high was eight degrees and Carrefour had welcoming industrial fan heaters mounted high above the shelves exhaling steadily. One beneficiary of the unseasonal wet weather has been my tiled garden. Everything is blooming. 
I am particularly pleased with the Valerian which I bought as a single stem and planted in the stone wall. The pale pink geraniums growing in a couple of inches of soil beneath it were brought here by Maggie and Mike from Dover Street, Southwell a good ten years ago.
It was a bright enough morning for bees to venture out busily labouring to load their limbs with pollen.
Tarpaulin protecting scaffolding next door flapped frantically, battered by the threatening gusts of wind, reminding me of our neighbour opposite in Gracedale Road during the great storm of 1987 (see post of 2nd June 2012).
Dusting, polishing, and hoovering continued on the first floor after I had figured out how to change the bag for the machine. In switching attachments I learned how I had managed to cut my thumb yesterday. I had only spotted that when one of the picture frames displayed a smear of the wrong colour on its top left hand corner.
After this a late lunch consisted of a scrumptious baguette and sausage.