I know you’re not gonna like this …..

…. But see if I care!

OK, today I spent an hour trying out my new camera.  It was a bit frustrating, because the weather has been iffy lately, too much rain and overcast skies – I like a blue sky and bright sunshine, thank you very much.

Nevertheless I managed to take one or two nice little snapshots.

This big fella is one of the many cheery art works that are scattered throughout la Bourboule.  The town is primarily intended for children, and children like that sort of thing.  I shall depict a few more in times to come, no doubt.

And you may remember this Lady and Child from last year’s posts.  I re-took the shot just to see how it comes out on the new camera.

One of its nice features is that you can specify what resolution photo you want.  Only trouble is, if you pick the highest you can only take five pictures and then the memory is exhausted!  And that is the default mode, so when I first took a few yesterday I had a rude shock – after just a minute or two of snapping my brand new camera refused all service!  Off I went home to read the instruction manual )I had my suspicions).  It was buried deep within the manual, but eventually I discovered the truth.  Henceforth I shall go with 1600x1200, that way I can take 46 photos – which is usually all I need – and still have an excellent (anyway, much much better than with my old coolpix) image quality.  Of course I could buy a memory card ….

The weather quickly turned nasty again, so I cut my little excursion short and went home.  And what do I see opposite my hotel but a little bird impaled on the front of a car?  I have never seen such a thing!  I was horrified and appalled!  Not too horrified and appalled to take a few photos, obviously!

Funny French Movie: Comme un Chef

As all my faithful readers know, one of the numerous ways I am trying to learn French is by watching French movies.  Or, more usually, the French version of English or American movies.  Because, alas, it is almost impossible to get funny French movies abroad.  French movies are supposed to be serious, high bow, depressing, and challenging.  I am not overly fond of such movies!  Learning another language is difficult enough without emotional hardship.

For this holiday I had brought along the movie, 84 Charing Cross Road, a wonderful movie with Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins, about an American struggling author who buys difficult to find books from a London book shop.  I had already read the book, so had a head start in understanding the movie in French.

However, the movie, though wonderful in every way – it has an ancient looking bookshop full of old books, a middle aged slightly eccentric New York lady writer, old fashioned clothes and furniture from just after WWII, and so on and so forth, it cannot be said to be wildly funny.

But since I am on holiday, I feel entitled to the odd laugh here and there, and thus rootled around the la Bourboulian newsagents for another DVD I might watch to augment my visual holiday experiences.

What I found was ‘Comme un Chef’, a Daniel Cohen movie starring Jean Reno (of Les Visiteurs fame) and Michael Youn (never come across him before).  Last night I watched it for the first time, with English subtitles to get an idea of the story line – the next 68 times will be with French subtitles, of course.

This is one of the most amazingly funny movies I have ever seen!!!!  A must see for anyone who loves cooking, eating, going to restaurants, or watching cookery programmes.  And there are any number of happy endings, every loose thread is tied up and brought to a satisfactory conclusion.  I love love love this movie!

It actually cost me Euro 20, which is pretty hefty for a DVD (you can have your pick for half that price of any number of classics) but boy is it worth it!  I wish everyone who hates French movies for being elitist and challenging would watch it.  Not that they will get a chance; because really good French movies never seem to get translated into English or even sport English subtitles, and ‘Safari’ and my all time favourite ‘Le Crime est Notre Affair’ are impossible to recommend to friends, because even if they speak French it is rarely good enough to understand these movies. 

‘Comme un Chef’ is unusual in that it actually has English subtitles, so I can recommend it to all and sundry and say – Watch This Movie!  Unless you like dark, difficult, challenging, soul-searching, morose, virtuously negative, ‘Noir’ movies – then you must avoid it like The Plague.

Sometimes I wonder whether the reason why funny entertaining French films never make it into the English speaking world is that the French cultural establishment, anxious to maintain an image of French cultural superiority, conspire to prohibit their exports?  The notion that all French films are sophisticatedly artistic and incomprehensibly depressing is about as true as the one that all French people are pencil thin and exquisitely dressed – not true!  French movies can be funny, French people are just like everyone else – some thin some fat, some good some bad, some helpful some bloody minded, some – sorry, where was I?

