Sometimes I wonder if I will ever grow up, lose self-consciousness, accept myself with all my strengths and weaknesses. Will I forever and ever doubt myself? Is this the fate of all or many who happened to be born on Irish soil? The well-documented Irish melancholia. Or does everyone feel this way?

Last night, Kate ask John if he would like a glass of wine and when he refused, she said: "You'll win no points for virtue in this house."

Kate, John, and son have gone to Castres for the day. (Kate, I have noticed uses the words "son" and "husband" often and proudly. I dislike the word husband immensely and this is not a slight on the man I have been married to for 33 years, but because it suggests too much that is negative to me such as authority and ownership. (It could have something to do with my parents? marriage.)

A week today, Betty and Shirley will arrive for writing workshop and I want everything ready so I can have a day or two of fun with them before I get down to serious thought and writing.

Speaking of writing, our literary lunch yesterday was delicious - well maybe not delicious but good enough. We went to Dominique?s and all four of us ate four courses for 11 euros each, 12 if I add the price of the 1/2 litre pichet de vin. Kate said that it was actually more Irish than French. What the menu said was saucisse Toulousian and puree de maison was actually bangers and mash. Afterwards we climbed up the steep ascent to Bruniqueel, found a shady wall, and I read the unpolished beginning to my novel. Everyone was kind but unenthusiastic and my heart sank. Hearing myself reading, I could tell it didn?t work. Too simplistic. Awkward play with past and present. I feel so damned frustrated. I have the perfect title for a novel and can't get started. I keep hoping that some day, I will fall upon the right form and mood by accident , that I will feel in my bones that at last, I can move ahead. I'm hoping the workshop and even the text Marlene has chosen will help: Writing the Mind Alive: The...I have only read the Introduction and first chapter but it has me curious. (Please if there is a writing god, help me.)

I provided a direct link from my blog to Amazon yesterday and will continue to do so for those interested in purchasing the books I mention. I've ordered from Amazon in the past and often the cost, even though in American dollars, is less expensive than Canadian. Their service is also better. When it comes to books - ONE of my greatest pleasures - I have no scruples about buying south of the border. I admit also that my reason for the links is mercenary. If anyone buys a book through my link, I receive 15% of the purchase price in the form of a gift certificate. Vaughan recently suggested to me that I should try my hand at book reviews as I am a voracious reader and it may provide me with a way of making a living beyond my writing. I like the idea.

Speaking of books, I finished Jeanette Winterson's The Passion last night. The Observer describes it as "Immense fertility", "an allusive psychological fantasia with roots in Virginia Woolf and modern realismo magico". Poor Henri, the chicken chef to Bonaparte, one of the main characters, reminds the reader, in the end, that he is forever telling stories and so we question his story and wonder if it is supposed to be a fantasy running through his brain or is it his reality? Some may find this sort of head game amusing and it is to a point but the book has left me frustrated. Still, I recommend Winterson and her unusual tales, especially "Written on the Body" and "The Powerbook".

I awoke this morning and didnít know where I was. The room seemed wrong. The light was glaring. I went to bed too late, fell asleep too quickly with the light on, after spending the day with Gill, Kate, John, and Brian who is christening our house with baby gurgles, exploring the floor on his hands and knees, finding quickly the few things he shouldnít touch like the hole in the dining room furnace/stove. Kate is happy that we have few knick-knacks. Iíve put a basket full of empty water bottles on the floor for him to play with. Rob came to mind. He said a while back that he can hardly wait to be a grandfather. He loves babies. Cold-hearted woman that I am, I said that I could wait. But seeing Brianís cherub face, Iím wavering. I wonder if my children will ever have children. Kate mentions Gillís desire to go to Jamaica and have cafÈ-au-lait babies.

Kate is a treasure. Iím so happy sheís here. Iím often not easy with house guests as I find it difficult to wait on people but Kateís easiness and helpfulness puts me at ease. Interesting to see her in a relationship. John touches her playfully and lovingly and sometimes she likes it, sometimes not. I like them together. I think of the book by Antal Szerb that I read a while back and his words about everyone having an age that suits him or her. Family suits Kate.

Today we will go with Susan and Sue Standing to Dominicaís roadside cafÈ, outside Bruniquel, to discuss writing. I am happy. I went over to Susanís this morning and she lent me a copy of Sueís new book of poetry False Horizon. On page 63 is a poem called ìThe Villageî and the village is Castelnau de Montmiral. Itís a wonderful poem full of images I recognize and I will ask Sue if I can copy it and give it to the participants of the workshop.

Brendan will be happy to hear that I signed up with Amazon as an associate and I am now going to try my hand at linking up with their web site for the two books Iíve mentioned.

Kate greeted me with a great big bear hug. I havenít seen her since just after John and she were married nearly three years ago in Toronto. She is thinner, calmer, content, I think, to be a mother and her tiny boy, eleven months, has fair hair, blue eyes, and looks like a cherub in a renaissance painting. As he is crawling, on the verge of walking, Kate and John always have an eye on him. We celebrated their arrival with a bottle of champagne and when John and Brian went for a rest, Kate and I visited Susan and celebrated with half a bottle of Rose. We moved on to Beddingís and celebrated again with a glass of fizzy water. (After all it was just six p.m.)

The evening passed quickly and we sat down to a stir-fry and salad at nine. After Brian drifted to sleep, we retired to the salon with a bottle of red wine. (One must celebrate oneís special friendships.) Christine and Isabel, a little tipsy, joined us and Christine entertained with talk of giant bottles of duty-free alcohol to be found in Andorra and the five fathers of her five children ñ reason enough for more celebration. We opened another wine bottle and Gill served us fresh strawberries and chocolates that Kate had brought from Germany. Soon after, Gill left with at least two young long-haired men to party at Luca's.

I rose early, rewrote schedule for writing week, emailed it to Marlene, and didnít have time to answer the rest of my correspondence. Quilt. I will. Soon. Today is market day and Kate, John, Brian and I wandered around La Place and brought more fresh produce and cheese. We will do a grocery shop run and take it easy for a day or two (at Kateís request) before we do a bit of sightseeing. But Iíve forgotten that tomorrow is Wednesday and literary lunch day. Kate and I will join Susan and Sue Standing for lunch and discussion about our writing. (What writing? Iím still playing with an opening for my novel. Still waiting for a thunderbolt to set me off.)

I am struggling to finish ìThe Passionî as Kate brought me a novel, ìThe Rules of Engagementî by Catherine Bush. I just might have to delay my correspondence a little longer. It seems ages since I lost myself in reading.

This morning butterflies are roaming my stomach. Kate arrives this evening. I have just spent an hour writing an email to Marlene re details of the workshop. There is so much to think about, so many small details to arrange and questions to find answers to. And I write. Am I a writer? Somehow this activity, one that is so important for my heart and head, keeps being shoved aside. How I wish there were more hours in the day. How I wish I wasnít a snail. The other day I asked Gill why it took me so long to do anything and she, sweet girl/woman said that itís because I do everything well. Is this a daughterís vision?

