Well here I am sitting in someone elses house in rural France looking after three goats, three chickens, two dogs, two cats and a parrot – thinking back to how I actually arrived at this place in my life but it really is quite a funny sad story. I am writing a book about it and thought I would share bits of it with you. Hopefully it will make you laugh and cheer your day up. Enjoy!!
It all began when I turned forty. I think I know now why people say that life begins at forty, as I can honestly say mine changed forever. I had been married for 16 years to an aggressive short person and had spent many years optimistically hoping that one day he would just suddenly stop breathing. I had always been a person who believed that nothing ever lasted good or bad but realise now that I was totally ill prepared for the following catalogue of events that were to leave me penniless with no job in the rural outback of France.
I had worked all my life in the printing industry, had a degree in print management and was a proud owner of a lovely three bedroom house. My husband, on the other hand, had been in and out of jobs, always having trouble seeing eye to eye with any boss. Preferring the slower pace of life he spent most of his days sitting in his brown plastic recliner, something he considered his best skip find. He didn’t really contribute to the household other than filling the garage up with mounds of rubbish, found while delving into other peoples skips. He hated everyone in the world, other than the ones lucky enough to live within a mile radius of him. He had a massive chip on his shoulder, big enough to feed America and was someone you could laugh at when he was not around. In the summer he wore tiny cut down jeans that just about managed to cover his manhood and a pair of beige moccasins in an effort to gain an all over manly tan, something he felt was essential to his tough image.
We had a very strange neighbour called Lucy who was extremely tall, wore crocheted tops and no bra, was permanently drunk and would cry regularly about not knowing who she really was. She was divorced and had two children who, surprisingly enough, were well adjusted and doing very nicely in school. She spent most of her days sitting in the dark with a glass of wine, stroking pieces of fur from, once loved, long gone, pets and looking at old pictures of happier times. She had a crush on my husband and would regularly lay in waiting for him. Once in sight she would pounce on him giggling her ample breasts while grabbing him firmly with both arms and proffering her cheek. This was something he hated with a passion as he was just the right height to be wedged inbetween her breasts with little room to breathe and was unable to move………..
More to follow
It all began when I turned forty. I think I know now why people say that life begins at forty, as I can honestly say mine changed forever. I had been married for 16 years to an aggressive short person and had spent many years optimistically hoping that one day he would just suddenly stop breathing. I had always been a person who believed that nothing ever lasted good or bad but realise now that I was totally ill prepared for the following catalogue of events that were to leave me penniless with no job in the rural outback of France.
I had worked all my life in the printing industry, had a degree in print management and was a proud owner of a lovely three bedroom house. My husband, on the other hand, had been in and out of jobs, always having trouble seeing eye to eye with any boss. Preferring the slower pace of life he spent most of his days sitting in his brown plastic recliner, something he considered his best skip find. He didn’t really contribute to the household other than filling the garage up with mounds of rubbish, found while delving into other peoples skips. He hated everyone in the world, other than the ones lucky enough to live within a mile radius of him. He had a massive chip on his shoulder, big enough to feed America and was someone you could laugh at when he was not around. In the summer he wore tiny cut down jeans that just about managed to cover his manhood and a pair of beige moccasins in an effort to gain an all over manly tan, something he felt was essential to his tough image.
We had a very strange neighbour called Lucy who was extremely tall, wore crocheted tops and no bra, was permanently drunk and would cry regularly about not knowing who she really was. She was divorced and had two children who, surprisingly enough, were well adjusted and doing very nicely in school. She spent most of her days sitting in the dark with a glass of wine, stroking pieces of fur from, once loved, long gone, pets and looking at old pictures of happier times. She had a crush on my husband and would regularly lay in waiting for him. Once in sight she would pounce on him giggling her ample breasts while grabbing him firmly with both arms and proffering her cheek. This was something he hated with a passion as he was just the right height to be wedged inbetween her breasts with little room to breathe and was unable to move………..
More to follow
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