My family, in northern France, are all-at-sea healthwise, my grandmother in the nursing home, (la maison de retraite), seems to have endured a dreadful evening in which she got severely burnt all over her arm, and nobody knows how or why, least of all, my grandmother, who is totally lost since my late grandfather left us last spring. The lady who could drive us all for miles, across Picardie, could serve up something extravagant out of nothing, a tireless focus of family matters, religious, superstitious, honest, and desperately sensitive, giving images of shy birds caught on an unfamiliar feeding ground, she would shy away from spotlight, and yet gave her all to the family, without the slightest hesitation. She is now, alas, remote from us, though still with us, the brutality of age has shown itself in her, at rapid speed, from an energetic pensioner last spring, to a lost, crumpled soul today.

My aunt, also French, has just got over breast cancer, but as anyone can tell us, will never feel free again, and it feels like the disintegration of my French ties, although such a thing will never be true in my heart. It is indeed a curious feeling, to have parents of different nationalities, who in turn, also had parents of different nationalities, thus making the family very scattered. At times, this has been a wonderful adventure, as if my family are continually bunjee jumping, but at times like this, coming together is truly in the heart, as travelling vast distances is not something that can be done like running out of the back door across the street to see how 'memere' is doing.

But, humans are battlers, tolerant beings, why else are we here, and I'm tonight remembering my French background, often a voluminous memory, reserved for those spare times of reflection, without the daily rigmarole of life which is the norm.

I went through school, feeling English, but always having a French mother which nobody (at school), would ever let me forget. (I was happy with it, of course, but as a primary school child, such things, over time, cause feelings which never really leave you.)

It's becoming far less unusual now, of course, but when I attended junior school, (a rather severe regime ruled that place!), I was the only person of any foreign extraction, and I hardly call France, or slight Italian blood very different, even though my father is a classic true Englishman - my early rôle model.

It's always nice to remember who we are, and tonight, I'm happy to do just that, despite my shortcomings, this is me, and it's not going to change, the only thing that will, is my every day learning of life.

Pour Pepere. C'est pour toi.

=== En tout pays, il y a une lieue de mauvais chemins ===

Some of you may know, when my spine isn't slipping, I'm a language tutor, so have a read of these bizarre English facts...

"Almost" is the longest word in the English language with all the letters in alphabetical order.

The longest word that can be typed solely with the left hand is stewardess.

There is only ONE word in the English language with THREE CONSECUTIVE SETS OF DOUBLE LETTERS.... Bookkeeper.

The # symbols is often referred to as a "number sign" or "pound sign." Its actual name is an octothorpe.

In English, the letter "W" is the only letter in the alphabet that doesn't have just one syllable - it has three.

The letters in the abbreviation e.g. stand for exempli gratia - a Latin term meaning "for example."

The only 15 letter word that can be spelled without repeating a letter is "uncopyrightable"!

The combination "ough" can be pronounced in nine different ways.
The following sentence contains them all:
"A rough-coated, dough-faced, thoughtful ploughman strode through the streets of Scarborough; after falling into a slough, he coughed and hiccoughed."

A group of unicorns is called a blessing.
Twelve or more cows are known as a "flink."
A group of frogs is called an army.
A group of rhinos is called a crash.
A group of kangaroos is called a mob.
A group of whales is called a pod.
A group of ravens is called a murder.
A group of officers is called a mess.
A group of larks is called an exaltation.
A group of owls is called a parliament.

Well, I may as well go the whole hog, and ask my lovely blog friends, to try another competition, as a part 2...
but no more beer, no...to complete the poll, this one is for wine!
Perhaps easier? I'm sure it is.

so, blog buddies, which nation consumes the most wine, per person?
let's go~~!

17:55; congratulations in order to buze1971 for the winning answer...ITALY!!
well done~~

In vino veritas

Well, impette won the beer question by guessing IRELAND correctly, well done impette, brilliant show!!
...to remind everyone of the question again;

...according to a 2002 survey, which nation consumes the most beer, per litre, per person?
The only clue, they are way out ahead at number 1~~!!

Please go to my post below, (November 8th) "number 1 bevvy" to see the competition~~!
T y everyone~~!!!

For two successive nights, my sleep has been subjected to localised nightmares.
Both appeared to be travels back to childhood, though the latter dream found my present form, and not that of my larger teenage frame...the first was exactly as could be found on any afternoon in my early teen years, being in my back garden, playing football with friends. Only this dream dealt a severe blow to that notion of wellbeing, as Norwich airport is barely two miles from my old family home, planes have never been a rarity in Norfolk, with dozens of still extant airfields from the last war, as well as the RAF being particularly keen on Norfolk's famous "big skies".
This dream, saw a small jet struggling, and I hesitate to go into detail, but it slunk over my suburb, clipping great beech and oak treetops, knocking boughs beneath it, before the crash beyond the soft brow of the wooded hill. It was an awful dream, a sickening sight to carry from a dream into daily thoughts.

And then, last night, again in the same 18th century suburban-situated childhood home, my family and I went for a walk by sunset, to the local park, but decided to extend the walk through a neglected nearby field, still 'unshaven' from it's happier summer wheat yield. The sky was already becoming reddish on the horizon, it was autumn, and surprisingly, to the south could be seen a tornado heading towards us. By all accounts, it was a whopper, showing the colour of an ivy leaf bonfire, the top of which was still halting the sun's final rays.
With that, I rushed home by bicycle, as, predictably, I had not brought my camera, (a dream is also reality there!!), and the cycling seemed to take an age, as today's physical restrictions took a hold of my childhood dream.
Finally, what should have been a two minute ride, seemed more like 10, (an impossibility that only a dream can steal), I reached home, and checked the windows, the tornado had struck the area where my family were, beyond a 17th century Flemish tiled rooftop, and through a thinly-needled spruce, which I much admired in youth, it could be seen attacking the land.
I was unable to take a picture, my fingers seemed frozen.
Unable to get a better view in the next room, my brother's room, as by now, he was sleeping...though he was also in the field...my dream was complicating matters considerably.
Within a moment, my father was home, stars were all that could be seen, and they were magnified, moving remarkably quickly. All the doors of the house seemed to be major stumbling blocks to movement, and a feeling of restriction prevailed...but all the family were safe.

Oh, I'm exhausted!

How about you dear blog buddies, any memorable dreams lately?

~~~

Yesterday is but a dream, tomorrow but a vision. But Today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness, and every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore to this Day. -- Sanskrit proverb

~~~

I begin to have a fire now, when the mornings are cold : I have got some loose bricks at the back of my grate for good husbandry. Fine weather.

Swift, November 9th, 1711

'''
Colour: Black, yellow
Music: Goldie: Inner City Life . Sensual
Reading: The People, Seychelles