I bought a missal. I know - another one! It really is getting out of hand. I’m not religious, I’m really not – but they’re such personal things, so old and lovely, this one so handled and worn and full of the quiet little moments of somebody's long-vanished life. And I might have known her, known her dreams and fears and the milestones of her beloveds. I can’t let them lie there, being overlooked. Plus - you know - books!
For Paul, work = photography.
He’s thinking of an exhibition next year which might take in all the visual aspects of light and movement and frenchness he loves so much.For me, it’s time to bite the bullet and start that new novel of mine, now that the themes and plots and characters have been finally all nutted down and sorted. Two hours, twice a day, no excuses. (Hope you’re reading this, Gaby…) For both of us, though, there’s a desperate, desperate need to get back to work on our French (poor Joss has been saintly - saintly! But really we need to impress her soon or she'll wash her hands of us). For Paul as well, there’ll be local markets and cooking of course and making up recipes and playing guitar and kicking around with the Village lads (petanque, anyone?) but for me – I’d like a bit of earth. I really would. An allotment to clean up and care for, just while we’re here. It needn’t be big – something little would be quite perfect.