Seeking inspiration...

What am I to do with my time now that I have relinquished Art? This is the pressing question that has tormented me all morning. How is a cultured woman, such as myself, to occupy herself here, in the cultural wastelands of Brittany, bereft ,as it is, of salons and galleries, of expositions and opera and where sadly, the closest thing one is likely to find to the ballet is an impromptu drunken performance, by Madame Grognonne and my one legged gardener Loic, of a traditional Breton Gavotte, complete with wooden sabots, in the salle late a night, after an evening of ill-advised over consumption of champagne and eau de vie!

The normal diversions, of women of my class elude me. I am ill equipped to deal with the sick and elderly of the commune, not, sadly, having been blessed with a stomach for illness or the company of persons of a hygienically challenged nature. There are, I know from bitter experience, no suitable openings on committees, and now that the war is over I can not even usefully employ my talents, knitting socks and mittens for the troops! Not, of course, that I would wish the continuation of fighting in order to fulfill my urge to knit, I could after all knit Madame Grognonne a new balaclava if I felt the need!

Art was my savior from ennui but even that has failed me. I wondered if I might perhaps take to literature but frankly feel life here offers nothing of import about which to write, and yet, I must do something otherwise I shall, I fear, go mad.

Madame Grognonne, who like a true Breton Peasant, has suggested that I should consult a soothsayer for inspiration and is determined to discover for me the whereabouts of a local diviner to read my destiny.

Apparently Claude consulted one when his cow was suffering from ulcerated udders and ,taking his advice and hanging a bunch of mistletoe over the barn door for a week, the cow was miraculously cured. I did attempt to persuade Madame Grognonne that, it is quite likely that the cow would have got better without walking under mistletoe, but she was so horrified, at what she considered to be my blasphemy, that she has now placed small bowls of salt at the threshold of the house in order to ward off any bad luck I may have wrought upon us all. I have tried to point out to her that I did not require veterinary assistance, but she assured me soothsayers and diviners cover all sorts of problems from butter refusing to turn to the future of the nation. I can not help but feel that if this were so, then it might have been wise for our government to have consulted one before now over the small matter of the war with the Germans, then perhaps I might not have been reduced to running our household with a drastically reduced domestic staff consisting of a one armed one legged gardener with shell shock, a groom with an identity crisis and a drink problem and a housekeeper of dubious skill and unpredictable temper!

Ah me! If only my own problems could be resolved with the mere touch of magic under a bunch of mistletoe!

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This is a recent photograph of Claude’s cow in its pen after its miraculous cure by mistletoe. If you look closely to the right of the picture you will see Claude’s wife gesturing with a stick to indicate exactly where the mistletoe was hung as directed by the soothsayer. She is the one in the lace cap and checked shawl, the one next to the miraculously saved cow is the family goat, although at first glance it is not obvious which is which and even at close quarters it is sometimes easy, I admit, to confuse the two.