Ah yes, go watch the French film ‘Comme un Chef’!

PS  New camera has arrived, much better photos than the old one!

True Life in La Bourboule

Since I am on holiday and with time on my hands, I read the International Harold Tribune each day cover to cover, and this includes bits I usually ignore.  In Tuesday’s edition there was a book review about ‘Every love story is a ghost story’, a book about the life of David Foster Wallace.  DFW was a writer who struggled with depression all his adult life, and hanged himself aged 46.

In ‘The Pale King’ DFW wrote that people need to be distracted from the deeper type of pain that is always there, namely the existential knowledge that we are tiny and at the mercy of large forces, and that time is always passing, and that every day we have lost one more day that will never come back.

Occasionally when in an efficient mood I tell myself that I am wasting time doing a particular thing, and whenever that happens I ask myself, What could I do instead that would not be a waste of time, and why do I think it wouldn’t be?  The answer is always the same - ultimately everything is a waste of time, arguably.  But equally, ultimately we are alive precisely for this – to waste such time as we have, as joyfully and gloriously and magnificently as we can contrive.

For if I work hard, and get a good job, and earn lots of money, and marry well, and have children, how could this be said to be a good use of my time?  Does doing these things make me a better person, does it improve my character, does it bring me closer to God?  Or do I not simply pass on the light of life to the next generation, who does the same thing, equally without a point, ultimately speaking? 

Or if I spend my life helping other people, do I not in fact simply enable them to do the above, viz work hard, get a good job, have children, etc etc?  If this isn’t the purpose of my life, how can enabling others to do this be my life’s purpose?  If I find a cure for a disease, invent ways to abolish hunger, liberate the women of Afghanistan from male oppression – whatever noble purpose I can think of, it all leads to enabling human beings to lead the sort of life I am arguing against.

I believe that an hour spend looking at a cloud, or listening to a brook, or talking to a friend, or reading a novel, or walking in the park, or sitting in the sunshine, is less of a waste of time than all the other things we spend our lives doing.  Life is about living, about being gloriously, wastefully, joyfully alive with all our senses tingling.  The other things are necessary for survival, they are the price we pay for being alive, and I would not counsel against doing them – but they do not constitute what I call Living.

What I call living carries little awareness of the passing of the days, certainly no regret.  The regret comes from the soul, which, realising it is being cheated out of true life, bemoans the loss of what it never tasted.

My life in La Bourboule has more of real life than my life anywhere else.  As one day shades into the next, I laze my days away with breathing, walking, swimming, eating, reading, lolling in the sunshine, and watching the clouds go by.  And I consider my days well spend, and pride myself that I have materially aided the sun by bearing witness to his rising and setting, to quote Thoreau.

In La Bourboule, nothing I do  is a waste of time, except wrestling with non-functioning electrical equipment and intermittent internet access.  Like in ancient Egypt, here for me time is a state, not a continuum.  Time simply IS, and so am I, and even though one day I will die, time will still be there, waiting for me to return in another guise.  The ‘passage of time’ becomes an oxymoron.  Like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and indeed like me in my own childhood, I am in a state where time stands still.  Of course I know that I eventually have to return to the other reality, just like I had to come home when the street lights came on when I was a child.  But even that only bothers me a very little bit.  When one day is like each other, it matters little whether one has hundreds or dozens.  And because of their very sameness they have burned themselves deep into my consciousness, each day re-enforcing the same image, the same mood, so thoroughly that I can conjure up a vision of them whenever I choose.

Sitting on a green-grass covered mountain, my hair warm with sunshine, watching white clouds drifting across a deep blue sky, while two or three gliders, in ever larger circles, patiently rise into the endless sky – if that isn’t Heaven I don’t know what is!

Perhaps DFW’s depression would have lifted a little if he had had the good fortune to spend a month in la Bourboule?  But I suppose to really experience life you must be willing to let go, to surrender yourself to the experience of Being, and cease all attempts of Achieving.

