I am now entertained by natural sounds throughout the day. The swarm of little birds, far too quick for me to identify even if I knew how, spend the day chattering in the cascading clusters of ivy on the back garden wall. The lower, urgent, mating calls of woodpigeons offer intermittent variation. After nightfall, the incessant, slightly high-pitched, purring of a distant engine, emanates from mating frogs completely covering the pool behind the Carrefour petrol station. Jackie, who watched this writhing pulsating mass of procreation a couple of years ago, when I was still unable to climb up there, provided the metaphor for me.
This morning I learned that if you do not straighten a duvet for a week, but just drag it over you as you climb into bed at night, it has the capacity completely to reorient itself.
Early on, slightly disconcerted by the albeit painless creaking of my left knee, I did some more sweeping and weeding of the garden.
Ragged robin is the most prolific plant in the garden. Although a weed, it provides attractive ground cover, provided you have a decent acreage with a wild section, which I don’t. One fully grown potato had been reared in a flower bed. It could therefore be expected to have been of the sweet variety, but it isn’t.
Villon’s ‘Ballade Des Pendus’ was this morning’s straightforward poem. The collection’s earlier pieces must all be translations. I don’t think I’d make much sense of a French Chaucer or a Shakespeare.
When shopping for bread, I met my arthritic old lady again. This time she accepted my arm and allowed me to carry her extremely heavy bag. It was uphill from the baker’s. The sigh of relief as she gained my support, and was able to straighten up, was patent. On my way to the shop I had greeted her as she was resting on the half-way bench. She hadn’t got much further. Coquettishly, as, arm in arm, we adapted our paces to each other, she told a passing male acquaintance that she had found a young man. I suppose to her I must seem young. I was still only allowed to help until we reached a parked car she pointed out about a hundred yards away, this clearly being a milestone in her journey. When we reached it she remained adamant and pointed out her house which still seemed a long way for her. Otherwise, I didn’t understand much of what she said.
After this it was time to get out the hoover – a Philips actually – and duster. Thoroughly as the men had swept up after each day’s work, there was inevitably a fine coating of masonry dust covering numerous surfaces.
Half the aforementioned baguette; scrambled eggs and bacon, courtesy of Bill emptying his fridge; followed by an orange, provided a simple but adequate lunch.
For some reason best known to themselves, Don thinks I am always knocking over drinks, and Jackie thinks I am always about to. They would have each felt justified and probably ‘more than somewhat’ amused when David, replacing a beer I had just overturned whilst posting this entry, made a point of positioning it as far away from me as possible.