A WEEK'S WORK
There is something about collecting carobs that satisfies the soul. It's as though some ancient string of DNA prompts the dopamine neurotransmitters to give the brain a generous shot of feel-good for a job well done. In truth, the satisfaction more often comes after the event as the worker surveys the day's haul rather than during the sweaty, dusty, prickly business of actually gathering the beans.
As you can see from the circled carob trees, meticulously tracked by my wife, we have quite a lot of carob picking to do - although nothing like the task on the plantations that belong to local farmers. Some of our trees are still young and ungrafted. Others are huge old giants with hollow trunks. Carob trees tend to produce a good crop every second year. This year they've been hit by drought.
It's a business that has already occupied the pair of us for long hours, hers longer than mine, and will require many more before we're done. No, she is not pushing the tractor up the hill; she is ensuring that the rearmost tubs don't fall off during the particularly steep ascent that leads up from the bottom field to the Roman road. That's the track that winds up past the house to the gates where our farmer neighbour will be delighted to receive them.
After such exertions I reward myself with a non-alcoholic beer and a generous siesta in my recliner. (To be sure I reward myself with a siesta regardless.) At least I try to, for the dogs often exploit the opportunity for a huggle. Jack particularly enjoys a man-to-man huggle. I suppose that should be a dog to man huggle, a bromance across the species.
It can be difficult to refuse Jack's advances because he is as big as he is insistent. His affections can prove a bit overpowering. He's a lovely guy if somewhat demanding, both gentle and welcoming to visitors in spite of a ferocious mien. (Few strangers beholding him would enter the gates.) The dog is due to return to his master next week. We shall miss him. Not that Dearheart will shed any tears.
Mini is more of a wet kisser than a huggler. As I point out to Jones, it saves on water. And it's nice to know that senescence has not altogether atrophied one's appeal. Note, while you are at it, the three zappers lined up securely on the balustrade. They are fastened with string to prevent them falling to the living room. The first controls the channels, the second the DVD player and the third the new TV set.
JONES MOON
This past fortnight, after the nightly news, I have frequently sat back in my recliner to watch a movie. As the audio (yells, sirens and shots) disturbs Jones who is trying to sleep on the far side of the bedroom door, I have invested in a pair of blue-tooth earphones to keep the sound to myself. They work perfectly. I reflected as I watched Atomic Blonde (for the second time) that its karate-kicking, guns-blazing heroine, Charlize Theron, (like Cate Blanchett) has one of those rare plastic faces that assist her to meld into her character - and a lot more besides.
Among the movies I watched was Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri - a sobering film if ever I saw one and most definitely not family viewing. But I came to understand why Frances McDormand won an Oscar for her role. Equally gripping and with a similar theme was In The Heat of the Night that the Beeb put on one late evening. As the philosopher, Reginald Slickin, points out, one's prejudices stick by one through thick and thin.
TREAT TIME
Wednesday morning I was summoned away from the carobs by a neighbour who was concerned about events next door and wanted moral support. Three estrangeiros had entered the adjacent long-empty cottage and were busy cleaning up.
The cottage was once home to Dina, a disabled ward of the state who is now cared for in the Benafim retirement home. An elderly, slightly battered French car parked outside spoke to the nationality of the visitors and hinted at their circumstances.
Conversations ensued between me, the neighbour, the estrangeiros and the parish authorities. After some inconclusive ado, we left it to the parish to sort matters out. The car was parked outside again on Thursday so clearly the French have not been evicted (yet?).
Thursday morning we hung more pictures on the living room picture wall. In order to do this, I had to drill holes in the wall. Jones hates having holes drilled in her walls but she acknowledges that the sticky hooks she prefers tend to come adrift along with the pictures they are supporting. So holes it was. She stood by the dust pan while I drilled. All pictures were carefully levelled to avoid any disputes.
Thursday afternoon Natasha came to work. Jones left her a note asking her to dust off books on the patio outside but Natasha misread it and mopped the upstairs floor instead. Barbara had a doctor's handwriting, she informed me. To be sure, it can sometimes be a little spidery.
GIFT FROM NEIGHBOUR NIKKI AT A JONES SOCIABLE DO
We have been more than usually sociable. Perhaps I should rephrase that to say that I have been more than usually sociable. One of the burdens my sociable wife bears is my frequent reluctance to meet what she considers to be our social obligations. Any such obligations weigh lightly upon me. I am content in her company and that of the beasts, birds and bees, spiced with occasional conversations over a meal or across the gate. Why threaten such harmony by going out?
TONY AND ANNETTE VISIT
In years past, as she points out, we attended numerous fetes and festas, supported the local orchestra and were regular visitors to the cinema. No longer! The use of mobile phones during movies and concerts drove me out before it drove me mad. Bouts of sciatica haven't helped to energise me. But I recognise the dangers of becoming a recluse and am resigned to sacrificing myself to society's expectations - if I can find time between collecting carobs, watering the garden and pondering the meaning of life.
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