We tend to be afraid of this – what if we like it too much, and never return to ‘real life’, and sink into a slobbish existence of watching TV and eating junk food?  Isn’t that what ‘letting go’ means?

The sort of letting go I am referring to is the opposite of that.  Every night we surrender ourselves to sleep, and when we had enough we awake.  There is no fear that we may sleep eternally.  Similarly with eating, with thinking, with playing – when we are done, we stop.  That’s how it should be.  But if we lose trust in our own good sense and ignore its promptings we lose our instinctual knowledge of what we need and what is good for us.  If we watch a movie late at night despite being tired.  If we eat despite not being hungry. 

It is not easy to listen to our own good sense, because we are constantly told to pull ourselves together and do as we are told.  Of course often we have no choice in the matter – we all have to function in the society we are part of.  But because we are so often forced to go against our own good sense, we end up ignoring it altogether.  Just because we have to quickly respond to e-mails and ‘phone calls, sit all day long, smile at people we dislike, eat when we are not hungry, etc etc while at work doesn’t mean we have to do the same while on holiday and on the weekend. 

We are encouraged to think of ourselves as producers and consumers, that is the basis of modern capitalism.  But in reality we are creatures who are made to be playfully, joyfully, active in both body and mind.  We are not made to ‘hang on for grim death’ and battle life’s hardships with gritted teeth!  We are made to lightly dance across the abyss, trusting that we will somehow overcome all difficulties and safely reach the other side!

Here endeth the lesson.

Miscellaneous Musings on the Cure

In case you are wondering, the photo shows a prize winning vase located inside the Grande Therme (it won the prize prior to WWII, but continues to command pride of place in the main drinking hall).

This is the fourth time I am taking the Cure, and by now I know the ropes and am trusted by the staff.  At first I was waited on hand and foot by them, but now I am allowed to insert things into my nose myself.  I also set my own timers and turn the faucets that squirt water into my various cavities on and off, and arrange the funnel in the most efficacious ways.  In terms of the Grande Therme, I have arrived!

Otherwise things remain much the same.  The large funnel which directs fine mist and later on healing vapours into my nose and mouth never fail to leave a deep impression – on my face, it takes an hour or so for the indentations to disappear.  The waiting queues for the Proetz continue to remain constant at half an hour, no matter when I show up.  And the Hebe at the central fountain, who distributes the healing water for internal application, continues to disappear for secret assignations, so we are left to our own devices and serve ourselves – no chance that we take more than our allotted amounts, the stuff tastes vile.

Yesterday I caused some commotion, because my schedule of curisting activities contained an error!  For the first five days the Methode de Proetz had been relegated from the top to the bottom of my schedule.  At first I assumed that my doctor was testing the efficacy of the method, by varying the order of my various applications, but bitter experience taught me that people sometimes make mistakes, so I brought the matter to the attention of the Matron.  She was quite horrified, and although I could not quite make out what she was saying I understood that I should Proetz first for the duration of my Cure.

This makes perfect sense, of course.  The Proetz opens my sinuses to outside influences, and if it is omitted the various rinses, mists, and vapours can’t get access to my internal cavities, thus reducing the efficacy of the Cure.  The Matron blamed computer problems, proving that La Bourboule does go with the times, contrary to all my aspersions.

Today is much quieter for me, I have ordered and arranged everything and can sit back and enjoy (so to speak) my Cure.  After I finish with the Therme I return to Chez DB for a cup of tea and an hour of reading Oncle Picsou (Uncle Scrouge), then I skip to Les Galapagos for the Plat du Jour (very nice veal today) and a large Café Crème (pas trop fort – not too strong). 

Everyone who works there knows my preferences by now and takes very good care of me.  When I arrived Saturday night there was only a young girl hovering serviceably, and told me that all my favourite tables had been reserved.  While we were arguing – I hate sitting somewhere dark where I can’t read – the talented & artistic A arrived on the scene.  A cannot only prepare the perfect café au lait, he also composes very good crepes.  He kissed me on both cheeks, removed the Reserved sign from the most desirable table in the window and put it somewhere else, and beckoned me to selfsame table.  Then he took the new staff member aside and told her about my important status as Favourate Customer and Petted Friend.  I felt tempted to stick out my tongue at her, but didn’t.  One must be gracious at all times, even when one has achieved Favourate Customer Status!

