French Uncle, Dog and Essay Soup

This morning I poured a bag of basmati rice into the dog bowls instead of dog food.

I have run out of battery.

My brain has been in overdrive for weeks. It has finally stopped whirring. The sparks have stopped connecting. The dots are not joining.

Thank God.

I am not at Falmouth. I did not get up and fill the car with duvets, books, knickers and a variety of cold water swimming apparatus.

 I did not head South, stopping for a bacon sandwich at the brilliant Hog and Hedge services.

 I did not spend the long journey singing along to power ballads….I have terrible taste in driving music. Turn around, bright eyes…

I did not feel terrified that I will go over the speed limit one more time and lose my license- I have gathered too many points lately.

Finally, I have not started my big essay.

I have never been diagnosed with Bi-Polar or ADHD but there is something different from my peers in the way that I cycle in and out of huge bouts of energy and periods of depletion. My husband is similar, driving himself to the point of exhaustion and then procrastinating for months. We understand each other- but it isn’t always easy.

I first met my husband, Laurent Derioz, the only French boy in town,  at our scruffy comprehensive school in Totnes. He was walking up a footpath towards me wearing bleached double denim. HIs hair was long and blonde- we actually went to the same hairdresser. I didn’t know what to think. 

He recalls this meeting differently. He says that he thought, “There she is” and that he gave me “the look,”. I don’t remember any of that, but I do remember thinking that he thought quite a lot of himself. He was so French back then. 

Our paths wove in and out of each other since that moment. I drove with him in his mum’s 2cv to Plymouth when he was conscripted into the French army. I was one of the first people that he came to see after crossing the Swiss Alps on the run from his conscription. I still have the illicit Edelweiss he picked for me.  Later, he rode his motorbike to visit me at University. Then, as our connection weakened,  I bumped into him at illegal raves on Dartmoor. At house parties in Bristol. At a festival in London. In a cafe in Totnes. Our lives were running at different paces, in different directions for a long time. But they always  converged.

 In the dying throes of a terrible marriage,  I met him at an old friend’s wedding. I knew then that we would spend the rest of our lives together, but it took a while.

Sadly, the last of his French uncles passed away this week. Shaun, my husband’s brother arrived last night and at 4 am they drove to Bristol to catch a red eye to Toulouse. 

Of course, the dogs wanted to get up too. Too much coffee and too many episodes of Bad Sisters ( very good btw) had left me wired. I did not return to sleep until it was time to get up. 

So I didn’t.

Now, just the silence of the house is soothing me. Like all the best days at home doing nothing, it is rainy. The three of us are in the kitchen: Toots, Freddie and I. 

The kettle is on again. We will go out for a walk soon.

I know I will be able to recharge. I know that I will get my big essay done. I know that I will be back in Falmouth next week.

But just for now, I am going to do a little bit of yoga and do whatever it is I feel like doing.

I just need to put the book down for a minute: before I drive myself back upwards and onwards  through the next chapter.

For the first time in ages, I feel quietly content.