The Rain it raineth every day

I am seriously of the opinion that if it continues to rain with such insistence, we may well have to move to the upper storeys of the house and live on the family emergency supply of biscuits! The roses are rotting on their bushes and the wonderful crop of raspberries we had are all mildewed, and yet still it rains! I am quite aghast at the weather it is so unseasonal, I am certain even the chickens are developing webbed feet, but since it rained on the fete to St Barnaby what can one expect ?

Meanwhile Youngest has decided, bearing in mind the intemperate conditions, that he will build a boat, in case it is necessary to send Madame Grognonne out to the village in a rowing boat to retrieve provisions, and has abandoned his aeroplane altogether . Happily this new project does not appear, as yet, to require the use of any more of my art materials; however, I suspect it may be wise to lock away the best table linen should he think of incorporating it in his craft. I imagine, had the French Nuns who lovingly embroidered all our sheets and tablecloths known they were to used as sails one day, they may have incorporated nautical themes.

He has already cannibalized some old cider barrels from the barns and with the help of Loic and Jacques, both of whom have now almost completely recovered from their illnesses, (although to be fair Loic is still having trouble with rust in his knee joints) has attached them to some long abandoned oxen yokes and a disused table from the potting shed to form quite a respectable raft.

The plan is that, should the worst come to the worst, they shall install Loic’s gardening tent on top for protection and paddle down the lane to the village for help, using a broom handle to punt with. Not wishing to stifle youngest ingenuity, I have not enquired how they intend to make the return journey as it is, for at least part of the way, uphill.

Chief Patissier is quite put out by it all and has taken to sitting in my studio staring silently out of the windows, wearing a glum expression and nursing a glass of Cognac to keep his spirits up. His brooding presence is doing nothing for my creativity, although perhaps, should it continue to rain, I may immortalize him as Noah watching for his lost dove.

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The painting today is entitled Paris Street: Rainy Day, by the French artist Gustavo Caillebotte. Dare I say that, although I see evidence of many umbrellas, I see no evidence of rain as such, where I to paint my own scene of rain chez nous today it would be nothing but a dull sheet of grey striations over the lurid green of the vegetation down upon which it is lashing with brutal persistence.