My day.

My day has been drawn out for me in advance.

There will be little time for slacking. My tasks have been timed to the minute. From 5.30 am (when I write and post this stuff), to about 15.30 pm (when I pick-up Lady Magnon from the airport) not a minute will be wasted. By the time we reach home, I'll be shattered.

My only problem is that more rain is forecast, but hopefully I'll get all my jobs completed.

Other than my usual time-consuming duties, Freddie has to have his worm pill; never an easy job. I still have one small lot of mowing to do. And I shall prepare a delicious dry Chicken Curry for Lady M; after her day's travelling, I know she'll enjoy that.

I'm beginning to really hate that airport, I've seen more of it this year than I would ever have imagined possible.

I'll catch-up with you later!

It's never ending.

It's that time of year again. All our lawns turn beige, and stop growing.

I don't mind the 'stop growing' part, but beige crunchy grass is not my Tasse de Thé..

We are promised rain, and maybe even storms, for this week so perhaps some green will return.

Of course just because the grass doesn't grow, it doesn't mean that everything else stops. The grass still has to be mowed, as annoying foot-tall spindly yellow flowering weeds soon spring up everywhere, making the lawns look a total mess.

I can't really complain. It takes me just 40 minutes to mow with Rory (my ride-on mower), and another 20 minutes with the ordinary mower. One hour a week to mow the whole caboodle ain't so bad.

I can hear the sound of distant thunder as I write. Rain may be on its way!

(5 mins later) And it was! And boy did it rain!

The Red Dot.

Painters are fickle folk.

We like our work to be appreciated, we like to think our life's study/work has not all been in vain, and most of all we like to see the occasional 'red dot'.

We can work for decades, then one day sell a minor work for a few £'s, and it all suddenly seems worthwhile. It's not the money; it's the appreciation.

Personally I've had more work stolen than I've sold, which in its own way is flattering, but I'd like to have had more financial return. This has probably been my own fault as I've allowed some disastrous galleries to show my work, and placed my reputation in the hands of rank amateurs. I've occasionally exhibited in quite prestigious locations, but always in mixed non-selling shows.

I'm working more at the moment than I have for the past few years, and I'm toying with the idea of showing work again, but I would certainly be much more selective about the location and its curator/manager than I have been in the past.

My last exhibition here in France was enough to put anyone off!

Breatharianism.

                           

These two individuals, Akahi Ricardo and Camila Castello (above), claim never to eat. They occasionally sip a thimble-full of diluted fruit juice (once a year) but otherwise (apparently) they live on air.

Looking at their photo, he seems to be struggling slightly with her weight. I wonder where all that came from? She claims to have gone through a whole pregnancy without eating.

The good news must be that we can send them to arid parts of Africa, where they could teach the natives not to worry about starvation; and just breathe instead. That'll soon have them fattened-up.

Another world problem solved?

Carers, caring, and couldn't care less.

                                      

Caring for the sick, disabled, and elderly is a subject about which much has been written recently. Carers think they aren't appreciated, are underpaid, and are much maligned. They are right!

This is work often undertaken by immigrants who will do almost anything to earn some money; however paltry.

Most carers work for independent, private, companies, who pay their workers peanuts whilst charging their clients a fortune. I recently heard of a man paying £1,000 per week for two hours attention, seven days a week; that works out at over £71 an hour, for which the carers themselves were paid about £8 an hour (if that). £100-ish for the carer, and £900 for the company, and that's just for ONE person's care. Someone somewhere is earning a bloody fortune on the backs of the incapacitated.

Back in the early 1980's my people asked if I would return to the UK to look after them. They were both in 'terminal' ill health, and I was happy to be in a position where I could be of assistance. My mother died a couple of years later, and father soon became a double amputee. I was in shock, to say the least.

When told he would be returning home (with no legs), I remember asking the people at the hospital how I was supposed to cope. 'Oh, don't worry' they assured me 'you will have an army of carers coming to look after him'. I took him home and waited.

Of course no-one came, no-one phoned, and frankly no-one cared. I was left to cope alone. I shall leave the daily chores to your imagination.

So, I know something of what carers have to deal with; I've been there.

Personally I think the 'caring profession' should be State, NHS, managed. This should not be a money making scheme for eager cost-cutting businessmen. The Care Home racket is bad enough; the Visiting Carer racket is becoming even worse.

We eat again!

Haddock's is almost filled to capacity. There is just one corner left for a third row of 'Contender' French Beans. 

It's at this stage when everything starts to over produce. With the Beans already starting, I can see that we shall soon have excess. I've tried freezing them in the past, but they don't freeze well. Lady Magnon always asks for plenty of beans; then we become inundated. We can only eat so many!

We're now harvesting Courgettes, Peppers, Beans Onions, Perpetual Spinach, Potatoes, and Salads. We'll also soon be eating Tomatoes, Aubergines, and other Peppers.

There are also Cherries, Tayberries, and Black/Red Currents. It is amazing how much food can be grown on such a small plot.

Some clever person observed that 'Gardens require water; mostly in the form of perspiration'. We'll soon be needing some of the other sort; it's very hot and dry here.

This was our very favourite Cumin flavoured 'Compost fry-up' that was created with yesterday's harvest (above). A vegetarian dream.

The most recent addition to Haddock's is the Brighton Seagull (top left). Yes, it's wings rotate when the wind blows. Kitsch, or what!

Knife Crime in the UK.

                            

Last week two London schoolboys died, in separate incidents, as a result of knife crime.

Last year (2016) there were a staggering 32,448 recorded knife crimes in the UK. In certain circles, carrying a knife has now become the norm. It is the preferred weapon of the under 18's.

Many years ago, such offenders were sent off to Borstal, Approved schools, Farm schools, and other 'naughty boy' institutions. Not exactly pukka prison, but the regimes were usually pretty tough.

Nowadays there are Secure children's homes, Secure training centres, and Young offenders institutions. From what I understand these places are no more than 'homes away from home', and they offer very little in the way of correction; I believe attendance is viewed as a 'badge of honour'.

No home is without a knife drawer, in fact a home could hardly operate without knives, so they are within reach of every young person; and a single knife would probably never be missed if 'borrowed'. Many children regularly take a knife with them to school. The situation has now become so serious that police refer to it as an 'epidemic'.

Children are being knifed for 'looking at someone in the wrong way', or 'for coming from the wrong side of the estate', or even 'for talking to the wrong girl'. Anything can be 'wrong', and no excuse is too feeble.

As with the threat of terrorism, knife crime is almost impossible to police. Many do-gooders were against Britain's 'Stop and Search' policy, claiming that it was racist (Theresa May herself was against S-n-S). Why searching someone should be racist I'm not sure, but I suppose they mean it's racist if the person being searched is of 'Afro-Caribbean' descent.

N.B. Having said all that, I must admit to being never without a knife in my pocket. However, mine is there for bucolic purposes; NOT for aggression.