Oh dear

Sorry. Granny has not taken the wings of the morning and vanished into outer space - nor has she descended to the uttermost parts of the sea. She and Beloved have had guests - one thing - also the novel she's been tinkering with for a while took off, to her excitement; she felt - as one writer friend described such things happily, mentally, pregnant and was looking forward to the disappearance of not only the guests, but also Beloved, off to do various bits of business in the UK. The day before the departures, alas, she made the mistake of reading through what she'd written and Granny's answer to Anna Karenina - or even to Joanna Trollope -revealed itself as the usual load of solipsistic shite: a baby with defects for sure. You know how it is. So here she is, all by herself, with all the time in the world, finding every excuse she can not to get back to this ungem of literature - yet another heap of paper for someone not to publish; today's excuse is writing this. Any excuse will do, boring or otherwise.

There's the laundry from the guests, for instance, then there's sorting out the bloody dogs of whom she is now in charge. (After a nice week in which the safely enclosed animals gamboled round their dog garden, the Local Yokel applied his teeth and claws to the usual effect - how Granny HATES that dog - a hole in the wire appeared and out they all came. Shit.) And then there's hoovering the rugs in the sitting-room - and washing the kitchen floor - and moving herself upstairs to what in the summer is her and Beloved's bedroom instead of the guests'. And yesterday there was a charity barbecue, attended by the usual expat display of bottle blonde and withered cleavage - often on the same person - not anywhere Granny fits very well, lovely as some of their owners turn out to be on closer acquaintance. She hasn't got a cleavage anyway after her unwilling encounter with a surgical knife and turning blonde would not suit her one little bit. She did encounter an extraordinary brown-eyed - and white-haired - Belgian woman with a very deep voice confined to a very high-tech wheelchair: despite which handicap she lives on the island in winter, IN A VAN - parking it on any offered garden. Granny heard herself offering her their carpark place in one weak moment - no she hadn't drunk anything: the prospect of having to move the truck out of a tight space and up a steep slope when she left the barbecue inhibited that. But she doesn't think the carpark place would be enjoyed much: too windy. Nor is she sure what Beloved would make of this unusual visitor. Contemplating which she ate far too much garlic bread - the barbecued meats were slow to arrive -before, with difficulty -see above -taking herself off home.

No such excuse today - though she does have to go to a concert this evening. Lunch then? Or siesta? Or back to the load of shite? Choices choices.

Actually no choice: after a gloomy morning the sun is out. It's her hammock for Granny. Literature? What's that?