Over at the weasel emporium, I’ve been having a bit of a sulk. Barely anyone has commented on or even ‘liked’ recent posts and, let’s face it, I need my life validated. I’ve started writing a new novel and thought I’d give up on the other stuff: Donald and I were finished. End of. No-one cares. Farewell and so long. Write the book. But, suddenly today, by other means of communication, folk have started telling Donald and I that they’re enjoying the blog. Perhaps a reconcilliation is in order?

Some folk write from a lonely garret or a cottage in remote countryside. Me, I send my missives from a provencal table, accompanied by a spiral shaped mosquito repellent. It’s functional rather than romantic, although doesn’t completely thwart the incessant ankle scratching. And speaking of lower body parts, this morning I walked into the village to try to arrange a pedicure. I would’ve posted a photo of my feet, the toes I was so proud of a couple of weeks ago. Now, sadly, they look like a prop from Hammer Horror Films. I can’t bear to share them. I’d done a bit of research beforehand to get the vocabulary right: shellac = gomme laque; remove = retirer. I don’t want it any more and so on. I knew Madame would be stuffy – oh, semi-permanent she cried with a distinct sneer, calling a compatriot to view the English disaster.

Pas encore, I suggested. I don’t blame you, she didn’t say, but I could read that bubble coming out of her magnificently coiffeured head. Madame needs a pedicure classique she advised her partner. Next Friday at 4pm she announced. Our village has a population of 4000, most of whom are old men. Are they all having their nails done? Telephone number, Madame demanded. I gave her the number. It’s too long she and the partner agreed. I wrote the number down fearing I’d made a mistake. Non, too long. Is it an English number the partner enquired? Well, of course it is, I didn’t say. That explains it, they said. Next Friday. Trying to make myself invisible, I sidled out. Next contender, said Madame.

In other news, Eleanor and I are still sitting by the pool, drinking late afternoon wine with our new friend, Jessica. The water is much cooler now, and the dips less frequent. We stay as long as we can but the early evenings are chilly. The laughs are long though between the three of us. Glorious days in which nothing much, but almost everything passes.