|Not, sadly, The Shamblings™|
Not being a religious person, once I'd bitten the head off my little Lapindor and devoured it, branes and all, I took the camera out for a little walk, which turned out to be about 14km (I had not really planned on that): approaching the chateau la Baronne from the arse-end (where the imposing gates are inexplicably absent, there's just a few tractors and a pair of gumboots) I accidentally strolled through their gardens, admiring the pineapples, before coming to my senses and making a quick exit before someone decided to pull out the WW I artillery piece that serves as a shotgun. Shit happens, and I hereby extend my profuse apologies to the Lignère family (who just happen to own the place).
|What proper blue sky looks like|
So I bought a kilo from my trusted supplier at the Carcassonne market, and most shall be roasted with olive oil and a bit of sea salt on tomorrows barbecue and the rest will be stewed in butter as is only right and correct, and then it's on to other things until March 2018 rolls around.
Whatever, you probably do not need to be incessantly reminded of the state of misery in which we live, so on to other things: the itinerant bar-café Chez Réné seems to be working rather well so far, five weeks into its admittedly brief existence. Helped, let it be said, by the fact that Friday nights have, up till now, been fine and warm - which makes it much more inviting to get together for a convivial evening with twenty other like-minded souls.
(Seems likely enough that it'll go on for a while yet: the bar, sadly, seems to be embroiled in litigation. So we've little choice, if we want to drink in company.)
|Widdling Emma, hellhound|
I had planned on being a productive person last Wednesday, but that did not happen. Tuesday, as Margo was walking Indra and Jara, they decided to play silly buggers and bounced into the back of her knee, sending her to the ground with a loud "pop!" ...
Anyway, Margo's hobbling around with a full knee brace on while her torn ligament heals, I have a few minor scratches from holding Emma down while the vet shaved her and stuck a large needle in, and she's on antibiotics for ten days and hates us because I'm also supposed to spray the scabby bits with cortisone moaning and night, which she loathes. Such is life.
Of which I am a card-carrying member, something of which Johann reminded me a while back when it came up that I was about the only person around here that actually works and am consequently paying everybody else's pensions: he shyly asked if I "would not mind working just a little bit harder, because I would like to take a holiday in Guadeloupe this year". Hey, no-one ever said that the German sense of humour was always subtle.
Whatever, I don't care, summer is on its way, life is good, and I have to go stick some chicken bits to marinate in tandoori spices and a bit of lemon juice. Mind how you go, now.