This is not what was planned for this morning, I got waylaid. In my neck of rural France all things remotely agricultural happen in time honoured custom and strictly by the calendar. Trees are felled in the second week of the first month, pruning, the fourth week of the second month, tilling, the second week of the third month and muck spreading during the third week of the fourth month, which is where we are now. This morning was glorious, early morning bread run down hot country lanes with the top down, then I was waylaid. The muck was being spread, a huge machine was trundling a field, hurtling it's evil load across the land and the highway, noxious fumes filled the morning air as I breaknecked my escape. In the square, outside the boulangerie, I planned a more circuitous route home. The sun still beat down and I reflected that the nausea that had swept over me was a minor discomfort compared with that which must wash over London art lovers now the Rose Wylie show has hit town.
AGED AND AWKWARD