Ah, it is great to be back in La Bourboule!

Today I had to rather regretfully destroy the false impression among the serving staff that the waving statue of Queen Elizabeth, which I had sent to Les Galapagos as a present last year, depicted in fact Margaret Thatcher.....  

Settling down & arranging things

Today and Sunday were a whirl of frenzied activity.  On Sunday, aside from having to unpack and make apartment 303 my own, I had to see my asthma specialist Dr Rithy and check in at the Grande Therme.  Huge queues again!  Few children this time, mainly retired people with a sprinkling of middle aged folk.  There was a talk afterwards to tell the curistes about all the other activities that go on in the area, but I skipped that this time.  I have my own agenda, thanks all the same!

I also had some shopping to do, Le Regale Auvergnat, obviously.  I also bought some tomatoes and apples, to eek out my delicatessen.  Plus washing up liquid, woolite, and other such necessities.  I keep forgetting something, but most shops are just down the road so who cares.

Today was the first day of the Cure.  I seem to be getting used to it, or maybe I am getting tougher, but when I was finished I still managed to arrange all sorts of other things – normally I just stagger home and sleep it off until lunch.

Ordering my daily newspaper and a few Decouverte du Monde books – a series of children’s books, with lots of illustration and simple language – was easy.  Buying a camera and a bathing costume was not!

My trusty little camera gave up the ghost during the journey, so I needed a new one.  Nothing doing in all of La Bourboule.  The next town down the road, Le Mont Dore, equally yielded nothing at all.  I was sitting in my apartment, completely surrounded by no cameras, when I had an inspiration:  Amazon!

I had considered recently buying a new camera, mine is five years old – ancient in modern camera years – and the photos, while perfectly serviceable, are a tad basic.  So I knew what I wanted, logged into Amazon, did the spiel, almost got to paying – when I was informed that shipping to my hotel was not an option!  What the ????

I do my internetting in the hotel lobby, the only part of the hotel with internet reception, and B, who was at the reception desk, heard my little cries of pain and offered to help.  Perhaps my tiny little baby-laptop couldn’t handle issues of such magnitude?  She drew a blank, too, despite her large desktop PC.  Feeling by now personally insulted by the refusal of Amazon to ship to her hotel, B initiated an extensive search action for my chosen camera.  After another half hour, and numerous abortive dead ends, we finally managed to lay our hands – by now sweaty with frustrated rage – on a Nikon Coolpix S9300.  Let’s hope there are no more gremlins in the works and my little camera arrives by Thursday am as promised!  I’ll keep you posted.  But you see why I always go to Les Iles Britanniques – aside from the name, obviously! – they really go the extra mile for their customers.

So now all I needed was a bathing costume, having forgotten mine at chez DB.  I also needed to find out what the opening hours of the local pool were, having dropped by three times today and yesterday and always finding them closed.

But I am in no fit state to describe that saga as well.  I am exhausted!  Because on top of my numerous other activities I also went swimming.  I’ll report back tomorrow.

By the way, I am using left over photo from my last visit to La Bourboule.  Just so you know.  I would hate to mislead you.  There is enough skulduggery in the world already.

My trip was like a Curate’s Egg ….

Yesterday evening I arrived in La Bourboule, as scheduled.  But I almost did not make it, because SNCF did their utmost to prevent me from going to that Pearl of the Auvergne.

At first all went well.  I woke up at 03:30, caught the coach to London at 05:00, hailed a cab at Baker Street, and by 06:45 was comfortably seated at Le Pain Quotidien, sipping a Café au Lait while awaiting the arrival of scrambled eggs and fried mushrooms.

The terminal was heaving with travellers and it was extremely busy.  Nevertheless I got through customs quickly and had plenty of time to look for coins afterwards.  I only found one, a shiny penny.  This should have alerted me – fate had issued a warning that all would not be well with my travelling!

