During a conversation this weekend with our llama-loving friends, Sue asked us if we were really planning to sell our place here and move to England. “Of course we are” I said, wondering why she might think otherwise. She pointed out that, even though we have bought a house in Derby, we seem to have done nothing about selling any llamas, or about selling this house. And that everything we write on the blog seems to be about how lovely our life here is. Clearly it seems hard to believe that we would want to be giving up something that makes us so happy. Continue reading
Time seems to be tumbling forward these days. I guess that’s what happens to it when you set about Changing Things. All these months of similar days slipping imperceptibly into the next, so that Time-as-we-knew-it ceased to exist, and then suddenly it feels as if someone has opened the flood gates, and all that stored up Time is pouring out of the calm lagoon of the present, and rushing headlong toward the choppy seas of an uncertain future.
And here are we, bobbing about wildly on the peaks and troughs of Life’s current in our dubious dinghy of Destiny, wondering whether we have any hope of steering it, or whether we should just hunker down and enjoy the ride.
So… what did Simon think of the house?
I’m beginning to think this blog may have had its day. Purportedly it is about “leaving the UK to raise llamas and other animals in France”. Well, what can I say? Been there, done that – movin’ on. If it is to carry on in any way, shape or form, it may have to be retitled. “Après les Lamas” perhaps? A blog about “leaving France to raise grandchildren and other animals in Derby.” I suspect however, that the care and education of the genus grandchildus will be considerably more labour intensive than the raising of llamas, and will leave considerably less time for the writing of blog posts.
In the meantime however, I will endeavour to (very occasionally) update our most faithful of readers (yep – that means YOU) on the excitements and dullments of the transition process.
Moments like this are why the early morning dog walk is a Thing of Joy.
A while back, sick of the nightly trauma of chasing reluctant cats out from inaccessible hiding places behind and under furniture to put them out of the house for the night, Simon decided to fit a cat flap. Despite the initial period of nightly slumbers disturbed by the excited barking of the hounds (who took some time to grow accustomed to the fact that a) cats were now allowed to stay indoors at night, b) cats were allowed to stay in the very same room as them, WITHOUT HUMAN SUPERVISION and c) cats could come and go as they pleased 24/7, generally with a very irritating catch-me-if-you-think-you’re-fast-enough expression on their smug little faces), the venture was a success.
However, there was always one reservation lurking at the back of my cat-loving mind that hung over the oh-so-convenient cat-flap scenario like an ever-present sword of Damacles. At any moment, one of our lovely, but gruesomely successful hunting felines might decide to bring some half-chewed trophy into the house before we could do anything to stop them.
Any readers who are frequent partakers of the dubious benefits of budget airlines may be familiar with the curious activity known hereabouts as Ryanair Roulette. For those of you well-placed enough not to find your travelling selves regularly at the mercy of such beguiling demons of the skies, let me explain.