Jones is away for a few days. (This handsome picture of her with Lucia at the Westfield shopping centre in London has just popped up on my screen, courtesy of Llewellyn). I have been working so hard in her absence that today I found it necessary to take two siestas. The first was really just a breath catcher that didn’t qualify; I tip myself over the arm of the leather settee in the lounge and fight off the dogs, who think it’s an invitation for a love-in. The second took account of the numerous buckets of turvena that Slavic had been passing over the fence to me to scatter on the path.
Turvena is a gravel-based road-surfacing compound that compacts to form a hard surface. It’s used on all the dirt roads around here. I’ve been laying it down on the tractor track that runs to the lower fields, as well as surfacing various paths that otherwise tend to become overgrown with weeds. This often involves parking the tractor outside the fence and getting Slavic to heave buckets of turvena over the wire into my waiting arms.
Slavic, ignoring my pensioner status, fills the buckets to the brim; I’m too proud to ask him to do otherwise. The result is aching limbs, wobbly knees, creaking hips and the need for that extra siesta. Even so, we have got a lot done – garden remodelling, wall-building, path construction and the siting of some huge rocks in the rockery outside the front gate. My aches are satisfying aches. And Slavic appears to derive a good deal of creative satisfaction from the work as well.
Also satisfying has been the eventual pay-out to Olive by a UK fund of the benefits accrued by her former husband. The process of extracting the investment has been long, bureaucratic and inefficient – much form filling, phoning and letter-writing. These pains were forgotten as Olive proudly displayed and then banked the cheque this week.
Because Jones is away, I have assumed her responsibilities for a few days. The first of these is to feed the cats in the morning. Dearheart is the grey and white job on the pillow here with her brother, Braveheart. Her enermy and victim, the poor Squinty, along with a lookalike, have adopted the Bijou Ensuite as their permanent lodgings. They come trotting down the stairs to enjoy their nibbles. Then I water the indoor plants and give the lounge a quick vacuum.
In the afternoon, I amble down the path to feed Maggie and her pup, as well as the stray and old Zeferino’s cat. This is a handsome muscular tom that could easily mug you if you forgot the nibbles. Close by, Maggie still shies away from me at the end of her chain although she no longer barks.
Barry, her puppy comes roly-polying out of the barrel and down into my arms. Poor little beast; I hope it faces a better future than its mother. Fifty metres down the road, the stray waits in the bush until I’ve put down a handful of dog biscuits – and then quickly moves in to demolish them. The stray is starting to look quite debonair.
I have taken the plunge and allowed the pups to run free on our walks. So far so good. They rush around madly with the other four, nosing through the bush, and yapping excitedly at the hint of a rabbit or a partridge. We follow a leisurely 40 minute route that they know well. Thus far they haven’t gone astray. Fingers crossed.
We have a new postman; that’s to say, a postwoman. Her name is Patricia (pronounced Pa-TREE-sia). I bumped into her in the parish office where I had gone to fetch a document issuing an invitation to a South African cousin to visit us. I didn’t mention that en route I had discovered a neighbour’s letter erroneously deposited in our postbox; Patricia is new and needs time to settle in.
When I inquired after the previous postman, the parish office ladies explained that posties work on 6-month contracts. After six months on a particular patch, they either move to a new area or seek other work. I was unpleasantly surprised. Not only does the system offer no job security, it means that the postmen are forever having to learn new routes. I don’t know how they manage. Many of the names on the postboxes in the village are all but illegible.
The Portuguese Met Office has sent me an email informing me that December was exceptionally dry. It was hardly necessary. Winter is a joke. Sunny day follows sunny day with no relief in sight. Afternoon temps hover around C20*. The flies are already making a comeback. The tourists have never had it so good.
As you may be aware, I find myself, like Moses, a participant – often unwilling - in some exotic dreams. I’m frequently back at work, generally with no desk or computer to work at or running late for broadcast. Such dreams may be explained easily enough, I’m well aware, but a recent dream was absolutely ridiculous.
This was a potentially romantic interlude with a delightfully seductive young woman whose demeanour made it plain that she found me equally attractive - don’t laugh. As she slid closer with unmistakeable intent, I bid her stop. I thought that we should go no further, I explained, without feeling some commitment to each other, even if that commitment were not to last. But since any such commitment was lacking on my side, I felt we ought to call a halt to proceedings. It was really a fine speech and I woke with the words still loud in my head the following morning. What happened to the young lady I can’t tell you. But I somehow doubt that she'll be back.
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