Yesterday, I foolishly suggested to Gill and Bedding that we go to Caussade market today as we need food for our guests and the marketís fruits and vegetables are so much better than the supermarketís. This means a half hour drive there and another back. I will have to leave all in a mess to clean when I return before picking up Kate and her family at the train station at 5:20. (Yes, the irony of my discomfort, after commenting on Kateís the other day, is not lost to me.)

Iím also hoping that the people I owe emails and letters to will forgive my tardiness in answering. I NEED MORE HOURS.

Iíve forgotten to mention the concert by Christian and Alina last night. I know so little about classical music that I canít name the pieces they played but I loved sitting in Susanís living room, listening with a dozen others. This must be what the grand salons of Paris were like decades ago ñ intimate and stirring because of the proximity of the music. And Alina, holding her violin under her chin, with the slightest movement of her arm, produced the most amazing range of sound. And her facial expressions changed with the music. She looked like a wild gypsy with her long black hair fluttering down her back, long skirt, skimpy tank, and bare feet.
And Christian at her side, unshaven, sockless, striped shirt, looked like her mad Italian lover. But they are not lovers in the carnal sense.

And we drank champagne from Champagne and it was good.

I must run or these butterflies will take control.

Last night, Gill and I were feeling carnivorous and cooked steak, lots of fat white mushrooms and green beans for dinner and then, as one can only do in a small village, I poured myself a glass of red wine and Gill mixed a gin and tonic and we walked to our old house where we had lived for a year over a dozen years ago and sat on the front step, straining to hear the music and voices of the Baroque concert being held in the church directly in front of the house. We couldnít catch much but that didnít worry us. We were in the mood for reminiscing and working on our writing. Gill read a poem that she was working on and I read a bit from my journal.

When we returned home, Gill went on the computer and I lay across my bed reading. The air was still too hot for sleep. Lost in Wintersonís words, I did not take kindly to the little village bat who flew into the room. I squealed, pulled the covers over my head and Gill laughed. It flew back into the dining area and then down to the livingroom. Thank goodness a small window was open.

This morning is still warm. Gill is doing last nightís dishes and I sit here playing. Bedding has just called and invited us to breakfast. Soon after, we will drive to Gaillac to an antique fair. Now if I can only find a simply round table really cheap for the writing/ livingroom, I will be content.

We shopped in Toulouse till we dropped yesterday. Gill bought a nifty pair of shorts and a sweatshirt at half price. I bought a pair of sandals on sale at Arche. I also purchased six more plates, cutlery, and odds and ends at Habitat so I have now finished shopping for the writing workshop. We stopped at Le Clerc in Gaillac and bought a load of groceries.

We arrived home hot and tired but immediately went into the kitchen and started preparing a meal for our guests. Gill and I have become a team. She set the table with saucisse and couscous. I added melon and olives. She made the salad. I prepared the stir-fry and rice. She set out the cheese so it would be room temperature at the end of the meal. Susan, Alina (spelled with an "a" not an "e") and Christian arrived just after 8:30.
Even the simplest meal here tastes like a feast.

Alina told us a little of her life. Her mother is 43. Her father is 65. She is an only child and from the age of 3, she begged her father to let her play the violin. He became her teacher and mentor. When she was 7, her parents left Russia for Germany for the sake of her career. She tells us that their lives revolve around her. She is hoping now, as she has left home and is studying in Berlin, they will create a life for themselves.

After dinner, she asked to use my computer to check travel plans and showed me her web page. On Sunday, she and Christian will give a concert at Susan's.

Rob is on my mind a lot these days. I keep thinking how much he would enjoy the company, the food, and the music. Instead he is working sixteen-hour days on a difficult film. Although I have been working hard preparing the house for the workshop, I have so many pleasurable moments while he has so few. Doesn't seem fair. Yes, he is compensated financially. No, I am not. I feel frustrated: I do not know how to balance the scales.

In two days, my friend Kate will arrive with her ten-month old son and Bulgarian husband. I am so looking forward to her visit. While I was living in Northern Ireland, she was (and still is) living in Germany and we have not been able to get together for a number of reasons. Kate is keeping a public journal too and I read through the month of July into June this morning. Somehow she is managing to write (and publish), work, travel, tend a baby, love a man and wonders why, at one point, one day, she did not feel like cleaning and left the apartment a mess and took her baby out - not without guilt. Kate is quick-witted, intelligent, sensitive and caring. She is an amazing writer and appears confidant about her work. I do not exaggerate. I envy her mind and industry and wonder why, someone with such talent worries about the small details. Is everyone like this? I see it in myself. Montaigne said something about humans being killjoys.
Is it possible to rise above this?

We shopped in Toulouse till we dropped yesterday. Gill bought a nifty pair of shorts and a sweatshirt at half price. I bought a pair of sandals on sale at Arche. I also purchased six more plates, cutlery, and odds and ends at Habitat so I have now finished shopping for the writing workshop. We stopped at Le Clerc in Gaillac and bought a load of groceries.

We arrived home hot and tired but immediately went into the kitchen and started preparing a meal for our guests. Gill and I have become a team. She set the table with saucisse and couscous. I added melon and olives. She made the salad. I prepared the stir-fry and rice. She set out the cheese so it would be room temperature at the end of the meal. Susan, Alina (spelled with a ?a? not an ?e?) and Christian arrived just after 8:30.
Even the simplest meal here tastes like a feast.

Alina told us a little of her life. Her mother is 43. Her father is 65. She is an only child and from the age of 3, she begged her father to let her play the violin. He became her teacher and mentor. When she was 7, her parents left Russia for Germany for the sake of her career. She tells us that their lives revolve around her. She is hoping now, as she has left home and is studying in Berlin, they will create a life for themselves.

After dinner, she asked to use my computer to check travel plans and showed me her web page. www.alinapogostkin.de/
On Sunday, she and Christian will give a concert at Susan?s.

Rob is on my mind a lot these days. I keep thinking how much he would enjoy the company, the food, and the music. Instead he is working sixteen-hour days on a difficult film. Although I have been working hard preparing the house for the workshop, I have so many pleasurable moments while he has so few. Doesn?t seem fair. Yes, he is compensated financially. No, I am not. I feel frustrated: I do not know how to balance the scales.

