We have been half watching a series on BBC TV about the state of Europe’s great cities in the 18th century. I say “half-watching” because there is a limit to the amount of blood, guts, urine and excrement that one can assimilate over supper, when the series is transmitted. Muck, stench and poo-strewn passages were the order of the day, as the presenter has been anxious to demonstrate by recreating scenes over lurid readings from the time. Special clogs, attached to one’s shoes, helped to lift the more fastidious citizen partially above the unspeakable mess.
What brings this to mind was our attempt to complete the inoculation process of our pups last Monday afternoon. The pups are suspicious of the car at the best of times and generally sick on any journey lasting 15 minutes or more. (Loule is 20 minutes away.) Jones yells as they’re about to throw up but there’s never a place to stop in time. Although we take along numerous old towels to contain the damage there’s generally a generous splash of dog-sick on Jones’s clothes. 
As you may well imagine, such outings are stressful as well as yucky. When we do arrive the pups are excited and difficult to handle. We managed to manoeuvre them into the surgery only to hear from a less than sympathetic receptionist that the vet was performing a complex operation and wouldn’t be free for at least an hour. Rather than hang around awkwardly, we retreated to the car.
This mini-adventure came at the end of a long day’s clean-up of Casa Nada, mandated by Jones and executed largely by Natasha. Jones had decided, now that she has a proprietary interest in half the building, that the other half should be cleaned from top to bottom as well. Admittedly, a fair bit of dust and dirt had accumulated there over the years and not everything was in barrack room order. But at least I knew where to find things, however many sacks they lay under. 
No longer! Every single item was taken outside to be wiped down, tossed out or given away. I got a say in these decisions and was able to dissuade my wife from scrubbing my tools with soap and water. But that and a cuppa was about all I got. Jones concentrated on strategy, Natasha decided how items should be repacked and I gophered feebly about, trying to look important. So much for being created in God's image.
The fencers, who (fortunately) had postponed their arrival on Monday, began work on Tuesday. They are Steve, a large South African, and Luis, his Portuguese sidekick. From their truck they unloaded a cement mixer and their ultra-useful muck-truck, a motorised barrow that can convey a full load of cement across rough ground. 
It took them a sweaty morning to dig holes and plant the corner poles for the remaining section of fence. In the afternoon I induced them, at Jones’s suggestion, to add several steps to the steep right-of-way that will replace the existing path across the property. Idalecio had already greatly improved the new passage with a number of steps but after watching old Zeferino (88) staggering down, we thought it expedient to upgrade them.
Wednesday morning we took all the dogs walking the in valley as part of a policy to get the pups accustomed to travelling in the car. From there we continued on to Benafim to fetch Natasha. Of Natasha we found no sign. Instead I discovered an SMS message (that had pinged during the walk) informing us that we needn’t worry to fetch her as she was bringing herself. Her partner has gone back to Ukraine on holiday, leaving his car and (more importantly) the keys at her disposal. 
Thursday took an unplanned turn. Our friend, May, had joined us for lunch in Loule - as she does each week - when she had a funny turn. Jones and I supported her while the restaurant called an ambulance. Fortunately, there were very few diners about. She was taken to the local health centre and later admitted to Faro hospital for a closer examination. But there she apparently persuaded the staff that she was well enough to go home – and was fetched that night by a kindly neighbour.
Friday Nelson returned to tackle a range of jobs; the trickiest of these was removing a pile of sand from the old sheep pen without harming the numerous poppy plants that Jones was determined to keep. I have to say that the poppies are in their glory. 
It would be wonderful if we could find a way of rooting out the weeds without damaging the wild flowers that bring so much colour to our spring seasons. Speaking of which, it’s been hot – going on for 30 degrees, and this in April.
A new flower bed that Nelson and I created earlier to Jones’s order has been expropriated by the dogs. It was intended to rehouse plants that Jones has been nurturing in pots. But since the bed contains the only soft earth in the property, it became the instant venue for wrestling matches and digging competitions. Jones has decided, wisely in my view, not to plant any flowers in the bed for the moment.
We have picked the last of our beans – 5 buckets full of them. It took the pair of us, with moral support from the cat, the best part of an hour to strip the plants of their pods, after which I brought in the tractor to dig over the area. 
The greenery, a mixture of bean plants and weeds, was waist high and becoming hard to negotiate. One bucket of beans I’ll keep for seed. The rest we’ll eat or freeze. Jones generally boils up a plateful in the evening to mix in with the salad. 
I have been reading an extraordinary book, THE BIG SHORT, by Michael Lewis. The book gives an account how the US subprime loan bubble came to nearly cripple the financial world.
It has the reader blinking in disbelief at the mass “Emperor’s new clothes” syndrome that overtook Wall Street, doubly so that most of those involved had little idea how the obscure financial instruments they created really worked.
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