Like my siblings, I was the recipient in my early years of birthday letters with valued enclosures from kindly aunts and grandparents. These enclosures generally took the form of 10-shilling notes although they occasionally ran to a pound and once or twice even to £5 - no mean gift in the 1950s. The good wishes that accompanied these notes I confess were of little interest to me. There was very little useful to be done with good wishes. £5, on the other hand, offered a multitude of possibilities.
However, as with most things, there was a hitch. Mother refused to allow me to invest this cash in some desired object until I had sat down to write a (laborious) thank-you letter to each of my benefactors. And here's the point.
After hoping that they were enjoying good health and thanking them for their generosity, I would hit a blank. What more was there to say? After all, they would hardly be interested in the weather or the dull minutiae of my boyhood life.
This same blank comes back to haunt me on Thursday afternoons when I generally sit down to pull the week together, as much of a diary record (which we consult to check the dogs' ages and other historical events) as a blog. It's not that there's nothing to be said; there's just so little new to be said. This week has closely imitated last week, which resembled the week before it.
In short, it's been hot as hell; the ticks are biting; we return sweat-soaked from our morning walks; Slavic has been working around the garden - and so on. The challenge is to embroider these events sufficiently to hold your interest or even, muse willing, to dress them up in new clothes.
So here goes. As so often, the week starts with May. Monday is May day. So, this week, was Thursday. May had been recalled to the clinic at Vale do Lobo for further examination after undergoing minor surgery there last month for the removal of a growth from her cheek. We were under the impression that she would have to undergo another excision, presumably to remove more tissue. In the event she emerged from the clinic with little sign of whatever treatment she had received.
On the home front, Slavic had been working away while we tended to May. This week he's been extending the stone patio that he's created between the two houses and enlarging the circular stone boundaries around shrubs and trees - essentially tidying up the garden.
The patio looks great and has already been admired by our visitors. What they don't realise is how many trips we've had to take down into the valley to search out suitable rocks. Slavic prowls through the mato (bushveld) on foot, keeping a close eye out for scorpions as he tips over promising rocks, while I bump along in the tractor.
Once we have a full load, we take a five-minute ride back home through the village. Slavic perches on the wheel guard.
At the top of the road we pause to give the two Dutch dogs there a biscuit. Once home, I have to back the tractor up our steep driveway to avoid losing my load. Slavic goes ahead to open and close the gates.
Slavic is very pleased to have the work - even though he labours outside under a cruel sun. At present he is finding himself with a lot of days to fill.
We have enough work to keep him going for another week or two. After that, with luck, he'll have a couple of projects elsewhere in the village.
This week we've seen a lot of the Hamburgo, the village restaurant. On Sundays the village expats gather there for brunch. On Tuesday evening we found ourselves joining David and Dagmar to catch up on their visit to Germany. And on Wednesday evening it was the venue for Pauline's birthday celebrations.
Attendance on the two evenings testified to the unpredictabilities of restaurant life. On Tuesday, there were barely half a dozen diners in the place. On Wednesday it was packed. How Manuel and Graca cope with such an ebb and flow it's hard to know.
Wednesday also saw the arrival of my new desktop computer, a Windows 7 model to replace my aging XP. This one's a delight, both very fast and equipped with a solid state drive that enables the computer to boot up within seconds and keeps the sound to a barely audible hum.
Jones, who appreciates my appreciation more than the object of it, has once again been spending long hours in her garden, which is really looking good. It takes her weeks after our return from holiday in June, to clean up the heavy winter growth, which has browned off in the sun during our absence. She sets one or two hoses going gently while she works away, crouched over a plant or flower bed.
This pictured device speaks for itself. Unlike my meteorological neighbour, Nicoline's anemometer, mine doesn't tell you how hard the wind is blowing or for how long. But you can tell that easily enough by watching the trees. And it's kinda satisfying. Very likely, this is how the Wright brothers started out. After all, once you have the propeller, all you need is the rest of the plane!
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