An unsettled week - in mind and body. Following our neighbour's faux pas in calling the police on us, we watched as a steadily-growing heap of leaves and branches rose next door. Sure enough, last Monday the unmistakeable smell of pungent smoke. Our hypocritical French neighbour had lit his own fire! 'Momzer' shouted Him indoors.
To take my mind off things, I decided to watch the Miranda programme on TV. She's a tall, ungainly English comedienne, whom everyone tells me is just like me! Every time I watch her, all the inner gaucheness and inferiority of my youth come to the fore. Arriving at a grand occasion in posh wrap-around gown, she slammed shut the taxi door, a bit of the dress caught and the taxi drove off with dress flying along with it - leaving her just in her underwear. My worst nightmare.
So, TV was no good. I know, I'll hang up our new curtains that good friends had made up for me. The rail was too high, so I fetched the step ladders - ensuring the lock was tight - and proceeded to climb up. Said step-ladders must have been faulty, ladders and me collapsing in a heap on the floor. Now bruised not just in pride but body also.
Meantime, Him indoors - still smarting in mind and nostril - marched down the garden to confront the neighbour. Having just read about the classic Dreyfuss affair, and feeling confident about French history, he shouted what sounded like 'Jack Hughes, Jack Hughes!' What? What? Oh, you mean that condemnation by Emile Zola 'J'accuse'. Said neighbour continued blithely on with his gardening.