Blogging from Bridport - Day 34
The cast:
Me
'The undertaker' (husband)
Today's task is making a silk purse from a sow's ear...
By 8am we have decided upon tonight's menu, apparently this is commonplace. Will we ever resume going back to shopping more than once a week? Will being an introvert ever be so rewarding and a salvation to your sanity?
In the doghouse at an early hour. Must have inadvertently overloaded up the washing machine resulting in an ungodly tangled soaking wet heap. 'The undertaker' surveys the carnage with a critical eye. Not to be browbeaten I retaliate sharpish. 'Whoever puts the cardboard end of the loo roll back in the basket' I say. He looks towards the heavens as well he might.
Talking of looking upwards, and my goodness how blue the path to heaven looks of late, I notice whilst enjoying my lunch, (a touch of ham and salad squeezed between bird seed bread) that the palm tree is showing signs of flowering this summer. This is indeed an event to record for posterity. A touch of the exotic Mediterranean flora is soon to be exposed right here in our West Country garden.
Its hot enough to warrant a summer dress and to expose ones legs. Slathering myself in factor 30 I lie back but after ten minutes I become restless, with visions of people with leathery sun damaged skin so I hop back into the shade. No point taking precautions against Covid-19 and being taken away by skin cancer. The voices of neighbours waft over to me on the warm air. I have this awful admission to make, it's either an affliction or a benefit depending on what you do in life... I can listen into many conversations at once at an, often ludicrous, range (I quote himself). 'Nearly 90' has been kept amused on many an occasion when we are sitting in a cafe by the stories being told on nearby tables, or even not so nearby.
Yesterday we strode out to West Bay, our nearest fishing harbour, either an eye sore or a pleasure depending on your architectural taste and the direction of your gaze. However, completely devoid of human life save for people purposely striding out, rather than loitering with huge bags of chips, it is refreshing and uplifting. In the distance we see a few foolhardy souls out swimming and even more unnerving, a couple strolling underneath the infamous cliffs close by to the recent large rockfall. A sleek rather sinister looking car slides along the sea front. It is a border control car driven by a muscular looking chap in dark glasses. 'Do you suppose he's been re-tasked to seek out second home owners' I say, 'the ones sneaking down in the dead of night'.
Here's a tip if you fall into this category and you are reading this whilst trying to seamlessly blend in as a local. Leave your Johnny Boden faded raspberry shorts and sunflower yellow hipster shirts at home. Your ultra cool Birkenstocks shouldn't have perfectly pedicured tootsies peeping out either and best to leave your copy of The Speccie by the loo...
Last but not least I am heartened to receive a rip roaring review for my little tale, 'Last Tango in Carcassonne', scratched out over long days and nights upon my return to the Motherland.
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Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 16 April 2020
Serena is an unlikely heroine but I loved her. Whenever life threatens to squash her - whether a bitter ex-husband, another financial disaster, a tragic love life or misguided life choices - Serena pulls through somehow, armed with her sense of humour, her sharp wit, endless hope and a band of loyal (read eccentric) friends. I found myself shouting 'don't do it, each time Serena was about to make another terrible life-choice, but cheering her on the next minute hoping that she will succeed against the odds. Serena's adventures take you from the bucolic British countryside and across to rural France, where she battles with the locals. BRAVO!
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(Product placement dear readers, learnt from too much Netflix)!
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