In two days, my friend Kate will arrive with her ten-month old son and Bulgarian husband. I am so looking forward to her visit. While I was living in Northern Ireland, she was (and still is) living in Germany and we have not been able to get together for a number of reasons. Kate is keeping a public journal too - http://www.livejournal.com/users/baggyk - and I read through the month of July into June this morning. Somehow she is managing to write (and publish), work, travel, tend a baby, love a man and wonders why, at one point, one day, she did not feel like cleaning and left the apartment a mess and took her baby out ? not without guilt. Kate is quick-witted, intelligent, sensitive and caring. She is an amazing writer and appears confidant about her work. I do not exaggerate. I envy her mind and industry and wonder why, someone with such talent worries about the small details. Is everyone like this? I see it in myself. Montaigne said something about humans being killjoys.
Is it possible to rise above this?

We shopped in Toulouse till we dropped yesterday. Gill bought a nifty pair of shorts and a sweatshirt at half price. I bought a pair of sandals on sale at Arche. I also purchased six more plates, cutlery, and odds and ends at Habitat so I have now finished shopping for the writing workshop. We stopped at Le Clerc in Gaillac and bought a load of groceries.

We arrived home hot and tired but immediately went into the kitchen and started preparing a meal for our guests. Gill and I have become a team. She set the table with saucisse and couscous. I added melon and olives. She made the salad. I prepared the stir-fry and rice. She set out the cheese so it would be room temperature at the end of the meal. Susan, Alina (spelled with a ìaî not an ìeî) and Christian arrived just after 8:30.
Even the simplest meal here tastes like a feast.

Alina told us a little of her life. Her mother is 43. Her father is 65. She is an only child and from the age of 3, she begged her father to let her play the violin. He became her teacher and mentor. When she was 7, her parents left Russia for Germany for the sake of her career. She tells us that their lives revolve around her. She is hoping now, as she has left home and is studying in Berlin, they will create a life for themselves.

After dinner, she asked to use my computer to check travel plans and showed me her web page. www.alinapogostkin.de/
On Sunday, she and Christian will give a concert at Susanís.

Rob is on my mind a lot these days. I keep thinking how much he would enjoy the company, the food, and the music. Instead he is working sixteen-hour days on a difficult film. Although I have been working hard preparing the house for the workshop, I have so many pleasurable moments while he has so few. Doesnít seem fair. Yes, he is compensated financially. No, I am not. I feel frustrated: I do not know how to balance the scales.

In two days, my friend Kate will arrive with her ten-month old son and Bulgarian husband. I am so looking forward to her visit. While I was living in Northern Ireland, she was (and still is) living in Germany and we have not been able to get together for a number of reasons. Kate is keeping a public journal too - http://www.livejournal.com/users/baggyk - and I read through the month of July into June this morning. Somehow she is managing to write (and publish), work, travel, tend a baby, love a man and wonders why, at one point, one day, she did not feel like cleaning and left the apartment a mess and took her baby out ñ not without guilt. Kate is quick-witted, intelligent, sensitive and caring. She is an amazing writer and appears confidant about her work. I do not exaggerate. I envy her mind and industry.
And wonder why, some one with such talent worries about the small details. Is everyone like this? I see it in myself. Montaigne said something about humans being killjoys.
Is it possible to rise above this?

Every morning is full. I always start with a bowl of coffee topped with steamed milk and then sit in the window seat downstairs gazing into my new room and am content. Last night and this morning I wrote love letters to my man and to my sister. I love the calm of this house and village.

Last night, Gill and I went to a jazz concert in La Place given by the ìGerard Daguerre Quartetî from Paris. The drummer was especially fine and the base and pianist not bad but not brilliant. I was not sitting on the edge of seat although my feet were moving in time to the beat. The fourth musician played a weird instrument that looked like an over-sized harmonica with a pipe attached into which he blew. It sounded a little like a Parisian harmonica ñ whatever that means. The group, in fact, play at ìLíOpera Comique de Paris.î I didnít stay to the end. Tiredness overtook me and I returned home where Gill had made me a couscous salad and read ìLetters from a Strangerî poetry by James Tipton, full of images of sensual delight. Let me give you a sample from ìI wanted you in the kitchen of my heart:î

I wanted you in the kitchen of my heart;
and there, after many cold lunches,
I found you; and there, like herbs
undressing in soup, I came to love you;
and there, like a delicate tea
of mangoes and marigolds your mouth
opened, and your words, flecked with gold
and the eroticism of your Latin blood,
flowed, like the blood I longed for, into me.

Wow. Tipton was (is?) in love with Isabel Allende. I love them both. Love seems to be creeping into my thoughts.

Today Gill and I will go to Toulouse. This evening, we will serve dinner to Susan, Elena, and Christian, the musicians. Music appears to be entering my life as well. I bought ìJohn Williams Play Bachî last week to accompany the writing book UBC sent.

Last night a little magic happened. Gill and I went to Susanís to meet Elena and Christian who have come to stay a week at Susanís and practice their music. Elena, 19, is a student in Berlin and plays the violin. Christian, 34, plays the classical guitar. Susan met Christian on a train and invited him to visit. (Susan often does this.) He, in turn, invited Elena, a beautiful dark-haired young woman, originally from Russia. She speaks English, German, and Russian. He speaks French and German. We sat around the dinner table, eating pasta, hummus, aubergine, salad and bread and speaking the language that allowed us to communicate. After dinner, after the dishes, Elena and Christian brought their instruments and played some Puccini for us. The room was filled with their music. Even though I know next to nothing about classical music, I felt privileged to be there.

We left the house and walked around the village, up to La Vierge, and into the square. Susan and her sister left us at the bar and Gill and I, Elena and Christian had a drink at an outdoor table. I left the three young people and came home to sleep.

Another day. I arose early and have been puttering around, answering emails, and trying to balance my French bankbook. Sums paid by debit card are not instantly removed so I entered every bill, small and big, onto an excel worksheet so I could figure out if we would make it through the next month. Why am I surprised that little bills add up to grand totals?

Gill just served me a large French salad, full of greens, red peppers, corn, green beans, onion, and garlic. Now she is washing up. This sixteen-year-old daughter of mine is taking care of me. Soon we will leave for Albi ñ that is if I put some clothes on.

I havenít mentioned my reading in a while. I am reading Jeanette Wintersonís ìThe Passionî, a story about a young French peasant who is chicken chef to Napoleon, his hero, and the separate tale of Villanelle, a Venetian girl with webbed feet (the trademark of Venetian fishermen) who is in love with a beautiful woman. I once heard Evelyn Conlon speak of Winterson in adoring tones, saying that she is a orginal and is taking the novel to new places. I loved ìThe Powerbookî and ìWritten on the Bodyî but am not as enthusiastic about ìThe Passion.î I can put it down, read a bit at a time, whereas the other two, I read every second I could find. Iím also wondering if these two stories will come together.

I must dress.

Quiet morning. I have just come in from sweeping the front walk. Lucette stuck her head out of her upper storey window and greeted me. She is smiling. She loves to see me sweeping and comments on how ìpropreî all looks. This word in English does not mean ìproperî as I once assumed but ìclean.î No matter how old or decrepit a French village is, it is propre.

