The significance of man is that he is insignificant and is aware of it.
  – Carl Becker

This flashed up on my iGoogle Quote of the Day gadget today and it sums up how I feel feel about being human nicely. Read Maya by Jostein Gaarder for more on this. I love how that book goes on about being less than a blink in the eye of the universe.

Isn't it awkward when you're on the phone and you have to end a conversation. Both parties do a garbled dance of "Thanks" and "Bye" till the other puts the phone down.

]]> http://blissfullyeccentric.wordpress.com/2008/10/17/some-thoughts/feed/ 0 blissfullyeccentric http://blissfullyeccentric.wordpress.com/2008/10/05/it%e2%80%99s-coming/ http://blissfullyeccentric.wordpress.com/2008/10/05/it%e2%80%99s-coming/#comments Sun, 05 Oct 2008 23:49:00 +0000 blissfullyeccentric http://blissfullyeccentric.wordpress.com/2008/10/05/it%e2%80%99s-coming/ ]]>

The other day I cycled home from work as the sun hung low in the sky. The air was crisp and the wind cut through me harshly. Inside my head was a mess of the day just gone, snippets of conversation swirling endlessly around. When I reached the Common something snapped. The sun hit the top of the trees and all become golden. Silhouettes of branches cast on gold sky on the right, over – achieving, rugby playing Adonis – like young men to the right in all their clean cut glory.

And in that moment all was well.

I love it when the air has gone from end of summer haze to crisp autumn snap. I am revelling in wild rainy afternoons where I am safe and warm indoors, and bringing out all my knitwear for warmth.

Winter is coming.

I am excited. We went to the pub the other day, and as we left, there was that magical twinkly feeling of going somewhere in the dark, the lights and people’s cheeks shining. There’s nothing as festive as winter.

On the boat I read and read and read, having ironically picked up a book about an Irish expat to France, and the swallowed the book, finishing it on our first day after arrival. We ate well in the restaurant, cheese and salad nicoise for me , lamb and frites for Tom and chocolate mousse and wine.

Norman, Tom’s dad picked us up on Caen, and the two hour drive from Caen to Saint Laurent de Cuves was more dozing as motorways French or English bore me. The landscapes of Normandy have a warm hard light, like looking through a smokey quartz crystal, everythign covered ina slight haze of dust from the pale brown soil. I enjoy the way the local style of house building is so un – english, all tall windows and doors with shutters, local stone and building regs demanding houses be white or cream or light brown or yellow. A painters palette predecided by local government.

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Once unpacked slight, and adjusted to the haze of nictotine that hovers at Norman’s house we changed and went for pizza at Le Petit Nicolas in Brecey, the next village over. I shared half and Etna, all chorizo and chilli oil and a Norvegienne, smoked salmon and creme fraiche with extra coquille st jaques.

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Our time in France was spent food shopping in the Super U in Brecey and at Brecey market, painting walls in the corner of the living room, sleeping and eating and drinking. My favourite half an hour was chatting to Yvette, who runs the Bar des Sports in Saint Laurent de Cuves about studying history in England in university. She speaks no English at all, but as the expats keep the bar in business she takes care to speak slowly and clearly with them and make them welcome. We also spent a good 15 mins on knitting and laughing at men who love Volvos, something which inspires geekery in both the English and the French. We took a sneek peak in the church in the village, and a tour of the graveyard, marvelling at the money spent on lavish gravestones. I also hemmed many a curtain in the hope that next time we visit they may have been hung!

Later in the week we went to the castle at Fougere beloved of Victor Hugo, ate a paable Moules Frite in a restaurant with terrible service and then I pretended to be Rapunzel, translated labels and got gently sunburnt. The approach to health and safety there was minimal, with rickety hand rails on tall towers, and every thing being open for the public to climb. Having been ransacked in the Revolution the bare rooms were quite a shock after lavciously furnished NT houses.

The last days of the trip were made frighteningly excitable by the last of a summer’s hornets flying into the warm of the house through open velux windows and hiding in the rafters of the unfinished ceiling of the room we were sleeping in. Every time we went to go back to bed, I would spot another and amusing crashing and spraying and whacking with newspapers would ensue. I did not sleep at all on the last night in the fear they would appear again.

An LD lines ferry took us back from the concrete lego brick magnificence of La Havre, and whilst the food was terrible, the boat noisy, we had club louge stickers and so rested on leather sofas, our booty of cheap and tasty wine safe in the car ready for stashing in cellars and gifting at home.

See you in England!

It’s intensely painful and pleasurable all at once.

Only certain pieces of music make it happen.

Very odd.

I had my family picnic. This slice of awesomeness is second only to the family party, where we spendall evening playing silly games and dancing. This one takes place on the New Forest at Ocknell’s Pond on the Sunday before the August Bank Holiday. It’s all about french cricket ans den building and the Magic Kitkat tree where the fairies leave you chocolate.

As is my way, I invited my good friends to come too, and some had never ever built a den before. We quickly rectified that, and I believe a good time was had by all. Every time I attend one of these family events I’m reminded of how lucky I am to have this, how awesome it is to be in touch with so many of your extended relatives, how interesting people are and I kick my former self for moaning about going as a snotty teenager.

It also reminds me of how great my friends are, as countless aunties remark how nice it is to see young adults joining in with all the games. I also have to stop and sigh a bit as I watch Tom being the one who joins in the most, who cuts down the most ferns and plays french cricket the most viciously and competetively. With all the stress of recent weeks, it’s good to be reminded of how good he is for me.

Here are some pictures from my Mum:

This is my godson and cousin Max, with my aunty, Vicky. Max spent most of his time on the coolbox. As you can see it was fun.

Max really likes Lala, and I had a Lala backpack from my non- conformist extraordinaire years when I was about 14. He loved it.

Marmaduke had never made a den before, having grown up in the city. So mum made him pose awkwardly next to it for a picture.

Paddy liked waving to people through the gaps in the walls. It looks like he’s being swallowed by it. He’s Kate and Max’s brother.

Here I am failing miserably at French Cricket with my second cousin Beth on the right, and selection of my friends.

Pattern from here