OK. This is the scene. Jones has just brought me a cup of tea. It’s a hot Thursday afternoon with at least another 12 hot Thursdays in prospect, along with hot in-between days as well. A purple heat haze hangs lazily over the hills to the north of us.
I’m itchy in places that don’t often get mentioned in church. My pink summer heat bumps have returned to orbit my midriff like a series of planets. (I’m avoiding any unfortunate astronomical metaphors.)
Behind me the fan whirrs impotently. (I tried spraying water at it with the ironing spray, which I thought cooled the study down, but Jones has outlawed the practice.) The fan’s drone is being drowned out by the bellowing of a love-sick, tone-deaf cicada with a tannoy in a tree a few metres away. The dogs are mercifully out for the count, awaiting the cooler evening air.
This morning we tractored across to Sarah and David’s place, where we got whacked at petanque.
No doubt, like those slip-sliding ladies at Wimbledon, we could blame the preparation of the pitch or the weather or the irksome insects that buzzed around us.
But, whatever the case, we lost – a shameful 7-0 in the match that counted. My sporting reputation lies (literally) in the dust.
(Mike Brown's pictures are in a smaller format.)
The trophy went to the Dutch ladies, newly returned from their travels up north.
Earlier in the week we took back their little dog, Ermie, after a two week sojourn with our lot.
She went wild with joy on being reunited with them, whirling around the garden like a delighted satellite.
Pause there to examine an SMS that has tinged on my mobile. It’s in Portuguese, threatening me with legal action unless I settle a phone bill that relates to an account held by Olive, one of “our widows”, who died last year. I had given the company concerned my mobile number as a contact at the time because Olive didn’t speak Portuguese.
As I have just informed a gentleman on their helpline, they’re welcome to proceed with legal action if they can find her. In the meanwhile I have also added their company SMS number to my block list. (I just love smart phones.)
Yesterday I worked quite hard, driving the tractor (an under-rated labour) as Slavic loaded and unloaded sand, cement and turvena. The last of these is a mixture of gravel and other materials that is widely used here to surface agricultural roads.
The sand and cement were required to build a base for our (recently repaired, now spare) washing machine in Casa Nada and to pave one or two problematic areas under the trees. We have tried putting down bark but to little avail. The dogs kick it all over the show and the winter weeds delight in drilling through the anti-weed matting to turn the place into the usual January jungle.
Slavic and I made a trip down into the valley to collect rocks (which abound there). I warned him to keep a sharp look-out for scorpions as he sought out suitable rocks and piled them into the back of the tractor. We came across two of the little stingers – both menacingly indignant at the removal of their homes and their sudden exposure to the blistering sun.
I guess I’d have been indignant too at being evicted in such unseemly fashion. One never sees scorpions here normally as they’re nocturnal and spend the days sheltering beneath their rocks – at least until Slavic and I arrive.
In the evening we joined Celso and his daughter, Elena, for supper at the local, sitting out under the trees as a huge moon rose in the east. Celso is en route to France, where he and the children are due to join Brigitte in a search for better prospects. It hurts us to see them go.
A general strike has been proclaimed today by unions protesting against the austerity measures being imposed upon the country. Although we’re barely aware of any action here in the countryside, travellers are inevitably being hard hit. Local radio reports are full of the misery at Lisbon airport.
I’m sorry. I utterly fail to see the point of withdrawing one’s labours in these circumstances other than to give union leaders something to do. It makes life miserable for innocent people and hurts everybody, including the strikers themselves. We certainly didn’t see any of the local businesses closed.
Other Espargal news is low key.
Three of Mike Brown’s chickens have gone missing; he suspects foul play.
We saw another neighbour, who sped past us on the highway, getting a lengthy ticking-off from a policeman for one or other infringement. (We know it was lengthy because he was still being ticked off when we passed him a second time ten minutes later.) We were glad the policeman didn’t stop us because one is not meant to travel with unsecured dogs in the back seat.
Now it’s Friday. Jones is working in her garden. We went shopping for ourselves and May this morning. People were lining up at the supermarket to place their bets ahead of tonight’s Euromillions draw. I have been collecting dues from other members of our syndicate. The big one has to come our way sooner or later - probably later, I guess.
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