Today Susan and I will go to Puycelsi for a literary lunch and I havenít written a thing or even corrected last weekís work so I will spend some time this morning reworking my notes and adding to them. I donít want to miss this opportunity to have Susan comment. I trust her opinion.

The weather report forecast cooler temperatures this week but yesterday, the sun shone as intensely as last week making it difficult to do physical labour. I spend more and more time in our new living space cum workshop room. This house has so much potential for expansion. There is more space under this floor ñ only accessible by ladder, which Rob intends to develop as a cave for wine.

Dreams of the future. I wonder what is in store for me. The other night at dinner, Carol mentioned that she had just read Carol Shieldsí obit and I couldnít speak. I knew Shields had cancer and ìUnlessî was her last book but still, her death stunned me. I've enjoyed the majority of her work and saw and heard her read at a writerís festival. I liked and admired her easy, unpretentious manner and the fact that she always had her daughter edit her new work.

In this village, unlike at home, I have met many women in their sixties and seventies, who travel from the United Kingdom or the United States to enjoy the climate, food, wine, and music of the region. All are well spoken, lively, and full of interesting stories. I am struggling here to understand how I feel about aging, about my lifeÖ and think that I must work out my mixed emotions in my personal journal before I make them public.

My Irish family left this morning at 6 a.m. to drive to Carcassonne to catch an Easyjet. Auntie Isobel, in true Kennedy fashion, cried. We saw the Goya Museum and took a boat ride down the river in Castres yesterday, and over the last week, visited the Sunday market at St. Antoine de Noble Val and the grand stores in Toulouse but Cordes remains the favourite. Dolores says when she travels, she usually is anxious to get home but not this time. A real compliment from this lovely woman who finds it difficult to sit still. Auntie Isobel found the heat and the walking trying but she managed to keep up with us (although I imagine she'll go home to rest.) Ken survived the company of four women and even picked up a dishrag and carried a market basket. (And he acts like such a tough guy.) He also helped with several projects in the house. These three provide continuity to my life ñ so much a part of it in N.I. and now in France.

Today I will do lots of laundry, organize bit and pieces for workshop, and Gill and I are just about to take a run to Gaillac. Still lots of odds and ends to do but everything is under control.

Crazy morning. It was so hot last evening at midnight I could hardly sleep and Iím sleeping in the salon, main floor, usually the coolest place in the house. Earlier in the evening, I went upstairs thinking that Gill was in bed and when I knocked and entered, I discovered she had four handsome guys with her. They stayed till two in the morning and Ken and Dolores had a little trouble sleeping with the buzz of music and French conversation directly over their heads.

This morning I did a quick run into Gaillac to the bank forgetting that little is open on Monday. Now, we are nearly ready to leave for Castre to see the Goya Museum and take a boat ride down the river. I will enjoy this last day of sightseeing with my Irish family because they leave early tomorrow morning. This evening we will go the restaurant in town for a last dinner together.

Again, I must run. Tomorrow I will get back to work, seal a wall, do paperwork for the writing workshop .

A small note to my family: I had a real pang of homesickness yesterday. I thought of my nuclear family, my mom visiting, my sisters getting together and me here ñ even though I love being here ñ and felt like weeping.

Sitting in the Esplanade looking over hazy valley. Glorious morning. This land is good for the soul. My house is still full of Irish visitors who appear to be enjoying themselves except for the intense heat. We drove into Toulouse yesterday and the car temperature reader reached 42 degrees in the underground parking garage. Ouch. Auntie Isobel walking with her cane needed lots of cold water. I accomplished some bits and pieces and when I returned home actually fell asleep for a hour. My dear family must be feeling deprived with Gill and my sparse cooking because Dolores requested my potato salad for dinner. Gill and I are team these days. She made a wonderful green salad, set the table, put out ham and cheese and bread. And then cleaned up. After dinner, while my family watched Chicago, she and I went for a walk. Ten oíclock and the air was still hot.

Today, in a few minutes, we leave for St. Antoine de Noble Val to visit their large Sunday market. Susan is coming along so we will take two cars. As most of my family know, I hate being in the passenger seat and am happy to take the old car out for a run. Never mind that it is without air conditioning and thermometer. I love being in the driverís seat. I wonder if that says something about my character. Must run.

I'm sitting round the table with Ken, Dolores, Auntie Isobel, and Gill. We are all up early for a change. (No. Gill and I are usually up early. Gill even beat me today. She went out for a walk at 6:30 a.m.) We are going to Toulouse this morning to visit the Saturday market on Auntie Isobel's minister's advice. It's supposed to go on for miles.

Yesterday was stinking hot. Ken and I went to pick up the sofa and didn't. I had my doubts although it was nice enough but the salesman was busy and then he said we couldn't have truck that day and then he wanted money for truck and then he wanted money for guarantee and then I became so exasperated (Ken says indecisive) that I said that I wasn't sure I wanted the damn sofa. And then Ken asked me whether I wanted to be talked in or out of buying it. And then, I said "no" and feeling the fool left. And then this feeling of relief descended and Ken said "You don't really need a sofa. It only adds three more seats." YES. So I just saved 650 euros.
And as Dolores says, "the young men on cycles were a lot more exciting to watch."

Well, the sun is becoming stronger. The car's external temperature guage read 36 degrees yesterday and today feels similar so we want to get on the road early. (One small comment: it's Ken's rental car that has the fancy equipment plus air conditioning. My old borrowed one goes. Period.)

Here I am on the scene at the Tour de France, sitting in a cafÈ in Cahuzac with my computer. Three cyclists whiz by. Tear drop helmets - tear dropping to back of head. Cop in pillbox hat blows whistle as each rider approaches. Other police on motorcycles ride ahead of each cyclist. Van follows. Street is lined with people who applaud as each participant passes.

I thought it would be more exciting but perhaps it is too early in race. Men at next table drink beer and record the time between contestants. Trois minutes. Gill and Ken are somewhere up above in the crowd. Today the race is short ñ 47 kilometers - a cyclist leaves Gaillac every 3 minutes. The gap between each is tightening. I wonder if all the participants are men. (Ken says ìyesî and some cheeky remark about women not being able to keep up.)

We left the house before nine thirty, drove to the first barricade, turned and tried to sneak into town by a back road. It too was blocked. Picked up three dark skinned girls and drove back to original barricade and parked in some farmerís field where other cars were parked and walked the 2 kilometers into town. I foolishly wore jeans and blouse and Iím hot. Gill advised me to wear a tank top under my shirt. Thank goodness I listened to her.

