Thursday morning, God and circumstance willing, is when my thoughts turn to the blog and pictures to illustrate it. This Thursday circumstance has thrust a spanner into the programme. We have had the mother and father of a storm. It broke around midnight with the usual thunderous light show, prompting me to pull the plugs and the dogs to take shelter on the bed.
THE LIE-IN
On such occasions we snuggle down in whatever space is available and do our best to reassure shivering Barri that it's not the end of the world. I use my mobile hotspot as a wifi link and we listen to the radio via an iPad app. Sleep is a bonus.
The rain was still drumming down when we awoke this morning so we got to lie in, a rare luxury. Rain from the roof is piped down into our cisterna, the tank that provides us with a back-up supply when the mains fails, as it does once or twice a year. Water from the upper patio we collect in bins placed below the spouts, as much to save the cobble grouting beneath as the water itself.
When the shower eased off, I led the dogs around Slavic's Steppes (the concrete path around the park) for a pee and poo outing before we all retired to the comfort of the wood-fire-warmed house. At some point we shall have to brave the sodden wilderness. As I write, it's pouring once again.
This has been an expensive week for dogs. Mini continues to vomit early each morning in spite of the pills that the vet prescribed for her and Barbara's excessive care with the little dog's diet. She now faces a blood test.
The next patient was Barri, who developed severe and persistent hiccoughs, accompanied by a great deal of grass-eating and bringing-up. Google offered us more possible causes of such behaviour than were useful. So off to the vet she went too - nothing obvious diagnosed -for several injections and a course of pills. She's much better.
BARBARA'S RED PEPPERS
At the Campina snack bar on Monday, as I prepared for my English class, the resignation of the boss of Portugal's biggest bank was announced on lunchtime TV news. My ears perked up. We have modest deposits in local banks, some of which have a less than glorious history. They have a nasty habit of going belly-up, enriching their owners and impoverishing their investors in the process.
The bank concerned is the state-owned CGD (Caixa Geral de Depositos), well-known to be in trouble, largely as a result of bad loans, and due for a multi-billion euro rescue. It was a bad time for the exit of its boss, fellow directors in train.
My pupils explained to me that the directors had stood down to contest a court order requiring them to disclose their earnings and assets. Their six-figure salaries were already public; so these were not the issue. As to those bad loans, the class had little doubt about who might have benefited - sceptical things!
THE HAT THIEF
For five years I've had my hat ripped off several times a month by a low-hanging branch that dangles over a regular path. The problem arises because I look down when I walk (the better to avoid falling over) and the wide brim of my sunhat blots out anything above.
Most days I remember to walk around the branch. On Tuesday, I forgot and, as usual, the branch stole my hat. I can't tell you how irritating I find this. It's personal! Anyhow, the branch has now been ripped from the limb to which it was attached and we can pass safely beneath.
STORMY VIEW FROM THE PATIO OF DISTANT WIND TURBINES
Jones and I have frequent disagreements about the desirability of clearing excessive vegetation bordering our paths. I'm in favour, the better to see where I am going and to prevent ticks from hitching a lift. She feels that it's unnecessary, as she frequently reminds me. But then she's both slimmer and steadier than I am. So I am driven to such surreptitious snipping as I feel essential, tossing the off-cuts into the bushes where they will not arouse suspicion.
RARE SHOT OF (CURMUDGEONLY) PRICKLES SHARING HIS BASKET
Last weekend we headed into Loule to a promised Christmas market. The council's official brochure advised readers that it would start at 10:00. But of the market there was neither sight nor sound when we arrived middayish. After searching possible locations in some puzzlement we queried its absence with a waitress at a snack bar. It wouldn't start until three, she informed us - on what authority I've no idea. So we had a wander around and returned home not too disappointed. There'll be more markets before Christmas.
I recalled the response of the hiking guide who led us along a levada trail in Madeira. When asked how long the hike would take, he replied: "About three hours - Portuguese time!" Portuguese time, as we ought to know by now, has a particularly elastic quality.
LIFE'S TOUGH
With rare exceptions, times advertised on notice boards are stated more in hope than expectation. Events start when they are ready and not before. It's one of those phenomena that one has to get used to - like standing in line in a grocery store clutching an impatient purchase while the woman ahead of you and the cashier catch up with the trivia of each other's lives.
34mm RECORDED AND IT'S STILL COMING DOWN
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