Never offend people with style when you can offend them with substance

The good included my introduction to Ted Lasso plus something almost wonderful! Putting out the bins R saw a large hedgehog sitting outside our gate. I came to see it, but it had gone. Still, it's nice to know it is so close. I kind of want it to come live in our garden because I could keep it safe there. Having said that, three cats, even old and toothless, may not be great for its sense of security.

We went for a walk yesterday and the day before, down to Dalkeith Palace with the adjoining park and farm, found ourselves in the company of horses, which is always good. Kestrels flew above us and we walked and talked in all that green, trees joining us in whispered conversations. I am tired but lighter.

Today I heard about Jeremy Corbyn's new party with Zarah Sultana co-leading it. I am beginning to believe the country's entire political system is working as hard as it can to put Reform into power. Naturally the media is being just as helpful.

The Far Left will not get used to the fact that folk like money. They cannot work out whether the rich are an asset to be used or an enemy to be despised, and the result of conflating both creates a major ongoing cash exodus. Dumb.

The Far Right are plugging into an unfortunately popular narrative re immigration. I find it completely crazy. Folk were like this when I was a kid, only then it was the Irish etc, etc... Now it's back. It always comes back when they are worried about jobs and money, and extremists stoke it. And here we are.

The Centrist Right, aka for now The Tories, have b*ggered themselves with over 10 years of terrible leadership and awful government, stumble after stumble. I don't particularly count Sunak in that, but he, like Kemi Badenoch, are the wrong shades for many Conservative voters who have now defected to Reform.

The Centrist Left, i.e. Starmer's government, by dint of trying to please everyone, please no-one. They cannot put a step right with the media, and unfortunately give off this air of incompetence, though Starmer's done well internationally. The Chancellor crying at Prime Ministers Question Time looked pitiful.

I think Corbyn wants to make juice out of a leftwards haemorrhage* similar to Farage's efforts re the Cons. He might even be using a little pendulum theory, hoping that when the votes swing far right, they will then swing back equally in the opposite direction.

Ugh, what a mess. I hate to quote that Yeats poem again:

The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Frankly, I want us elsewhere before the Rough Beast slouches our way. But, as R says, go where?

Maybe it will be OK. Things even out generally. Do they?

* Some kind of strange mixed metaphor but too appropriate for me to change.

Yesterday a dark butterfly fluttered into our front room, bimbled around a bit above us, went out again. I made a story in my head: 30th June, date of Mark's death! It has taken him 10 years to return as a butterfly! Alas, my dates were wrong, today is the 30th. So much for my dreaming :-D

Also yesterday, Russ found a bird in our kitchen, confused or something. It flew out unscathed.

Why is everything coming in? I don't mind at all provided the beasties aren't harmed, but I've no idea why our interiors are suddenly so alluring.

Ugh, I am stupid tired. I should go back to bed.

I carried on trying to paint when I got back (God, how long is it going to take us to get over that trip? I feel for R and all that driving. Next time, plane and rental car.) One attempt was so terrible I actually had to snap the canvas in half. Of the four paintings I did on holiday, two are too embarrassing to show anyone and two please me despite their obvious issues. Painting is good for me provided I don't get frustrated at my lack. I feel so at home with writing, there is a kind of guilt at focusing on any other form of self expression, and I do love it, define myself by it almost. But those are very good reasons for working with something free from expectations/demands. So I'll put the two bearables here, in case the canvases get destroyed or I accidentally on purpose dump them in the bin.

This first was nothing more than a moment's feeling, as the wind blew through Saint Emilion, over the houses and through the streets, caught up in my head with the swifts/swallows/house martins flying.




The second was meant to be a snake among fruit and flowers. It became a sea monster because I can't Art. These have a specific meaning in my dream lexicon, based on Irish/Scottish/sea-faring folklore. To see them at all presaged storms and wild weather or by contraries becalming, but to have one see or approach your ship was considered extremely unlucky. This last may be one of the most self-evident pieces of nautical lore ever recorded.




My brother likes it, maybe because at least one of us has a touch of the sea monster about them anyway.

There now, am I awake yet? No, no, not yet.

No, I don't have it.
No, I have never had it.
No, turns out I have never had chicken pox or any form of zoster.
No, the only connection to potential shingles I have had is the horrid rash I got during/after radiotherapy. It didn't take Sherlock to fathom the connection.
So why did the NHS make me an appointment to have a shingles vaccination? I never agreed to it, don't recall discussing it. Turns out that Shingles is on the rise in the UK and assuming I reach my 70s I will become susceptible, so they just pencilled in a date for Bootpuncture, and texted me on the subject 2 days before, telling me to turn up. Heading the issue off at the pass long before I get there, they say. Very sensible. I cancelled.

I know, I know.

But right now I just can't think of these things. Once my next big C check up is done, maybe I'll be wise.

Or maybe I'll wait til/if it ever turns up, and then flap around in annoyance at myself.

Seriously tempted to drink the entire pot of coffee. One cup down, two more to go.

Big barney with Mother last night. She wants to invest in something she can't even name or describe, gave me a bogus address for it, and when I flat out said 'don't do it,' got angry with me.

I am not patient enough.