I donít know about this recording on the scene. Donít think Iíd make a good journalist. Wow. Another cyclist passes. These guys like bright colours. This one was in aqua green. None of them look to be going all out. Another, in tomato red goes by. Ken said that the best wears yellow and leaves last. I have no idea how many are racing, how long the race will take. The restaurant here has set up a stand selling drinks and sandwiches. Another rider passes in florescent yellow shirt and matching booties. These guys have no problem exposing their feminine side.

I wonder if I should purchase a bicycle and ride around this luscious country. Two guys in leather pants strut by my table. Another cyclist in lime green passes. Iíve watched more exciting sports in my long life. Maybe the excitement grows as the more famous cyclists approach. Another in tomato red. The next in hot pink. Another in dignified moss. Not enough time to size up these guys in tight pants. Guess Iím not in a fantasizing mood. Another in a combo of yellow and green. I should turn this into a fashion column:
ìBright colours are in this year and the teardrop hat is the most fashionable headwear by far for young gentlemen.î Nah.

Walked the two kilometers back and changed into a short little dress I bought yesterday in Cordes. Feels good but strange. Iím not used to wearing short skirts.

Now, Ken and I will drive to Albi to pick up a sofa. The salesman said that I could borrow a van instead of paying delivery charge. (I had asked for fun if I could have free delivery and was surprised at this offer. I should work up the nerve more often to ask for a break.)

Sitting in Cahuzac with Ken watching two Stella Artois trucks unload beer, Perrier, orangina, to the small restaurant with the fountain with gargoyles, water gushing from their mouths, waiting for the Tour de France to pass by. Something is wrong. The cyclists are supposed to leave Gaillac at 10:20. The roads should be closed. The street should be lined with people. Nothing is happening. I wonder if the people of the south are immune to this famous race. Finally I go into bar and ask when the Tour will pass by and am told ìdemain.î Tomorrow. Tomorrow? We return home and Gill is upset because she missed the race. (I didnít know that she wanted to see it.) She is relieved that she hasnít missed a thing and will join us tomorrow. .

The weather is cooler today. Still warm but not stifling. In a few moments we will drive to Cordes and wander around the upper city. This is a gorgeous town, steeper and artier, and hence busier than Castelnau and I am sure our guests will enjoy the sights. Later in the day, we will drive to the outskirts of Albi and look at sofas. I am still short of seats for the workshop and I want the space comfortable and inviting. Already, we are using it as a space to sit and read. (Rob you will love it.) It expands the size of our house considerably.

Gill and I received our tickets from Travel Cuts today. We really are coming home and as much as I love this place and am looking forward to the workshop, I want home.

Last night Carol, Susan, David joined my Irish clan for a feast. Champagne, wine, local duck pate, ham, potato salad (in respect for the Irish contingent), green salad with endives, peppers, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and bread. So simple. We finished with fresh strawberries and cheese. This had to be the easiest meal Iíve prepared for guests but, with good company, conversation, and the southern sun, everyone enjoyed themselves immensely (they told me so.) Me too.

I slept well in the salon and rose early to take David to the train station in Gaillac. At noon, Susan and I will take off for a literary lunch where we will discuss our writing and talk through any problems. We did this last year and both of us profited.

Ken is excited. He spoke with our cousin, Roy, last night to find out when and where the Tour de France passes. (Heís sports-crazy.) Tomorrow morning, 10:10, the first cyclist will ride from Gaillac to Cahuzac ñ minutes from our town.

And the news of the hour ñ Gill just received her French marks from Northern Ireland. She did upper six ñ a level two up from what, at her age, she should have done ñ and received a high C. She is pleased. And so am I. I know that our time in N.I. was well spent but itís nice to see such concrete proof. David, speaking as an English professor at a Scottish university, says that the educational system in N.I. is far superior to the one in England and Scotland. (I love hearing things like this. It affirms our hastiness in leaving Vancouver and fulfilling Gillís dream.

Auntie Isobel, Ken and Dolores arrived late yesterday afternoon. How strange to hear their Irish lilt among the French nasal. All three are enchanted with our house. Ken said that even though he had seen pictures, he hadnít imagined something so beautiful. (This morning he said he likes it more and more.) Dolores loves the stone and beams and I took her for a walk around the village. Auntie Isobel, after getting up at four in the morning to make the trip, was exhausted and went to bed while the rest of us, drove down to the lake for the fourteenth celebrations ñ a miniscule firework display (Mayor Salvadore was cheap this year) and a disco. I danced for the first time since leaving Northern Ireland. And I danced some more. How I love to feel my body moving to music. But Ken and Dolores stood to the side looking so tired that I took pity on them after an hour and we went home to bed. We left Gill dancing and drinking vodka from a coke bottle. (She returned at two.)

I am at La Place this morning drinking a petit crËme and watching the market folk set up. I will bring my family to buy fruit, veggies, and cheese and then weíll head to Albi to view some 15th century artistís vision of heaven and hell in the cathedral. Gill and I will also go to the outskirts of the town to look for a sofa and buy mosquito nets for the two beds in the attic. Iíve decided, after giving up my bed to Auntie Isobel and sleeping in the little anti-chamber outside the bathroom that I will risk sleeping on a mattress with the bats if I have some protection. I know that bats wonít hurt me but scenes from those old Dracula films still roam my brain.

I must run. Everyone in the house is up and eating and I must clean myself before heading out.

14th of July. Bastille Day. The country celebrates the French Revolution. Stores are closed. Gaillacís market square is a huge carnival set, including rides for children, French fair food and wine stands. Gill and I went into town early to buy some fruits and vegetables and a raspberry tart for our Irish visitors. I put a bottle of champagne and rose in the fridge. I scrubbed before and after our shopping exhibition. All is ready. Or nearly. Gill is vacuuming upstairs.

We just ate a cool lunch of melon, ham, cheese, bread, and water and discussed beauty as I am reading Carolyn Heilbrunís book ìWomenís Lives: The View from the Threshold.î The book is divided into 4 parts and each part is a lecture Heilbrun gave at the University of Toronto. I have always liked Heilbrunís books including her mysteries that she wrote under the alias, Amanda Cross. She announces at the beginning of ìWomenís Livesî that she will discuss how feminism has affected literature. She speaks of women being in a state of transition and liminality, ìposed upon uncertain groundî. As an example, she describes George Eliot who came into her own in a time when beauty was the most important attribute for women gaining acceptance into a manís world. Fortunately, according to Heilbrun, Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) did not possess beauty but intelligence and her lack of comeliness allowed her privileges and hence the freedom to be her own person. Furthermore, Heilbrun believes that ìthe essential female stage of liminalityî comes to some with age, when they no longer ì conform to the current ideal of female beauty.î Colette said somewhere that she was happy to be in her fifties, that she no longer had to play coy with men ñ or something to that effect. (I think I was more interested in the discussion than Gill.)

I am not focused today. The sun rose late and Gill has just left to go to the lake. I will finish a few odds and ends and wait for my extended family. This evening we will go down to the lake and dance.

