Bed time came and went – it is so hot that my chosen lay is the sofa on the terrace. I love it here with just a blanket between me and the elements. Generally it is one of the places I sleep most soundly.
Select some music, tonight’s choice - Tubular Bells.
Appropriate really – as it rhymes with BLOODY HELL.
Sleep? Fat chance. Because tonight, the Beatles are in town. And so is GOD.
I’m not sure I have ever seen so many beasties, mainly flying beetles and ear-i-wigs which must have just arrived from some foreign country, just in perfect time to attack me in my makeshift bed. Louis, my brown dog, is so distressed by this he wants to lie beneath me.
All in all, it doesn’t make for a dozy nights sleep.
Then starts the lightening. I need another drink.
A bottle of Tanquery 10 and a few tonics and here we are – for the night.
For 5 days the sun has raged through the day, up to 36 degrees this evening.
Tan all round – bring it on.
Tonight we had a lovely night, dipping in the pool well after dark. You would, wouldn’t you?
W went off to bed a few hours ago – so did I, so to speak. But this is no bed, it’s purgatory for me and my brown friend. With an imminent thunder-storm announcing itself with floods of light, gothic rumbling in the distance puts him on edge. By my feet a toad the size of a lawnmower does nothing to quell his terror.
I change the tune. Led Zepplin – When the Levy Breaks – up goes the volume. Overhead, the lights flash – we’re back in Knebworth 1978. I can handle this.
Thunderstorms here in South West France are spectacular. They always remind me of my brother-in-law Dave – he loved them.
I miss him.
Bless him – I hope he gets sparks where he has gone.
If he were here now I am sure he would approve of Kashmir blasting out, louder than the thunder. Maybe he is?
Not sure what he thinks of this plague of insects though. Jeesus, there’s thousands of them. Enough to make you run inside in Hitchcockesque fashion. Lock the doors and windows, and don’t forget the cellar…
Frank – the Zappa – is hard at work now, frying insects three to the dozen like some maniac chippy on a mission, as his bright blue light lures them in. He’s on overtime tonight – collect your cheque at the end of the week.
Dont think we can stand it here. Beatles in my pants now. Hippy girls with flowers in their hair may have dreamed about that but, rest assured, it’s not what its cracked up to be. Beatles in your crack – stop it.
Gotta run – before the storm’s begun.
Our connection with the outside world will soon be lost again – so you wont know if we have been devoured by killer beetles at our breakfast table. Or mayme the giant toad will get us first?
If I don’t see you through the week, I’ll see you through the window…