Thursday has dawned, a reluctant, grey, dusty dawning, suggesting that much of the Sahara has blown across the Atlantic to the Algarve (which, we subsequently learned, it has). We are spattered with dust blotches, as though a vast container of paint dust had exploded in the sky above.
My tractor, which spent the night outside - as it often does - is covered so thick with dust that I could not read the instruments. The very plants are submerged under dust. The authorities are warning citizens to avoid prolonged physical activity. Rain is promised later in the day; it may help clear the skies if not the spattered windows.
If the dust served any purpose, it was to present Jones with some outstanding picture opportunities at sunset on Wednesday. She takes a lot of good pics but these are in a different category, the kind that romantic holiday mags love to splash across their covers. Effusive compliments are welcome.
LIFE'S GOODDust or no dust, we completed our 4 km morning hike, noting the absence of the usual Thursday morning shooting. The hunting season must be at an end. It was warm enough to sling our jackets over our shoulders. The first mosquitoes are back on station already and I fear that the ticks will not be far behind.
Dusty reflections aside, it's been a busy week. Sunday's task was to complete the repair and refurbishment of two elderly chairs that Jones has rescued from the tip. My wife doesn't hesitate to salvage discarded items of furniture or reparable ceramic pots. The fact of the matter is that she prefers old things to new; she seems to feel more comfortable in their presence. It's not a preference that I share, possibly because my primary interest is in function and hers generally in form.
A combination of love, elbow grease, glue, sandpaper, oil and varnish has served to restore both chairs to an acceptable state. One of them really needs professional attention to replace its grubby plaited seat. But that can wait. Meanwhile, we have to find somewhere to put the chairs. There's certainly no room in the house. (Every so often I contemplate briefly the daunting task we will face one day when we need to downsize.)
ON THE DOG POO RUNMonday's English lesson dealt with the painfully belated investigation by the state into the alleged misdeeds of a former prime minister, one Jose Socrates. While in office he is alleged to have accepted bribes worth millions. If one is to believe detailed reports in the media, he practised corruption on an industrial scale. But nearly two years beyond the official deadline, no charges have yet been brought. Portuguese justice in notoriously slow!
Mr Socrates, who has endured both prison and house arrest in the meanwhile, is threatening to sue the state, complaining of political persecution. It should be said that few people have been reaching for a sympathetic tissue.
Tuesday we renewed Jones's stock of baggy. This is a visit that we make several times a year. Generally our 5 litre bottle is thrust under a tap at the base of a large tank. On this occasion the tank was out of action; instead, the liquid was transferred from a plastic container with the help of a metal scoop.
Wednesday was complicated. In the morning I had my usual weekly back tune-up with Jodi. The afternoon brought my annual appointment with the local accountant, who manages the paperwork required for our employment of Natasha.
I returned home to find that Peter (a retired electronics engineer friend) had already arrived at the house to see how we might improve the audio from the flat-screen TV in the lounge. The tinny speakers at the rear of the screen have never been more than adequate. They serve well enough for news bulletins but muffle the dialogue in any poorly articulated movies and documentaries. I had earlier sent him a photo of the ports at the rear of the set. Sadly, these lack the ideal "audio out" connections so that his task, while doable, is complicated.
WHAT A PICTURE!We were deeply frustrated over the weekend by our inability to follow the dialogue in a new series on the BBC, entitled SS-GB. Jonesy kept on asking me what one or other person had said and I kept on telling her that I had no idea. We were relieved to hear several mentions subsequently on the radio that most other people had endured the same frustration as a result of the dreadful recording. The BBC promised to take note.
CELEBRATING A DISTANT 70TH BIRTHDAY - AT THE HAMBURGO
One night I sat up to watch a German-language (art-house) film entitled Phoenix, after a night club that it features. The movie's theme was the return to Berlin of a Jewish woman who had been sent to a concentration camp after being betrayed to the Nazis by her treacherous husband. In the interim she had undergone facial reconstruction surgery sufficient to enable her to hide her real identity from him. Things go from there. (There are detailed descriptions online for anyone who might be interested.)
The reason I mention the film is the moral issues it raises and its stunning conclusion, on a par with that of The Shawshank Redemption. (You've really missed something if you haven't seen that movie.) While most movies feel compelled to end with "happy ever after" or "into the sunset" scenes, this final scene is anything but and yet utterly compelling. It left me long pondering the many issues it raises.
On the dog front Jones continues to hand-feed Barri twice a day (while the rest of zoo congregates round in the hope that a crumb may fall). The dog simply shows no interest in conventional food and has to be persuaded to take it a biscuit at a time. I should add that she's more than happy to consume treats and seems to enjoy her walks as much as ever. The rest of the day and night she spends semi-immobile on a chair or the divan. It's getting up and getting down that seem to trouble her most.
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