But as yet I was unsuspecting.  The Eurostar made good time, and at 11:45 I alighted from the train at the Gare du Nord.  I retrieved my ticket and made my way to platform 44, whence line D departs direction Gare de Lyon.  Then the nightmare started!

No train arrived.  Loads of tourists trying to catch their trains to the Gare de Lyon, but no train arrived.  After 15 minutes I interview a native, and finally discover that there are no trains that day.  No signs, no notifications, except something obscure in French which neither I nor any of the two hundred other tourists understand.  There are large signs saying that there will be no service between 14^th and 17^th of August – but nothing about the 25 of August. 

What am I to do?  I could take the Metro, but I have to make two changes to get to the Gare de Bercy and have just half an hour left before my train leaves at 13:00.  I head for the taxi rank.  As usual other people had the same smart idea, nd there is an achingly long cue.  I pray for lots of taxis to arrive.  As I inch my way forward in the cue my prayers become more desperate.  Come-on God, I pray, you can do it, I need twenty five more taxis!  If I miss this train I will miss my connecting bus to la Bourboule from Clermont Ferrand, and have to stay the night there!  Quel horreur!  Fate worse than death!  Save me!

God seems to think this is all rather funny, but rises to the occasion and somehow convinces every taxi driver in Paris to rush to the Gare du Nord in double quick time.  They arrive in fast succession, but is it fast enough?  Finally it is my turn at 12:40 – I have 20 minutes before my train leaves.

My taxi driver is sceptical and claims it will be extremely difficult to get there on time.  I am becoming slightly hysterical and impress upon him the need for me to get that train, all in my terrible French.  He decides to become my savior and races through Paris at a speed I can only describe as Vistesse Demesure! (Ludicrous Speed).  I arrive at the Gare de Bercy at 12:58!

Is this the end of my misery?  It is not.  There are four trains waiting, and again NO SIGNS!!!!  How do I know which one goes to Clermont Ferrand?  I run hither and thither, almost break down in tears, and then spy a conductor.  Clermont Ferrand?  I cry.  Vite Vite, he shouts and pushes me in the direction of the train at the end of the station.  No indicator board telling you where the trains leaves, no sign at the platform, nothing.

I climb aboard with my last vestige of strength, and look for my seat.  All the seat numbers are jumbled up, number 33 is next to number 52.  I finally find my seat, but someone else has occupied it.  The conductor tells me there is a problem today and shows me to a different seat. 

I was not the only one whose nerves had been shredded by the evil machinations of the French rail road system that day.  Another passenger was so distraught she managed to pour water all over the lady in the seat opposite mine, who promptly had a fit and started to shout words I couldn’t quite make out but were clearly impolite.  I tried to make peace by offering her all my spare handkerchiefs and telling her about my own horrendous experience.  She listened to me with astonishment and burst out laughing.  It was an improvement to her shouting, but I wonder whether she quite understood me?  The woman with the offending water bottle used her chance to disappear, and slowly peace descended.

Someone ought to have a word with SNCF.  If it hadn’t been for that heroic taxi driver and divine intervention I would not have walked into Les Galapagos at 19:30 hours to the delight and acclaim of several waiters and the owner.  Paris is full of international tourists, and the Gare de Nord used by huge numbers of non-French speakers.  Posting cancellation notices in English – indeed, posting them at all! – should be a matter of course, as should be having notice boards which tell you from which platform a train leaves.  And if there are problems with the electrics and the normal signs don’t work, why not write notices on cardboard and put them up?  It's not rocket science!

The journey to Clermont Ferrand was uneventful, by the way.  So was the autocar (coach) trip to La Bourboule.  Most of the time travelling in France is a dawdle.  But when SNCF decides to show you who is boss, beware!

Gare de Bercy? Did I just read Gare de Bercy?

OK, so this is not a photo of the Gare de Bercy.  I have never been to the Gare de Bercy, and frankly have no desire to go there.  But fate decided otherwise.  The photo, by the way, shows the view from my Nostalgia Studio, which I see as I am writing this anguished post.

