Holay: Le petit toit est fini!

And nous avons en autre probleme: Assuming that the bed isn't rotten, will it fit into the end of the half barn. And do we put plaster board on the walls or do we start the long process of filling in the walls the same as we did in the office. Shouldn't be too long a job, as nowhere near as many holes and up-and-down bits, and no spiders to cope with, plus no bones stuck in the walls, or the likelihood of discovering something squashed. And, presuming our leather settees are still unrotted, how am I going to arrange them...like this, or like that. And then there is the dining room table. Is there going to be room for it, if so, should it go lengthways or sideways. By the door (when there is a door) or in the middle of the space.

And so we have apparently gravitated to the next stage of our life here, which is how are going to make the halfbarn our home. Today we switched track: from being caravaners, to being nearly-home-owners. The switch was tangible.

And the roof on the half barn looks great, very elegant, very natural, and very discrete. One of the things we are careful of, is being too showy. We don't want to come across as being 'rich English', which we aren't, but might be thought of as being to our French neighours, one of whom, bless her, brought round loads of plants to put in the front garden. She waves every time she passes. Everyone does. It makes us feel part of the community.

And so the half barn roof is done. Now a few days off from the roofers,- next week now before we see them again. It will give us a break to catch up with ourselves. Of late, not a day goes past without there being a question to find an answer to. Not easy when the question is spoken in French and we don't have the foggiest idea of what is being asked. The simple thing of the floor in the half barn, and the possible opening for a wood burning fire have caused no end of problems.

And the complete hole in the wall. Down it has all come. Lester thinks we should knock the other wall down as well. It will not be done. As in the way of the Suffragete (sorry about the spelling, no time to hunt down the right one) movement, I will personally use any means I can to stop any would-be demolition man from doing so. It is not a good idea to think about putting a super-duper greenhouse there. It is my indoor winter garden area, providing funds come in to put that roof back on again. On this argument I will win the day. Am going to have a look on the Internet (You-Tube is good for this) to see how I can tie myself to the wall, as in the manner of a trainee Suffragete.

I am even hoping that in time I can have a tall church-like window put in the wall. Of course, the wall will have to be rebuilt first. At the moment it is a 'fresh-air' wall.

No donkey today. Sun was shining. Under instructions from the Universe, I edited five chapters of The Psychic Toolbox today, and did a grammar-check on it. 'No writing tomorrow', I have been told, but then it is to shipped over the Internet to Lulu for a Pdf conversion. Then downloaded back to me for a complete read-through, and probable re-write of chunks of it. Oh the joys of writing!

So swinging my finger over to the Internet button so I can research the Suffragette movement and see if I can pick up any hints or tips of a preventative nature, I wish you au revoir pour ce momente.

Donkey gone. Wall down. All's well!

So this 'ere donkey is, at this very minute, supposed to be partaking of the grass in our back field.

He is the donkey, who at this very minute, is supposed to be on a trek across France with the Dutch girl, who got sixty kilometres up the road before deciding that that particular adventure wasn't for her. (She was supposed to be travelling back to Holland with a white camel only the camel which got brought down from Russia was unfit for the journey because it was knock-kneed with rickets so she had to buy a donkey from round the corner at the donkey farm which provides the donkey manure with which I have so much trouble. Anyway, she got the donkey, did a couple of saunters up and down the road then headed out in the general direction of Holland but as I say sixty kilometres up the road and she decided to come back. She is staying with Sara of the Camels.)

Said donkey needs feeding. Grass out on the back field is growing, needs cutting. Donkey introduced to grass. Hey presto! Job done. Grass cut.

Ah, actually no.

You see, the only means of stopping the donkey from going AWOL was to put it inside an electric fence. Good idea. Fence up. No means of getting electricity to the fence. Not to worry. Donkey can be put inside the portable electic-tape hung on plastic posts paddock. The theory being, that it will think that the electricity is on. Again, good idea!

Donkey put inside paddock yesterday. Ah, good donkey. Munched his way through loads of stuff: all the wild flowers, some of the grass, none of the dock weeds, none of the nettles. Never mind. He's doing well. Told him so when I went to have a pat with him in the late afternoon. Inside the paddock I went. So did Boolie. "Ah, munch-time" thought Bools when he espied a pile of donkey poo.
"No, Bools" I yelled, startling the donkey who was having a fondling moment with me, particularly round his ears. Up came his head. Spinning round, he charged at Bools, who was by now yelling his delight at the whole adventure. Round and round they chased. Actually round me, they chased. Fleet of foot I sprang through a gap which opened up between them, and got myself out of the paddock, hearing chortlings from the roofers who were perched up on the half-barn roof.

A little pat to say 'Good donkey', a growl at Boolie to say 'leave that blasted donkey poo alone, you have been fed today', and in retreat I went. Later on the donkey was fetched, walking back down the lane to Sara's.

Today: along came donkey. Into paddock. Left to eat whatever was left from yesterday. Busy in pow-wow with the roofers about things, donkey not made a fuss of. Lunch comes and goes, so do the roofers. Everyone fed. Apparently not. A garbled yell, and an urgent knock on the office door calls my attention to an escapee. Yes, you've guessed it! The donkey had walked through the 'electric' fence, and was under the oak tree partaking of a lovely tall clump of juicy grass. Obviously he had gotten bored with what was on offer in his temporary paddock.

Out Bools goes as well. With joy he espies the donkey. Off he gallops towards the donkey. Off the donkey goes at a matching gallop, with Bools gaily chasing on behind. Then Bools chanced upon a delightful smell which stopped him in mid-gallop enabling the donkey to have a breather as well. Me too. I was chasing after both of them. (Fortunately the moment was captured in the handily placed camera in my skirt pocket).

The donkey was last seen heading back down the lane towards Sara's. It is unlikely that he will be allowed back to partake of our grazing, so I will have to resort to Plan A, which is strimming the whole field down myself, which is good for my waistline, and superb for my arm muscles, plus encouraging my bosoms not to give in to gravity. They are definitely more pert since I have been doing this self-sufficiency lark.

Now Boolie's turn to do watch-dog duties, as he has a look at the back field through our latest addition to the house: a hole. Of which we have plenty.

This is the back wall to the winter garden, or antrim, being broken up. Sad to see it go, but it is tipping the whole back wall of the house outwards. So that piece of wall has to go, to be replaced with a ghastly block-brick wall, which will be covered over eventually.

But this wound is deliberate, and will save that side of the house. Bless. Labartere has been having such a lot of knocking around that it's a wonder she is still standing. But she is.

And here I am listening to a cricket chirping away. At least I think it is a cricket. It is making an almighty amount of noise whatever it was. I was hoping to get a photo of it, but the little creature kept shutting up whenever I was in its neighbourhood. Never mind. Here are the buttercups in our back field, which is looking prettier than what it did last year when we arrived: it was covered over with wheat. Now it has lots of prettiness.

The donkey has now reached Sara's. The rest of the wall is coming down tomorrow. Lester has unglued himself from the PC at long last after a humungously long session over the last couple of days, and is out with his rotovator, shattering the peace and quiet of a lovely Spring evening. But at least he is doing what we came here to do. And I am doing what I came here to do which is writing.

All is well.