Rainy Days and Mondays

We had a hard rain yesterday. Both my son and my husband felt the need to point out how stupid the sheep behaved during the storm. The fluffy things have a shed but they chose to come out and huddle under a small plastic tarp that hangs between a tree and fence protecting the salt blocks.

I thought the sheep were pretty smart to figure out that they could huddle under the tarp. As everything leaks around here -- the rain was pouring through a skylight yesterday and the faucet that directs water to the washing machine sprang a leak -- the sheep probably know more than we do about the state of their shed’s roof.

The rain means I’ll have to go out early this morning and pick up the nuts that were batted loose.

Back in July, my husband called to have our nut machine repaired. The repairman finally picked it up in late August and we haven’t heard from him since.

It doesn’t matter that it isn’t here yet . . . it’s useless in the mud.

The chickens presented me with two eggs yesterday, and so I made brownies. One of the eggs was another double yolk. I’m getting large double yolked eggs with dark brown shells and I’m getting small, light colored eggs. Can’t really figure out the reason why this would be happening as the chickens are the same breed, the same age, and eat the same things.

Chickens are great pets. They make me smile a lot during the day . . . when I discover an egg, and when I see them waddling around the yard following their Cock. They put themselves to bed at night so no herding is required. However, they are messy.

Was talking to a British family the other night at a cocktail party. They seemed to be a bit taken aback by my assertion that my days are spent in “feces management.” But that’s the British for you . . . uptight, until they want to tell you a dirty joke that makes no sense to you.

The British man asked me if I had ever considered moving to England. I thought about being a smartass and asking him if he had every considered staying in England . . . but I wasn’t drinking at the party so I bit my tongue.

I was the designated driver for the evening. In the past year, the French authorities have really cracked down on drinking while driving. It’s really ruining the culture . . . and it’s depleting the bank accounts of the small vintners.

At the cocktail party, we ran into our banker, and in front of my vintner neighbor, he loudly advised me, “Whatever you do, don’t go into the wine business. They’re going bankrupt.”

My husband pointed out the other night that even people who can drink without fear of being caught by the Gendarmes, have cut back on their consumption because of the law. For instance, Roger lives across the road, and can drink as much as he wants at our dinner parties; but being polite, he only drinks at the same rate as the visitors who have to drive a long way.

This behavior would explain why you don’t see people out of control at a French party. The British, now they’re a different matter.

Keep in mind that when I bash the Brits the criticism doesn’t extend to my friend Colin.