Belle de jour

This Ipomoea (morning glory) Belle de Jour looked quite forlorn huddled up against a rain lashed wall this afternoon. Its magenta-rimmed deep blue petals, wine red stems and bright green leaves caught my eye. The flower's white centre makes the picture look like I used a flash. I did not.

Hardly slept last night so wasn't feeling remotely belle today. Our village is in the throes of its annual fete, which means that all the rednecks for miles around have descended upon a rickety marquee in the middle of a muddy field beside the church. They will spend the entire weekend getting blotto on beer & peket, eating, telling loud jokes and dancing drunkenly to crapulous music until 3 in the morning. The festivities are less than a kilometer away from our house, but the din from the marquee is so loud it feels like they're right outside my window. This afternoon the fete organisers, who must be founding members of Sadists Sans Frontieres, had Le Jogging, otherwise known as Le Lurching. It was hilarious to see several dozen runners, wan and hungover after last night's debauchery, jog mincingly around the village while being serenaded thumpingly by an oompah band and egged on by their battleaxe wives and girlfriends. Serves them right for keeping me up all night with their Johnny Hallyday and Plastic Bertrand music. Tonight there's a big disco for les jeunes, which means execrable French rap at criminal decibels. Tomorrow it will be chanson karaoke, god help us all.

Where's a grenade when you need one?



Will catch up on comments when I'm feeling less merde.