But I am wary of her being fleeced as so many pensioners have been. Got Bro to talk to her, and he reassured me that her understanding of banking security, firewalls etc is so honed as to be professional - paranoia has some benefits clearly - but he will check out the address and see what he can find. If he has flattered her enough, she may wait before opening a new bank account dedicated to this 'investment'. My personal feeling is to remember what she said many years ago re schizophrenia; that the voices never tell sufferers to do nice things like buy some flowers or go for a walk in the sunshine. The instructions/suggestions are always stick-a-fork-in-the-wall-socket type stuff, inimical, destructive, sometimes even dangerous.

I will leave her be for a few days. She got very unpleasant last night. She told me I had been short with her recently - I haven't, I've done nothing but send her pleasant prattle. She is probably referring to earlier in the year when she went through a phase of phoning me up and not being able to hear me, or me phoning her and her not being able to hear me. Bro thinks she faked that whole thing. She certainly couldn't explain it beyond the phantom 'hooligan' in the city who mucks around with her phone, and after anywhere between 5 and 13 calls in a row where it seemed she couldn't or wouldn't operate a basic phone properly, yes I got a bit frustrated.

Decision; Just peace and quiet today, me, the husband, the cats, the coffee. Bro said he could deal with it, so I will trust him. The whole situation might be less intense if he did his share of regular communication with her as he has promised to do so often. Never mind.

Greeted by rain.

To keep my memories clear, I'll make this my list.

Edinburgh to Folkestone, Folkestone via Calais to Rouen: Leaving the wet and grey for more wet and grey.

Tours: Cheerful, lots of elegant architecture plus good shopping and that sense of a student city at its best. Pride was on that day, excellent benign vibe on the streets. We were seriously tempted to cancel the rest of our travels and just stay there.

St Emilion: Of which I have written elsewhere.

Bordeaux: Hmm, too hot for us to give this place a proper chance. But the beer/food was great!

Boulazac: In the 70s when I was a kidling, many aspired to owning a gite in the Perigord, which sounded like some kind of bladder problem. I never knew or cared what a gite was, and if anyone had mentioned Boulazac in our neighbourhood the jokes about ballsacks would have been endless. But this was a great base. The Perigord is heart-sweetening country.

Perigueux: A lovely old town with its industrial estates wisely kept on the outskirts. There's a charming museum and cute cafes, the central squares smell delectable because of what I think may be linden trees. Wandering the old streets to the church, we found little metal cockleshells pressed into the pavements, and followed them to the Cathedral of St Front, where pilgrims often stopped on their way along the Camino. They still do. It's part of the Voie de Vézelay, through France down into Spain to Santiago de Compostela.

Beynac-et-Cazenac: Home of the Bat and Castle described elsewhere.

Lascaux: Described elsewhere, definitely my personal highlight.

Bergerac: Down at heel. I get why Brits may flock here, cheap, amenities, plus the historical centre, real Cyrano country etc but not for me. I had no idea Cyrano de Bergerac was an actual person! All that stuff about his unrequited love for the fair Roxanne may be fiction, but he certainly liked to drink and duel, and he takes his place among the fore-runners of sci-fi, being supposedly the first writer to suggest travels to the moon via the use of rockets. And yes he had a huge hooter.

Eymet: The whole area of the Dordogne often gets called Dordogneshire because of the numbers of Brits escaping to it. Couldn't be more evident than here, where some 30% of the residents are from the UK. Looked like they had all turned out that day, sat in the picturesque village square, red shouldered slightly tiddled rosbifs smiling alongside their genial hosts, everybody together drinking white wine in the sun. What could be better?

Brantôme: Maybe this could be better. It's as gorgeous as rumour says, and cooler than Eymet. It too has a cheerful and lovely market. I think it is more to R's taste and I certainly wouldn't say no to a return. Easy to fall in love here.

Poitiers: Perhaps a bit ordinary by comparison, still the city has its gems, including Le Palais, where I could dreamsee the presence of Eleanor of Aquitaine walking through the great hall, however bare it seems now. Then there was the Cathedral of St Pierre which had, not only an alarming collection of saintly stone golems, but an archangel Michael finishing off the devil who bore a disturbing resemblance to a Great Dane of TV fame. We left whispering in awed tones: 'They killed Scooby!'

Back to Rouen: Only now the city smiled in sunshine and welcome, so delightful I don't know which bit was my favourite. The Palais du Justice is covered in gargoyles and no ordinary gargoyles, oh no. These are all snaky, dragons and wyrmlings and wyverns. I never saw a place warning you so clearly that the law is basically Smaug. Then there was the cathedral. Among those present when this place was consecrated was William of Normandy, one day to be William the Conqueror of England, from whom all monarchs of that land should be able to prove descent or have no claim at all. His ancestor, Rollo the Viking, is buried here. But there was one whose presence mattered more to my romantic heart than any of these. What it was to see these words on the side of a tomb: HIC IACET COR RICARDI REGIS ANGLORUM. Here lies the heart of Richard, King of the English. Lionheart! Oh I know, he was doubtless a thug like the rest of them, and he left his country in the hands of his rubbish brother, John Lackland, while gallivanting off to holy wars. But my childish self still thrilled. He will always represent to me the chivalry his mother inspired, with her love of books and bards and the rules of courtly love. Dust and stories perhaps, but if there's going to be stories, might as well be fun ones.

Then from Rouen to Calais, across the channel and up to Birmingham to enjoy the hospitality of old friends. Then Brum to home.

And here I am. For now.