Another weekend, another visit to the garden centre. Which may seem a little strange for the inhabitants of an apartment several floors up, but we were so pleased with our forked flowerpot purchase last week, we had to go back for more. Is that late middle-aged bourgeoisie I see catching up fast as I look over my shoulder?
However, as I sit looking out of the window at the 22C sunshine, with the scent of lavender wafting in from our newly acquired mini-gardens, I reflect that maybe middle-age ain't so bad after all...
While Strasbourg went up in flames, you may perceive that the week just past was another uneventful one in Lyon. I even managed to more or less finish a second rewrite of the third draft of book 3. Work (and play) on the computer has been aided by a 15 euro investment in extra memory off ebay. Now the ageing machine boots and starts windows in less than five minutes, instead of the ten previously, and certain memory-hungry applications have become infinitely more usable. Marvellous.
