Blood, Blood, Glorious blood!

It's a strange experience watching your very own blood coursing unhindered through you very own veins (notice an exception to, i before e). Spelling matters to me, probably not as much as coursing blood, but it do. I was really surprised that the blood I could see, dashing along at furious speed, was red. I had no delusions of grandeur, I just assumed that an ultrasound picture would be monochrome. Not so, huge gouts of beautifully healthy red liquid, full of corpuscles, white cells, red cells. I felt like cheering, but any movement was met by the stern words, bouge pas. I bouge pasd. There is a certain aura exuded by les hopitals, les docteurs, et les infirmiers, that ensures instant and total obedience. I was pronounced tres bien, and told to allez chez vous. So nous sommes alles chez nous. It was definitely red, not blue. But it were Glorious tha knows!!!

Wood,Wood, Glorious Wood! ! !

I failed woodwork GCE, I've never worked out why. I did some really good stuff. I suppose it could be that I could never see why it was important to know the difference between a "gothic" column, and a "doric" column. I could see there was a difference, there are about ten different types, but who gives a bugger which is which. I was far too practical for a mere school, probably should have gone to a special school, they do have them. I'm preparing some gates for hanging, I'd like to be doing the same for a certain arrogant Frenchman at the builders merchants, but therein lies another tale. These gates are new and need hinges and painting, and tomorrow they shall be hanged by the hinges until declared satisfactory. I love this work, I find it completely satisfying. The new gateway is taking shape, get finished with the deliveries by waggon, and it'll be done in a couple of days. Not long now and we'll have a field shelter, it'll be part of the barn, but accessed from the field. Will the horses use it? I think so. I'm sure we'll find out. They'll use the gates....

French

The trouble with foreign languages is; they're foreign. For them not to be ( bad grammer that ), bracketed words no better, is not possible. However good I become at using French, it'll always be foreign. What I'm mumbling about is the horrible need I have to get it right, must get it right, exactment precis. It can't be done, the "ations" are always going to beat me. Conjugation can be mastered, but Pronounciation, never. So why bother? We've got some English lads here building a wall, and one of the guys always refers to Piegut as peegoo, never pee aye goo. Does it matter? Well no it don't. Arsene Wenger speaks perfect English, but he'll always sound French. The more I know, the more afraid I become to use it, in case it's not exact, so in the end I say nowt. How stupid is that? I'm not alone in this, there's a lot of it about, and the French don't help when they start speaking English, just to help me out , I know. But it doesn't. It's not easy, and it gets not easier, but I'm going to get as good as I can, horrible as it will sound, and it will. The French are going to have to wear it. And they do, bless them! They 'umble me.

It wasn't me, honest!!

Long time since I wrote anything bloggish. I blame the banana. I've bought some for Dis' breakfast, but, not tried to eat one. The last one I tried to eat put me in l'hopital for three weeks. Bloody thing! I'd just had a paracetamol for a pain in my eye, spotted the banana and thought I'd have a quick snack. Peeled it, popped a piece mouthwards, but the banana had other ideas, jumped out of my mouth down to the floor, and refused to be picked up. Bloody thing! It caused mutinous behaviour in my mouth, and also in my arm and hand. The Bloody thing! It wasn't me, honest! It was the banana, Bloody thing! French hopital food is truly awful, and awful is an understatement. Inedible, unless French, they slurped it down with beaucoup de bruit, piggy sort of bruit. Fortunately ( fanfare of trumpets ), I was saved from starvation, by the angel Diane, who flew in every day with a flask of tea and some biscuits. A complete ballache driving to Limoges every day, but the girl done good. I will be eternally full of grate for being full of tea and biscuits. The medical care was as good as could be. I was consulted informed and advised, carefully examined, and then cut open cleaned out and sewn back together. The aftershock I was warned could happen, did, but again, they sorted me out. No complaints. Well done the French health service for saving me from the evil machinations of that banana. BLOODY THING !!!!

It's coming!

Went to Intermarche, faire les courses, we gotta eat. Never mind ??We just does. Got through the caisse. then, vide poche, hadn't brought means of payment. Mum suffered from Alzheimers for the last year of her life, and, I had a horrible feeling; it's coming! If it do, it do. I used to sit with her at night, on the bed, with my arm round her, and her head on my shoulder, I'd talk to her and stroke her hair, until she fell asleep. It was a quiet blessed time, which made me feel deeply sad; mum was there, but, she wasn't. She occaisionally had animated conversations with a gentleman standing by her bed, I never said he wasn't there, because, to mum, he was real, she described his clothes, always had polished boots, and I sat and listened to their conversation. It was fascinating listening to them, she always ended the conversation with, "see you soon, bye bye"She was always happy and relaxed afterwards. Whoever you were Mr invisible. Many Thanks for the happiness you gave. If I end up same road, come and talk to me.

bloody bindweed!

It deserves a swear word, I apologise not. I know it has a very pretty flower, but, it's just a front to hide it's true nature, which is murderous, and, deviously insidious. It cannot stand tall and proud, as other plants, it has to use such plants to spiral upward, and, in doing so, strangles them. While it's busy strangling the garden to death, it's also sending out, fat white runners under the soil, to colonise new areas. Each part of these unhealthy looking extensions is capable of producing a new plant. So I dig it up, leave a tiny portion of root, and, up it comes. It is an abomination before THE LORD JIM, and I curse it a thousandfold!!!

voila!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The boy be back, and I can start to relax a bit. Afghanistan is not the place I want him to be. I don't think I'm particularly worried about him, until, he's back with his lady wife, Sara, and then I realize there has been an underlying tension, niggling away at the back of my head. He's 43 now, and a lot tougher than me, in some ways, but, he's my son, and I'm the guy who knows how fragile he is, under all the army speak. Anyway he's back, safely, so I will cease with the maudling sentimentality, and proceed to other rubbish. I used to be a small engine mechanic, no qualifications, just did it for years. We have a motobineuse( rotavator) for chopping up the veggie garden, a very handy machine, BUT, I got it out yair, and it wouldn't start, I hate lugging at pull starts more than six times, after sixty there is a grave danger of the lump hammer being employed. I know it's not normal to use a lump hammer to start machines, but, it's handy for beating them to death. Today, of course, started first pull, it pluied all night, and again this morning, yair, it was just about dry enough. All I can say is, I think the threat of Mr Marteau, and a night to think about it, done the trick. Told you I was a mechanic, we know all the tricks.