Losing a day

I seem to have lost a small day
By not posting, it's just slipped away
It was Thursday, I think
It was gone in a wink
I'm so glad I don't wear a toupee

The one that I saw wasn't nice
And my days of the week aren't precise
Is this losing thing real?
Is this poem surreal?
Do you think posting late will suffice?

Well, it's Friday today, that is clear
It's not lost cos it's already here
So I'll get on my way
and forget that toupee
So this ode can be posted right here

Blowing in the wind

Oh dear...............Lisbeth is really down this evening. She had a good start to the day having worked really hard on stuff for the flat, clearing stuff with the builder, as well as taking a great load of horrible building rubbish to the tip in the rain.

However, late this afternoon, she went to collect her four-inch thick dossier from her avocat. (Progress on her legal battle with a neighbour is nonexistent, so she has decided to find yet another, new avocat!) She had geared herself up to protest at the bill, but found that she wasn't asked to pay any more. (This avocat knows that Lisbeth isn't happy and that nothing much has been achieved.) However, the four-inch thick pile of documents had somehow decreased to about one inch. Lisbeth was horrified. Where are the rest of the documents? What makes it worse, is that after 5 years of wrangling, Lisbeth isn't entirely sure what might be missing.

To make matters worse, her avocat told her that, after their last meeting, she had been involved in a car accident, on her way home. Lisbeth's dossier was on the front seat and, in the impact, went flying out into a field, scattering all her important legal documents in the wind! Apparently the fire brigade were dispatched to gather them up. Her avocat claims that none were, lost although some 'might be a bit muddy!'

Whatever the reason for the missing documents, Lisbeth now has the arduous job of trying to work out what might be missing and then trying to recover them. After that.................?

This whole thing is just a nightmare!

Kombucha baby

I don't know why Lisbeth has called this creature 'Mr' Kombucha. It is a living creature but, as some sort of fungusy, mushroomy thing, it is surely genderless? However, it was called Mr Kombucha back in March last year, just before Lisbeth wrote a poem about him, and the name has stuck.

Kombucha's do have babies. They are created under the parent and are usually found when the the liquid that they live in is changed for a fresh brew. I hate to say this, but Lisbeth has been somewhat remiss in changing the brew, recently. Ideally, it is done every 6-10 days. Unfortunately, while she's had visitors, she has left him for more than the 10 days. (Quite a lot more, actually!)

A couple of days ago, she finally got round to renewing the brew and was surprised to find how heavy her Kombucha had become; quite a lot heavier, in fact. On further inspection, it became evident that the increase in weight was not only due to the fact that it had produced a baby, but that the baby had grown to the same size as the parent: some 7 inches across!

Feeling bad about this, she has advertised the baby on one of the 'English in France' sites, on the web. In the meantime, this giant Kombucha baby is being kept in the fridge, where they can be kept dormant for a while. I think! I hope!

Ironing paper

I know my house-mate can be a bit strange, but today I found her ironing paper.

It seems that a friend in the next village had asked her to inquire at the mayor's office, if it would be possible to put up a small A4 poster advertising a vintage and classic car rally.

Lisbeth set off with the poster in the direction of the office, stopping off at her next door (but one) neighbour to give them some leeks. On being offered a cup of tea, she left the poster in the hall (so as not to forget it when she left) and stayed for tea and a chat.

Crossing the hall on her way out, Lisbeth found that the poster had gone. When asked about it, her neighbour said that she had thought it was rubbish left over from the post so had crumpled it up and thrown it away.

Hence, Lisbeth has been ironing it in the hope of making it presentable.

Droppings? It seems not

Apparently, it's some sort of fungus. Lisbeth's friend, who has a house in the Charente, says that he has the same thing. Like Lisbeth, it comes after it has rained. He says that the spores are in the ground and when it rains, they are triggered to produce these greenish, sea weedy blobs of stuff. Not entirely exciting, and somewhat disappointing, me thinks!

Droppings?

I'm trying to help Lisbeth identify these. She thinks that they are probably droppings of some kind.

They are on the path by the bamboo and on the path next to a Pavillon de la Musique. Just those two places and nowhere else.

They are sloppy and look like regurgitated fruit, so she doesn't think it's owls. She wondered about bats but each dropping is as big as a bat's body in itself, so it can't be bats. Any suggestions?

Joining the Dots

If our lives were like joining the dots
I suppose there would be lots and lots
We'd have choice where to go
To go fast or go slow
Trying not to get ourselves in knots

Would a picture begin to appear
as the joining went outwards from here?
Is it already mapped
so we always feel trapped
and unable to find a new sphere?

