Timber

Long, busy day.

Early alarm, for which I was already awake due to the rather more sonorous alarm next to me that had been going off for most of the night. Naturally I let my alarm ring a little longer than necessary (well, he said he wanted to get up early). Then TallGirl to prise out of bed and equip for two days with the ponies... Sleeping bag and mattress, jodhpurs, horse treats, sunscreen, phone....

Returning from drop off at the stables, the piano tuner was already here, bemoaning our piano 'très faux'. After 90 minutes he pronounced himself happy and invited Mr B to take to the keys, where he stayed for some time. Can't blame him really, and especially not as it gave me time for a cup of tea in the sitting position - a rare treat on days like this.

Then, with the masons having brought forward the start date for our garden redesign, I had to redesign the bramble patch in a big hurry into flat ground. Much triangulation, measurement and pole fixing later, and Mr B and I had managed to stake out the positions for two concrete rafts: one for a terrace, the other for a shed (subject to planning permission).

Planning permission. For a shed. 20 pages to fill in, three times, with two plans and (minimum) three artist's impressions from different angles. I will have to get on that tomorrow... Trouble is, even though no-one else will be able to see the shed, there seems to no time limit on complaints, so if I ever pee off one of my neighbours, they can make me pull my shed down. I'm sure there must be advantages to living in France. I'm sure they were very clear to us on that dark rainy Scottish spring morning when we made the decision...

Anyway, I digress. The bramble patch was moved to the bonfire heap with relatively little fuss and very few scratches, the masons arrived and started work, TallGirl called to report on a fabulous 30km horse hike (hack?) with the only downside being her forgetting sun cream and having very burnt arms. And the downside here was CarbBoy spending the whole day vomiting. A tube of mentos (and Calpol, and honey (sore throat) and antihistamine (jelly fish sting sore again)) brought him back to life, and Mr B (despite migraine) is continuing therapy for the wee fella with an episode of Top Gear. It is still always clear to me why the boys n.e.v.e.r win at charades. Mr B tried for 5 minutes to mime Top Gear to me to avoid CarbBoy hearing in case (why?) it was not allowed. I didn't get it. In three gestures I mimed it and he conceded that it was very clear, and that in retrospect just repeatedly spinning an imaginary steering wheel for 5 minutes while grinning inanely was never going to do it.

Steak frites for dinner. Am I a bad mother to take advantage of CarbBoy's (allergic to beef) indisposition and resulting absence from the dinner table for this rare treat? Mr B, after hours of hauling and fitting plasterboard, did not think so.

And a serendipitous new David Sedaris series on Radio 4 was a perfect dinner accompaniment (even if it was about colonoscopies).

All that typing and I forgot about the photo. This tree is due for the chop. Tomorrow. According to the mayor's secretary, I should ask permission for that too. But with an internalised nod and a wink, he made it clear that I could get away without permission. But not for the invisible shed.