AH, Monday. If I hadn’t already listed ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’, I’d be listing it now, since it is now both. Bah.
Instead, however, is a little burst of loveliness to bring joy to your Monday. It’s Madness with “Wings of a Dove” – I confess some of my best moments have been driving a car full of kids singing Madness songs at full volume. Kids love Madness.
The young Suggs also really reminds me in appearance of one of my ex-boyfriends, now known as Weasel for his weaselly ways. That man would lie about anything, but he did have lovely lips. Once he said he was in Morrison’s in the ice-cream aisle when I called to ask where he was. The reason I called him was because I was in the next aisle in Asda in the card aisle. That’s how his lies went. To this day, I don’t know where he went to when he wasn’t with me, or what he got up to. I can be sharp about it now, but at the time, it really messed with my head. It ended with me taking a bag of his stuff back round to his mum’s house. I was carrying a hammer because it was his and it wouldn’t fit in the bag. I probably looked completely psychopathic. Anyhow… I defy any song with steel drums in it not to be a feel-good Monday song.
It’s been another week of wetness. Rivers burst their banks yesterday down this neck of the woods. The Tardoire – non-existent 10 days ago – is now overfull. The Charente, the Sonnette, the Bonnieure – all piling water out to sea in a very rapid manner indeed. On the plus side, I could canoe from my house to Madame Verity’s if I felt like it, and if I wanted to have a short ten minute walk, I could canoe to my dads. I could canoe to Angouleme or to La Rochefoucauld. I could, if I wanted to, canoe to Cognac, or to Royan and given the speed of the river, it’d take me about an hour to get there. I could float up to St Angeau, hook up with the Bonnieure at St Ciers and then with the Charente at Mansle before hopping off at the Argente and popping in for a brew.
Another plus of the overflow is that it sent Madame V’s inflatable shark downstream. Someone, somewhere, is likely to have an inflatable shark caught up in their overflowed garden, or else seen it making its way down river. I think that’d be the highlight of my year to see an inflatable shark making its way to sea.
I’m also having Much Love for the weather reports which are finally looking a little better.
Not got ANY love at all for Tilly’s stinky dog farts or for her psychological issues. At the moment, she’s decided, without the boys here, that there isn’t enough love to go around, and laying a little turdy present in the dining room at 2:37 am is a good way to get her share of affection. Who knows how Tilly’s mind works? I have no idea. I think her turd is the same as a graffiti tag. Mine. Mine. Mine. She’s telling Noireau that he has to go in a litter tray and she can lay a little present wherever she likes. Weird little messed up dog. Spaniels have got definite issues. Or some have. Our spaniel was never like this. I still love her though, perhaps more than ever because she needs it. And I love Molly because she’s NOT weird and has NO issues and is always lovely and she loves a cuddle. And I love Noireau who’s a weird little cat who likes to stick his nose into the crook of an elbow and pretend to milk you. Why are my animals weird? What on earth does it say about me?
I blame their previous owners. They came broken and I just have to accept their weirdnesses.
What else do I have Much Love for? Chocolate eclairs, and the fact you can buy them everywhere in France. I’ve only had one since I came here, and it was quite marvellous.
I love that my French family students loved London and that Celia said it was ‘trop cool’. I think French kids are trop cool.
I love that I now know exactly where leaks and where doesn’t
I love wellies
I’m not loving that I forgot last Much Love Monday that it was the Bard’s Birthday. Here’s a bit of Shakespeare for you all. To be read in the style of Pam Ayres, of course.
It’s one of my favourite bits.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them,–ding-dong, bell.
From The Tempest