Old and a bit sad

Now that I have got my typing fingers back I really feel that I should keep on with the message so here I am again with more news from the sunny (yes it is still sunny I am very glad to say) Languedoc.

I have been wondering whether to change the look of my blog ever since Debrah said it was really difficult for her to read the white type on the black background. I'm not sure that I'm the best judge because firstly, she is a typographer and I'm not, and secondly, I have managed to get to age 48 without needing glasses but have recently found it very difficult to focus on any words closer than two feet from my eyes, resulting, according to my Irish friend Denis, in a symptom known as tromboning, as I move the words further and closer and further away until they come into focus. I hope I haven't reached the point when all bodily functions start to show signs of fatigue - that would be very depressing.

My much abused, slightly bashed and very trusty old Audi Cabriolet- or builders van as it is otherwise known - is showing the same signs of fatigue and nearly lost it's exhaust over the vicious speed hump at the exit of the Tridome builders yard, laden down with 100kg of sand and gravel and four 2.6m lengths of plasterboard (cut to size so that they fit in the back of the open top). It now has a piece of electrical wire holding the end of the exhaust to the underside of the chassis as the original fixing seems to have parted company somewhere along the wayside.

"I need to take it to the French equivalent of KwikFit", I said.
"If I come back in a years time, it will still be held on by wire", said the genius.
"Er, probably", I replied.

I can't seem to get the car to the menders any quicker than I can get myself there. Perhaps we shall both continue to soldier along and grow old disgracefully together.

Anyway, the blog stays as it is because I like it.

It was another beautiful sunrise this morning and, knowing that there was a 'brocante' just down the road and that the best stuff really does get snapped up in the first hour, we hauled ourselves out of bed and spent an hour or so looking at everybody's tat and shite that the venders expected people like us to part with good money for - and part with good money we did, of course, and not on anything that anyone could have predicted. We handled many decanters and glasses and mirrors and enquired about a couple of overpriced tables and toyed with some old school posters because they were 'graphically' very interesting. We ignored the old computers with less power than my mobile phone and the scary dolls staring out of boxes and the equally scary old farm and kitchen implements.

We came home with as random a list of items as anyone could imagine - an, obviously, out of date 1970's blue guide to the Languedoc Roussillon region, a foie gras cutter, a large silver serving tray, a small bust of Napolean (which is staring at me from the kitchen mantlepiece as I type) and a French published text in English of Macbeth with associated notes. What a brilliantly unpredicatable and fabulous set of purchases.

Later, we went to find some new river swimming spots that had been recommended, a while back, by my friend Herve. We found them both in a beautiful valley in the mountains south of Carcassonne and had an equally lovely drive back home with superbly impressive views of the Pyrenees and then the Cite. It made us both feel very sad that we have to return to London tomorrow and leave this idyllic place - but needs must.

When we got home I logged on to do our online check-ins and discovered that we are booked on different flights back to London tomorrow - how dipsy is that? We better get our act together before the paying guests arrive.