It is well into the afternoon and so hot itís hard to function. I was up at six. Hardly slept but a cool breeze, finally, cooled the rooms and I went downstairs and applied the last coat of stain on the stairs. When I finished the bottom, Madame Rougier, who the other day said I must call her Lucette, poked her head in the door and gave me the gift of an old broom to sweep the street. I have grown lax in cleaning outside my house ñ a daily chore for a French woman - (too much to do inside) and I obediently and methodically swept every inch of my territory and returned to lay a coat of stain on the ground level floor. Almost finished. My Irish guests arrive tomorrow and I want this done as itís too difficult to work around people.

Yesterday afternoon, as it poured in Vancouver, my flesh cooked in the car, driving to Toulouse to pick up Gill from the train station. As her train was a hour late, I wandered around the city. WhenI caught sight of my face in a mirror - scary red - I did something I have never done: I took the new subway back to train station. Gill, my tall skinny beauty had a great week with the Rhodes on the Mediterranean and in Italy. (I envied her.) A cool beach would be heaven sent at the moment.

My young guests decided to stay an extra night (thank goodness happily residing down the street) and we joined them at Le Bar at nine for dinner. It was still unbearably hot and we could see, from our table, Tatu, the chef, topless except for an apron with a bib, sweating over a hot stove.

Les jeunes, including Gill, left for a fete outside Gaillac and I researched their connections from Toulouse to Madrid on the internet. They leave tonight from Gaillac and are astonished that it will take them 19 hours to reach their destination. Trains do not go in a straight line.

Tomorrow, the 14th of July is Bastille Day and Gill is going to check if there is the usual country meal down at the lake, followed by live music ñ bad disco, if previous years are any indication ñ and dancing.

Let me set last nightís scene. I am sitting on the ground, looking up at a thirteen century chateau built of earth coloured stone, four stories high. At the front door, five young musicans ñ two violins, two flutes, and a clarinet ñ stand in a semi-circle and scent the air with their notes ñ soft, elegant, classical ñ I know the tune but I am so musically inept, I cannot name it. At intermission champagne is served. As the second set begins, four candles are simultaneously lit in each window on each level . The moon is almost full. The stars shine. I am enchanted. I am living in the south of France.
I am with Carol from Carolina who keeps her wonderful twang although she has lived in San Francisco for years. She is a retired high school guidance counselor, and still counsels, free-lance, to youth who donít know what direction to head when they finish grade school. She is smart, witty, and I enjoy her flowing conversation. Last night was a splurge. We ate at the new hotel and arrive a few minutes late for the performance. We park the car in a field, walk by the old pigeonnier ñ a house on stilts for the pigeons. ñ and so are given chairs far back from the crowd, on a lawn, divided into sections, by miniscule shrubs. I imagine this as the perfect scene for a romance novel.

Description has never been my forte but can you see it? Are you envious? I still canít believe this is part of my world. The owner has offered to give a wine-tasting for the writers. I would like them to see this scene.

I arrive home after midnight and look with dissatisfaction at the main floor which I have not been able to finish and will attack this morning. But the lights that dim and grow stronger with the touch of a finger work and I am proud of what I have accomplished so far. I climb the stairs and realign a mass email to writing participants and send it. I look at my watch and it is after 1 a.m. Time does fly but I lose myself often here. I take the time to do whatever. Can I do this when I return home? I will try. I want to spend hours lost, not scrambling.

Gill called this morning from Frejus. She will take an 11 a.m. train back to me. I may or may not go to Toulouse to pick her up. This is the second trip, in the last few weeks, she has taken by herself (the first being the two flights from Belfast to London to Carcassonne) and I see that this young woman of mine is almost ready to leave me. She has grown so independent. I adore her.

Last night is a fog and memorable if only because I lost myself in alcohol for the first time since coming to France. I drank an unknown quantity of wine at Susanís and Davidís in the company of four young ones from Vancouver ñ Sean, John, Iani, and Norrie (David pointed out that all three malesí names derive from John) ñ and then proceeded with these delightful college students, to Le Bar and consumed one Armagnac. (At least, I think I drank only one.) And since Iíve admitted this, I may as well say that I barely remember stumbling home and falling into bed with my clothes on.) I am paying this morning for my wayward ways. But I believe that one must indulge oneself to the point of nausea every once in a while. Liberation of the spirit. I think Montaigne recommends this and who am I to argue with a sixteenth century genius. (I visited his house once in Bordeaux. Nothing monumental but interesting nonetheless to be in his place. This is one of the things I love about Europe ñ its age or agelessness. Life seems shorter, more immediate, more inspiring when one sees structures, like a house, built seven or eight hundred years ago and still fulfilling its original purpose.)

As far as the house goes, I have nearly completed the work that needs to be done this year. The electricians will finish today and then I can finish floor and lower stairs under bright light. Oh there are odds and ends and cleaning to do but nothing enormous or daunting.

I surprised myself yesterday. I spent the day indoors waiting for the electricians who showed at five p.m. to say that they would complete work ìdemain.î and so, for some strange reason, I started to play with a piece I wrote last year. Mordecai Richler and a number of others, advise aspiring writers to sit at their desks for a specified number of hours each day. I would like to attempt this discipline so I will have something to work on during workshop when I can take advantage of Marleneís tutelage.

I will also type out a mass email to participants confirming arrival and departure times to make sure all is in order.

I changed my departure day. I was panicking about closing up two houses, returning borrowed car, and numerous other small duties so I emailed Nasir at UBC Travelcuts. I will return four days later than planned, on the 25th of August. Itís not that I am not anxious to come back. I am but I know from experience that I do not function well when time is limited.

The church bells are ringing. Itís noon and Iím exhausted. Why am I such an idiot? I couldnít stop working last night. I sanded bits of floor and stopped for a glass of armagnac when Helene dropped in. I told her I was going to take a nice leisurely bath but, when she was gone, I looked at the tin of satin coating for the stairs and couldnít resist. I wanted to see what one looked like. Did an entire flight.
1 a.m. climbed into a bath, fell into bed. 6:30 a.m. Iani called from Toulouse. 8 a.m. Iani called from Gaillac. 9:30 a.m. he finally found his way to La Place in town. He thought our house was in Gaillac.

Put Iani in Basil and Clareís house (with his emailed permission.) Came back to my house. Did every other step on lower staircase. Now I want to crawl into bed and sleep. Dare I? The electrical guys are returning at 2. I should make Iani and his friends some dinner tonight. I should, I shouldÖ racing the clock. Want all finished this weekend before Ken, Dolores, and Auntie Isobel arrive Monday. Ianiís visit a surprise. Can I finish house and entertain? Iím running out of steam but to be finished and have time to play would feel so good.