For years immemorial, ever since the denizens of Paris trekked the long weary road south, they made their way to the Gare de Lyon to catch the train that runs to Clermont Ferrand.  There is a direct line to it from the Gare du Nord (D), and I take it each time I wend my way to la Bourboule via Paris and Clermont Ferrand.  I know how long it takes, and I schedule my Eurostar arrival accordingly.  Given the many changes I have to make and connections I must not miss, I ensure I have plenty of time – I hate to rush with a suitcase in tow!

You can therefore imagine my pained surprise when I discovered that the French transportation authorities – may their beards wither! – have decided  to change around the departure points of the Paris trains.  To wit, trains to Clermont Ferrand no longer leave from the Gare de Lyon, they now leave from the Gare de Bercy!  This means another change of trains for me, and adds another 20 minutes or so to my journey time.  Yet worse, having never been to that train station before, I shall have to find my way from the Metro to the train station and the right departure platform, all in double quick time!  All my careful planning and scheming nipped in the bud!  I have a mind to write to the Prime Minister about this, but considering his response to my last missive, viz to do something about the Murder of Nigel by the plotsters of the Archers, I am inclined not to bother.

I will probably manage to just about catch my train to Clermont Ferrand at 13:00 – I have 75 minutes between arriving at the Gare du Nord and my train leaving the Gare de Bercy – but I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn’t checked my departure station on the ticket.  I mean, why would one?  After all, it has always been the Gare de Lyon?  I would have wandered around the Gare de Lyon lost and helplessly looking for my train, and when I finally found out that it left from another station altogether it would have been too late! 

I would have sat on my suitcase like Paddington Bear and cried bitter tears in a dark corner of the station, bemoaning my fate and cursing humanity.  I might have abandoned all attempts to ever get to la Bourboule ever again, and ended up in a seedy bar in Pigalle instead, spending my vacation money on cheap Bourbon while cavorting with disreputable Apaches (do they still call them that?).  Why don’t the authorities ever consider the terrible consequences of their ill-thought-out changes?

Anyway.  I am off now to pack my suitcase and finalise my preparations for La Grande Vacance Annuelle de DB – see you in la Bourboule!  Well, vicariously and blogistically speaking, obviously – because you will be working while I shall frolic in the sunshine!   Ha ha ha ha!!!!

Out & About in Oxford

These last few weeks have been busy ones, both at work and socially.  And of course I am preparing for my epic journey to la Bourboule as well, so what with one thing and another I have not had much time to post recently.  Shall make up for it from next week onwards when I am in la Bourboule and blog on a daily basis again!

Last Sunday I met my good friends P&D at the Holywell Music Room.  It is a building near Wadham College which hosts Sunday morning coffee concerts – mind you, I never yet had any coffee – usual of the civilised type, string quartets, piano concertos, that sort of thing.  I don’t often go these days, and neither do P&D, as evidenced by the fact that none of us realised that one nowadays has to pre-book.  We hung around for a while to see whether one of the pre-bookies didn’t show up so we could squeeze in, but no such luck.  What’s a body to do?  Blackwell’s café!  Off we trundled for coffee & cake!  So if you are interested in the Holywell Music Room the above picture is all you are going to get.

Last Friday I had the rare pleasure of welcoming some of my dear ex-colleagues from the Institution to Oxford.  We tend to meet in London, but since I was avoiding the place during the Olympic Mayhem – didn’t materialise after all but Better Safe Than Sorry! – they decided to descend on Oxford instead.

Great fun was had all around!  We had a quick whip around my college and then retired to Pierre Victoire, my favourite French restaurant in Little Trendy Street.

Excellent food at reasonable prices, as usual, and we even had a glass of wine each.  Then we visited several of the town’s more scenic shops, meandered around Christ Church Meadow, and finally wended our way up St Clements Street to the French patisserie, where we bought cakes galore, which we carried to The Little House to continue our debaucheries.  A truly wonderful day with equally wonderful people!

But that was not the end of my socialising!  Saturday I went for a much needed haircut where I had stimulating conversations with several hairy artists (so to speak).  Then I took myself to Browns for coffee and awaited the arrival of Z, who has been knee-deep in problem solving exercises so we have not met up for a while.

