A 'fuller' weekend than normal here in Sleepy Hollow. It
started inauspiciously. In the dim light of early Saturday morning, I stepped
in something wet when retrieving the kettle. Closer inspection revealed a small
lake of dog pee on the kitchen floor. Bill Sykes would have beaten his mongrel,
but Alf's shame and embarrassment was punishment enough. It's hard enough at
his time of life: he can't hear, he's purblind and his back legs are shot. Reassuring
him that he wouldn't be sent outside without any breakfast, I set to with
newspaper, mop and disposable glove. It took an entire back copy of The Connexion, the English-language
newspaper for British expatriates in France. They say that we ageing men have
bladders the size of a pea. Alf must have one the size of a water melon, though
I can't quite see how it fits inside his now frail frame.
The trouble was, the night before we were so engrossed in
Don Siegel's classic Invasion Of The Body
Snatchers – still as fresh as the day your dentist fitted them – that we
quite forgot to send our dog out last thing before bed for his 'pee-pee'. Clearly
I hadn't been quick enough off the mark that morning. Unacceptable
bed-lingering. It was another unwelcome sign that soon enough we must start
thinking the unthinkable.
Saturday morning in Martel I had a liaison at the weekly market.
I knew nothing about the woman apart from her name; I like to live dangerously.
I met Agnès some time ago at Sabine's bio
stall, but Sabine gave up the market in favour of a delivery system and me, I
like to choose the vegetables I buy. We bumped into each other again a couple
of weeks ago at Giselle's stall and suggested that we meet for a cup of coffee
together, because she had a little
something for me. All very mysterious, but I was happy to go along with it,
because she is a remarkably friendly woman with a patently open mind. Besides,
I was at no great risk; she's always accompanied by her little 92-year old
father, who wears funny rounded black boots that look like they once belonged
to Noddy (or Oui Oui, as he's known in French).
So after filling my bag with enough vegetables for the
week ahead, we went to the new tea house in Martel. It's just big enough to
accommodate a couple of small parties comfortably. My market-pal revealed
herself to be none other than Dr. Agnès Flour. She gave up her allopathic practice
over a decade ago to carry out research into a very obscure line of homeopathy.
Sponsored by her father and her husband, she has spent her time identifying
national remedies based on the characteristics of a representative national
figure. So far she has done this for six countries, including France, Germany,
India and England, and is currently working on Spain. Her little something for me proved to be a short thesis on England and our
emblematic personnage, Elizabeth 1st.
Hemlock appears to be the remedy in question.
It was fascinating, if slightly off-the-wall, stuff. I
took my gift home and left it on the dining table. After a hard day at the coal
face, my wife picked it up on her return, lay down on the sofa and devoured it
at a single sitting. She had oft heard of Dr. Agnès Flour and had long wanted to
read this particular thesis. Interestingly, the last homeopathic remedy
prescribed for our daughter by our local doctor was... hemlock. Come to think
of it, didn't it kill Socrates?
We had a late lunch on Sunday. Nothing particularly
noteworthy in that, but half way through our roast potatoes and home-made
vegetarian sausages with Tilley's elaborate onion sauce, a couple of friends
turned up. Lured by the worryingly warm weather, they've popped over from the
UK to winter their building site. It's always good to see them, but The
Daughter was at first a trifle miffed, as it was her last Sunday lunch before
her return to Paris and three, to her, is a magic number. She's a sentimental
sausage. Like her parents I guess. But she got over it quickly.
It was a balmy afternoon and we sat outside on our back
balcony after lunch, drinking roobois
tea to a soundtrack of model airplanes looping the loop in the valley below and
rifle shots echoing around the hills. Which reminded me that I still haven't mounted
my Lewis gun on the hand rail. Although the whine of the model planes is
irritating, the hunters will be my prime target.
On the balcony, our friends told us about an
environmental action they'd recently participated in on behalf of our beleaguered
planet. They described in vivid detail all the conflicting emotions they'd
experienced: the excitement, the camaraderie, the fear and the adrenaline. It
made me think of the local maquis
here and all that they must have gone through when planning and carrying out
their nocturnal operations against the Nazi occupiers. Such courage, such bravery.
I made enough fuss this weekend about mowing the grass with a pulled inter-costal
muscle.
Talking of military operations, I also joined the world
of online auctions this weekend. I signed up for eBay and PayPal, because I'd
spotted a Britain's Limited American Civil War gun carriage for sale. I try to
banish regret from my life, as it's a redundant and harmful emotion.
Nevertheless, I've always regretted losing my Union and Confederate gun carriages after my first marriage broke up. I
got to keep the two cats, but I sacrificed my toys. I think it was one of the
Geordie boys who lodged in our house. He must have taken a shine to them, boxed
as they were with barely a scratch on the paintwork.
I spoke to my Amerikanische
Freund, Steve, for his tips about eBay auctions. While following it to the
letter, needless to say I missed a crucial detail. I hadn't realised that eBay
notify you by e-mail when a higher bid has been placed. So I missed out on it
by a quid. Will I live to regret such carelessness? Is my wife secretly rather
glad that a model gun carriage won't be joining the Corgi Chipperfield's Circus
set on display in our reading area? Am I a sadder specimen of humanity than I
had previously credited?
With all this going on, I missed some of Iggy Pop's
excellent and entertaining John Peel lecture on BBC Four. The sense of loss and
regret also divided my attention from the second episode of the current season
of Homeland on Channel 4.
Consequently, I barely registered a single turn of an already complicated plot.
My patience with the CIA's machinations is wearing thin.
At least we all remembered to encourage the dog to go out
for his 'pee-pee'. Our returning 'good boy' was rewarded with a biscuit before
bed. Look dad! No puddle this time...
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