Has anyone out there, read a good book lately? I finished ìThe Light of Dayî and was disappointed. I thought it was a murder mystery. I kept waiting for something new, something surprising to happen but it didnít, not even on the last page. I felt ripped off.
The story is one manís - a private detectiveís - thoughts and actions around a woman, a murderess. A secondary plot involves betrayal. His fatherís. His wifeís. His daughterís.. His clientsí. He, the writer, flips backwards and forwards in time and gives details about people and situations that I donít give a damn about. Nothing is resolved. I didnít come away any wiser.

Maybe if I could sleep for one hour, Iíd feel better. Maybe if I slept several hours, Iíd feel great. Can I get away with it? I think I must.

I woke up at five. ìThank goodness itís late enough to rise,î I think. I am not one of those people who like to lie in, who love their bed. The moment my consciousness returns, I wonder how I'm going to accomplish all the things I want to do. It is 8:15 when I start writing in my journal. Already I have spent a hour answering emails. (I both love and hate this form of communication. I rarely catch up and it's not I don't want to talk to the people who write me. There just aren't enough hours.) And I have stained one flight of stairs. They are beautiful, these stairs of ours - cracked and worn down over centuries. I think of the number of people and the number of times they had to ascend and descend, to wear them down to their present beauty. If only our culture looked at people this way. "The older you get, the more beautiful and individual you become." Susan comes to mind. She appears ageless. Two nights ago I was at her home for dinner and later in the evening, she was lounging on the sofa like an odalisque , head and shoulder resting on David. Her body language is so young. She still talks of love-making (but Susan would hate this eupherism - I wonder if I can swear on this blog.) She tells me that she loves the magic when IT works, when little concerns and vanities aren't present, when both people lose themselves. And she said once again that she regrets never having made love to a woman. Susan is a few years older than my mother and I can't imagine such a statement leaving her lips.

Susan ask if I would make dinner last night and called me an angel because I agreed. (I doubt few would describe me as such.) I made a simple salad, boiled potatoes (that Susan loves too), and courgettes, served with bread, cheese, and red wine. Susan and David are always good company and they never linger long after the meal. I like this, not being a late night person.

Stephane Medina, the electrician, has just dropped in. He will install the lighting downstairs, this afternoon. Do wonders ever cease? He is so busy, it's difficult to book him but I think he's being agreeable because I spoke to him last summer and at Christmas.

I should start sanding the floor - maybe I will, maybe I won't. I also have to make a run to LeClerc. There is a new one, built directly behind the old one. It's enormous - larger than the one in Albi - and carries everything from wine, food, clothes, hardware, to appliances. Not as big as Ikea but still a challenge.

"Oh la la" is so much more elegant than "wow" or "oh dear". I sat in La Place this morning, drinking a cafe creme and watching the market people selling their wares: it isn't so different than the market in Lisburn although the Northern Irish farmers shout out their specials and the French are quiet. I have never tasted anything fresher than the vegies and fruits sold in this town. One farmer says that he sells nothing that he hasn't picked the same day.

Katia is sitting at another table writing as well. Katia and her sister, Virgine have lived in the town as long as I can remember. Two sisters living together. They share a house and once in a while, I have seen a man at Virgine's side. Over the years, she has given birth to two beautiful young girls with the same blond hair and long legs as she has. I have never really been able to have a conversation with either with them and I regret this - my French isn't good enough. Oh yes, I can get by but have a real conversation? No. Every year, I say I'm going to learn. One year, I even took French classes but still I struggle. The big problem is that there are too many English speaking people in the town.

Yesterday, I was at Ikea for four hours. The store on the outskirts of Toulouse is two or three times bigger than the one in Vancouver. It is a maze and if I weren't so in need of cups and glasses and curtains and odds and ends at a good price, I would never go near the place. I also bought a filing cabinet - so I can organize my writing and endless slips of paper - and a book shelf which took me at least four or five hours to assemble. I find it frustrating sometimes that my time and energy is spent on such mundane tasks. Okay, I do get some satisfaction out of physical labour but I am getting tired. It's the little things that sap me. For instance, today, I spent a couple of hours - 7 to 9 - washing the new dishes and rearranging my shelves.

If I am good, I should be finished all this stuff by the weekend.

In between jobs I read a page or two of "The Light of Day", a mystery by Graham Swift that Susan lent me. I don't have the brains or the patience for anything heavy at the moment.

After I wake, make coffee, I sit in the small room off the kitchen, feet on the ledge, looking out the window onto the garden, and wonder what I can say that will be of interest to anyone. This blog is a small way to assure that I write everyday, to keep family and friends informed of my actions, to reassure them that I breathe, and to pass on a few of my thoughts. Living alone, I am often lost in thought - thoughts about those who read me, about the work I must accomplish this day, about how to proceed with my writing.

I have had more than enough indication that I can write so why aren't I doing more of it? Is there some psychological barrier? I think good writing comes from a lightness of being or an unconsciousness of being. It spews forth when unforced, then the words have energy and nerve and need only refinement. The editing process is the artful part of writing. I have spent an entire day on one sentence and sometimes I like the end result and sometimes I remain unsatisfied. Is this part of the hesitancy of writing - the knowing that I may never get it "right"?
I also fear that I have nothing of interest to tell, that I am an imbecile, a fool, a simpleton. Damn it all anyway. I want simple language. I want unpretentious text. I want my sentences to sing. I want to sit here all day playing with my pen and paper but there's work to be done. Will I always have some job calling me away, stealing my concentration? If I were a millionaire, I wouldn't have to paint walls, stain floors, dust, wax, and scrub. But even if I won a lottery, I would have to supervise people doing these jobs. Maria, a friend and I used to discuss finding the middle road, the neutral path, where one can be focused and not rattled by unexpected obstacles and intrusions. I ramble. Writing about writing. Many have made a living writing about this very subject. Not me. I once said that i want to write about the things that people are afraid or too embarrassed to talk about. I include my own fears and embarrassments. Have I done myself in before I've even begun?

Enough.

Today, Ikea.

I am late today and tired. Woke up at 2 a.m. and didn't get back to sleep till 6. At 9, David banged on my door and shortly after, Bedding phoned to tell me about flea market on esplanade. It was mostly junk but did manage to find an oval mirror for 5 euros. Bedding then took pity on my poor tired eyes and slouched shoulders and made me some pasta and salad for lunch. I caught half a hour of sleep and then we went out to buy wine at the Caves de Tecou. Closed Sunday afternoon. We proceeded to Puycelsi and had a coffee and here I am back at my computer without a thought in my head.

Good news. I finished painting white walls yesterday and am just about to wash floor and stain it. My life is very exciting. Not. But I am pleased. Another week of odds jobs and I should be ready for August.