Z and I Walk & Talk.  I have friends for all occasions, and just as R&K&S and I are Ladies Who Take Afternoon Tea in Luxurious Surroundings, Z&I Walk & Talk.  Usually for a minimum of three hours.  It was a sunny day, luckily I wore a hat, otherwise a sunburn would have been my fate that afternoon.  As it was I just turn a rosy glow, quite fetching in its way.  Although sunny the weather was not good for photography, so, although I did bring my camera, I took no pictures.

If you think this was the end of my social whirl you are mistaken, because this morning I met A for breakfast.  Now A is my regular Friday after work date, we meet at the Grand Café and gossip about work current and past.  But since I need to go to bed early this Friday we decided to have a Sunday morning breakfast at Valerie’s instead.  After breakfast we had a little stroll, and I took a few photos of the Bodleyan & Environs.  My favourite photo is the last one, showing All Souls College behind bars.  

The Bodleyan

The Bodleyan is on the left

All Souls College

Admit it, I live in a jolly beautiful town!

Alarming Development of the Green Mamba Threat!

The twists and turns of the Green Mamba saga have performed another, hair-raisingly alarming loop.  This morning on my way home from breakfast at the Grand Café I was confronted with photographic proof and incontrovertible evidence by one of my neighbours, and then I came across the awful truth in the Nostalgia Studio.  It is all really too frightful to describe, and I am writing this with the aid of several strong cups of best Assam and several pieces of shortbread.

You will remember vividly the arrival, smuggling through customs, and return by post, of the Green Mamba, courtesy of the Third Triplet.  Since March I tried to get rid of it by leaving it in the office, and at the homes of various friends, but the green menace always somehow managed to return to The Little House.  Seeing that I appeared to be stuck with the little reptile, which clung to me like a conscientious leech, I tried to at least minimise its threat by feeding it the minimum possible.  If it stayed small, I reasoned, I could dominate it into behaving reasonably well.  And after I once threatened to put a knot into it if I ever caught it in the cookie jar again it seemed that I had finally gotten rid of it, because I did not see it again after that.

But well!  I should have been more vigilant.  When I heard of the sudden increase in stolen and lost children’s toys it never occurred to me to blame my little ex-houseguest.  I mean, why would I?  Dozens of teddy bears were mourned in St Clements, but I suspected nothing. 

But this morning my neighbour showed me two truly terrifying photos.  The first showed a small Green Mamba leaving The Little House through the letter box.  The second showed the tail of a huge Green Mamba disappearing into The Little House through the self same letterbox.  I was of course incredulous, but the neighbour threatened to show the photos to the entire neighbourhood and form a posse of the children who had lost their teddy bears, to hunt down and exterminate the devourer of their 'confidantes de coeurs', so I promised to investigate and do what I could.

 

And you will never guess what I found when I entered the Nostalgia Studio!  A huge Green Mamba, in the process of devouring my little Baby, a small leopard (named after the character in one of my favourite movies).  I took a few photos, choked the hungry reptile with my bare hands, and finally managed to free my little Steiff leopard.  Then I tied its mouth shut and put a knot into the snake so it can’t eat any other soft toys and put it into the Cupboard-underneath-the-Stairs.

Whatever am I going to do?  Besides strangling the Third Triplet when we meet next, obviously, for causing all this trouble!

Cat on a Cold Slate Roof & a Scarf Fit For Morticia

It’s been a Halloween sort of week ….  The neighbour’s cat decided to chase a bird who had built a nest on my bathroom chimney.  First she jumped onto the roof of the Mouserleum (conservatory), from there onto my window ledge, then up to the drain pipe, and then she inched her way to the chimney.  The bird and I watched in astonished consternation.  Then the bird flew away and I fetched my camera.

Then another great addition to my scarf drawer arrived:  A huge spider web surrounded by dozens of witches riding on their brooms!  Is that cool or what?  I got it cheap on EvilBay, I was the only bidder.  The question is, do I keep it for myself or do I give it to my dear friend A, who loves spiders and is into everything spooky?