If we found we could make something new
by joining the dots two by two
Then the lines could create
an entirely new state
full of joy that we'd want to renew

So let all the new dots be your guide
Losing any that won't subdivide
Then with courage and heart
take your life pen and start
joining up, with a new sense of pride

An August fire

Nothing interesting

Just so you know: the church clock is back working and Tuesday night is still wind-up night for the grandfather clock chez nous.

The weather remains wet and wintry. Lisbeth has even considered lighting the fire, in August! Unheard of here in France. The garden continues to grow, when normally the heat of the sun would have slowed it right down. All in all, we could be in the UK.

There's not much else to say, really. I am even thinking of moving inside fairly soon as the veranda is not very exciting without Lisbeth or visitors to talk to. Hey ho!

Accusative Case

Am I an accusative case?
A noun that does not know its place?
An object of being
or just of your seeing
in stories, that never took place?

My sense of belonging is thin
In a script that I'm not sure I'm in
Perhaps I'm a verb
with a half written blurb
to explain where I hope to begin?

So I'll live, without time to reflect,
in a space where there's no disconnect
Just the sense of a verb
With a noun, quite superb,
which enables a future perfect

The picnic

This is France in August. This is the picnic site. It rained. Lisbeth got wet as did everyone else. They ate a lot and laughed a lot but got cold in the wet atmosphere. I stayed nice and dry on the veranda.

Things happen?

You never know how things are going to work out, do you: life, and stuff? I'm not absolutely sure that being in France is the right thing for me, but hey, who would know, if I don't? I suppose there isn't a right answer because each day is each day. Some say that what happens tomorrow, next week, or next year, is very much dependent upon what happens today: either in practice or in the thoughts that we will have today.

So, if I did know what I wanted to happen, how would I make it happen? It seems that "For anything to happen there has to be a transfer or change or conversion of Energy. A transfer from one type of energy to another type - like from chemical to mechanical, or potential to kinetic."

That means that if I find that life here in France isn't for me, and want to be a sheep-star, then I will need to turn potential energy into kinetic energy and get myself along to these auditions.

Grammar it home

I don't know whether you have noticed but, from time to time, I make a spelling mistake or, even worse, a grammatical error. Luckily, I have a monitor (Mr Writer) who very kindly mails me, if he spots anything not quite right. I hate making mistakes, especially as my blog is called talking practice. Although talking isn't the same as writing. Lisbeth gets by in French in talking mode, but her writing isn't anything like as good. What I do in this blog is write what I say. So although it's written, it's me talking and so it is still my talking practice - if you see what I mean? Most of the errors are just typos because I've altered the sentence and not changed the grammar, but a mistake is a mistake is a mistake!

I know I don't make that many and they're usually not terrible ones. However, I don't like to make any, so thank you, Mr Writer, for your attention to detail and your kindly reminders. Here are some visual mistakes for your delight and delectation.

The sound of silence

So where are we and what's what?

Lisbeth's visitors have gone and we are back to being just tous les deux. The house is quiet and the weather is not much to write home (or a blog) about. In fact, things are particularly quiet as the church clock has stopped and time is standing still. It is really odd, not having it mark the passing of time. Despite visitors' fears, you don't hear it chime as often as you might think. There is something about its reassuring regularity that seems to render it unnoticeable (unless you pay attention, or need to know what the time is). However, when it stops working, you can hear the silence brought about by its absence of presence. It is most unsettling.

Those of you who have been reading me for some time will know that I like phrases like 'absence of presence' and that I will have been doing some surfing. Well, you're not wrong!

For the philosophically minded, this article Hearing Silence: The perception and introspection of absences makes fascinating reading. Also, did you know that if a composer creates a few seconds of silence during a piece of music, it will trigger a response in the brain that will enable listeners to break the piece of music into digestible chunks; to pay attention and anticipate what comes next? So say researchers at Stanford University School of Medicine.

Then there's that John Cage person who created a 'silent' piece: 4'33" In this, the listeners are enabled to 'listen' to all the sounds that would be masked by the playing of music. (So none is played - obviously - for 4 minutes and 33 seconds - exactly)

Or, you could think of it in terms of absence as presence

Whichever! The clock isn't working and we miss it!

The puzzle is finished

The puzzle is finished
The last piece goes in
A sense of achievement
It feels like a win
The painting shines out
Yes, Monet, that's him
All's well that ends well
So let's have a gin