A river runs through it

OK, so finally I have been asked how a fly can land on a ceiling. Remember – I posed the question last Wednesday? Well, there are two theories.

The first theory is that insect flies close to the ceiling until its first two legs can be put over its head to touch, and adhere to, the ceiling, bringing the rest of its body up to leave the creature on the ceiling and facing the opposite direction.

The second theory, which is the one I prefer, was the result of intensive study by an American convict. After many years of observation he said that, in the process of landing on the ceiling flies always perform a half-upwards loop. To prove it, the convict invented this way of catching flies: nearly fill a glass with soapy water, beat up a bit of a foamy head on the surface and raise the glass slowly from directly beneath the fly. Once the surface of the foam is about an inch and a half from the fly, it is doomed. In completing the interrupted loop, the fly cannot but dive into the foam! Splosh.

I am happy to admit that the above is unashamedly lifted from the pages of a copy of last weeks Guardian, in case anybody has any plagiarism/copyright issues.

Next question for heated debate: Who was Larry and why was he so blinking happy?

Anyway, back to normality. Today I overcame my phobia of…going into a French launderette by myself and negotiating a service wash without being able to use a word of English. Howsabouthathen? I’m sure my French was utterly pitiful, but the main thing is I managed to explain what I needed (including discussing temperatures and pre-washes, drying times and expectations of dryness, when to collect and prices) and it all worked. Two hours later, I returned to collect all my clothes (except what I was wearing today, of course) and bedlinen, and there it was - all washed, dried and folded – for just €13 – I returned home triumphant in my colossal achievement. I was so pleased with myself I wanted to go back and do it all again, but there was nothing left to wash, except the nets but I think they’ll see out the season. But I’ll be back.

The morning mist had cleared by early afternoon so I went for a stroll around as is my wont. It was beautiful down by the river, so I popped back and collected my notebooks and spent the rest of the day sitting beside the Dordogne basking in the sun like the lizards which scuttled across the warm stones all around me.

An old drunk came and sat next to me and I smelt trouble…and some fairly toxic alcohol fumes too. Still, not wanting to be rude I embarked on my second French conversation of the day. His complete drink-sodden state probably meant I had a slight advantage, but we had a bit of a chat. I started to get nervous when he kept shifting closer to me, his head lolling around like a bladder on a stick, trying to see what I was writing. He said he wanted to watch me write, so I explained that I could only write when I was by myself…alone…seulement! He got the hint, and stood up, took a few steps then collapsed onto the grass verge in an unconscious heap. I have this effect on people it seems. He was still there two hours later when I got up to leave, bless his heart. I did check to see he was still breathing before I walked away – just in case you think I’m completely heartless. He wasn’t. No, of course he was. No – he wasn’t! Yes he was.

He was dead.

No he wasn’t!

There’s also this thin woman with big hair and a fur coat cut like a poodle who keeps parading herself up and down the riverside. Not sure what’s going on with that…but I’ve got an inkling of an idea.

When the sun went down, it became almost instantly chilly and so I came home to make the bed and do the ironing to the monstrously fantastic prog rock soundtrack of Pink Floyd. It’s great ironing music – don’t knock it until you’ve tried it I say.

A swift aperitif or two at the restaurant and then home to a steaming bowl of cassoulet au canard! Mmm-hmm.