Last night, after 11 p.m., Susan and I drove to Gaillac to pick up David, arriving by train from a conference in Scotland. Susan is so happy these days. Has a twinkle in her eyes. Her body language is young and vibrant. I find it difficult to believe that she will be 76 in August. We talk easily about any subject. I asked her about death a few days ago and she brings up the subject again. "The one thing I'll miss is sleep," she says. She loves curling into her big bed and drifting away. We speak about waking up and how both of us often wake unhappy and discuss now how ridiculous we are. Once upon a time, Susan linked happiness to playing the fool. We have grown more serious and aren't foolish enough these days. We don't laugh enough. We are too self critical. This has simply got to stop. Here we are in this beautiful place, magical really, and we have to take time to enjoy more. Earlier in the evening, I ate dinner with her. Susan is an amazing cook and we had some aubergine concoction, a little bread and salad, and finished with fresh ginger and almonds. The taste of the two together produced euphoria. I commented that it was almost as good as sex and Susan laughed and said that David and her had had the same thought.

I think sometimes my blogs are boring so I'm going to try to be a bit more whimsical.

Yesterday, my baby sister turned forty. My mum sent an email saying that she was unhappy. I remember turning forty too and I was unhappy too. Maybe we need this unhappiness to cross some invisible barrier that leads to middle age, that allows us to assess our lives and make changes that lead to a more individual space.

This morning I sat at my little desk looking over the garden, listening to the pigeons flap and coo, admiring the tall tree with its feathery leaves and light floral flowers. The day is already warm and I think of Rob who is working long hours on a film. He loves this place in France. He especially loves the summer and too often he is working and can't enjoy the simple luxury of this place.

I am going to putter today. Already I have finished sewing and installing our bedroom curtains. Hopefully I will finish my white painting and scrub the floors. A friend (?) once said that I would make an excellent cleaning person and I was insulted but I do like transforming places. I day dream and feel a sense of accomplishment when all is bright and shining.

Last night I finished the most disgusting of books, "In Praise of the Stepmother" by Mario Vargas Llosa, a master of erotica. His writing is seductive but always a perverse element invades the sensual and I find myself squirming. This story is about the seduction of the stepmother by a prepubescent son who in the end achieves his desire. I won't tell what that is for those who desire to read such text but even though the writing is good, I wouldn't want to read a lot by this author. (I read another of his books many years ago and had forgotten how he soils the erotic.)

Enough, I must go and paint.

Suzi will be relieved to hear that I slept well last night but my mind, this morning, is so frantic, I have to do breathing exercises. "One step at a time," I tell myself. Do what has to be done." So I went out and paid the car maintenance bill (after four attempts), stopped at Pulsat for further instructions on where to find lights - even though I am going to the dreaded Toulouse Ikea tomorrow on Brendan's recommendation - and have come to Le Verdier for gasoline and coffee (good mix.) The day is already beautiful, slightly cooler than last week, sun still bright, but I'm in a worrying frame of mind. I don't seem to be taking in any French. Some days are like this. I listen hard but nothing comes through my translator cells and I feel like a fool. I wonder if being a writer who loves words and phrases makes it more difficult to accept not grasping what comes from other mouths.
"Breathe deeply," I tell myself. I'll get through this day and last till midnight as I've promised to pick David up in Gaillac at 11:40 p.m. Oh la la. No wine tonight.

I'd like to make some comment, before I forget, on "The Jasmine Man" for my reading buddies. It's written by a Canadian, Lola Lemire Tostevin and although I finished it several days ago, I'm still thinking about it - the sign of a good book. It's beautifully written and tells the tale of a Canadian, her four year old son, and her older, psychiatrist husband, who are living in Paris while he is on sabbatical studying the present, supposedly advanced French attitude to family interaction.
Watching over her son one day in a park, the woman meets a charming Arab and their love affair begins, taking place in Paris and then Tunisia. The author achieves, without sentimentality, a believable description of the woman's emotions, the exotic actions and seduction by the Arab, and the husband's mature but disturbed response to the situation. There are many twists and turns and surprises. So many books speak of relationship - and why not? Is it not of ultimate importance to us all? - but this one reminds me of the myriad forms it can take and the number of solutions to passionate involvement. This novel doesn't rate amongst my favourites but it is memorable and worth reading.

I have been up since 4:45 answering emails re writing workshop. I am tired of sitting here but feel relieved that I have once again caught up with my correspondance.

Today, I will clean a little and drive Gill into Toulouse so she can catch the early afternoon train for St. Raphael to meet her friend Alexie who she hasn't seen since last September. Alexie's parents have rented a house on or near the Mediterranean with a swimming pool so Gill will bask by the pool for a few days and then she's off to Italy for a walking tour. She is excited, this lucky young woman.

I will have nine days to finish house work before she returns and my Irish relatives arrive. I want all the tough bits done so I can take some time off and show them around. Rob is so much better at this than me. Wish he were here.

I was going stark raving mad this morning. My computer decided to play games and I ended up calling Brendan. When even he was stumped, I thought I was doomed. Fortunately, I was able to bring it back to life. With the workshop happening and at least, five emails coming in a day, I don't know how I'd function. Speaking of the workshop, two relatives of a participant changed their plans and now I have to figure out how to rearrange people so each landlord will not become too upset with the loss of income. This hosting business is a lot of work.

I also did a patch of painting this morning and one more session should finish it. Relief. I ordered a bed for guest room which may seem easy but not so in a house with a narrow stairway. (Last year, we had to bring a buffet in a window.) And I spoke to Marie Laure about Gill's Italian vacation and must go to train station today and buy ticket. So, as all can tell, I am doing this and that, and no grand thing - meaning writing. Still I am ahead of the game and if I can all the bits and pieces cleared up in the next few days, I will have some down time.

I may return later to discuss "The Jasmine Man" but I have to run and wash a bucket of white paint off my arms and legs so I can take Gill to Albi for a swimsuit and visit France Telecom about my internet account. I fear if I don't change it to an more reasonable plan, our telephone bill will be outrageous.

Another day in paradise. The sun holds. It's market day in town.

Last night, Gill and I enjoyed a meal with Stan and Christine and I was well behaved. For some strange reason, I can't drink wine as I used to. For every glass I consumed, I had to drink a litre of water. Still, I had to drag myself up the hill to bed.

Stephane Medina came this morning to check out the workshop room and will install three tracks of lights with dimmers and five plugs skirting the room, next week. I told a little white lie: I said that I needed it for July 14th (when my cousins and aunt arrive) rather than the date of the workshop because I don't quite trust French service people. They have so much work, they come when they please although I have to admit that Medina has always been reliable.

Christine is coming over at ten thirty to help me paint so I must run to the market.

As far as books go, I am reading "The Jasmine Man" by Lola Lemire Tostevin, a Canadian. I'm impressed. When I've read more, I'll explain the reasons why this book is appealing. Au revoir. (I think my French is improving.)