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Between Here and There.

There is a moment in any journey when you are poised, exactly between the place you left and the place you are going. This is not a halfway point. It is your state of mind on the road.

I am immersed in bathroom building, literally. French plumbing has evolved to the point of lunacy, tube sizes are 22,18,16,14,12,10 and possibly 8mm, outside diameter, they also give the internal diameter, or not, or a variety of either. There are many types of fittings, olive joints, flat screw together joints, soldered joints, and a tool for expanding pipes to join them together. One joint will not naturally fit with another. Adaptors are random and may not make the leap between sizes or joint types, meaning extra adaptors to make the crossovers. With the price of copper as it is, nothing is taken out that can be used. I hate it. It leaks, it’s complicated, and its takes time to find a merchant who has what you want, because they seem to have some sort of trade agreement precluding one shop from having everything you need. And I haven’t even started the tiling yet. I have rebuilt the walls, and am starting on the floor. I hope the leaks are really gone, they can’t be seen now, so at least I have a weeks grace before the water gets through the floor!

Pipes and stuff

Pipes and stuff, nearly ready to be hidden.

Hidden

Hidden

All this leads to where we are going with this post. I am at the point in this particular journey where, it seems that lots of time has been spent, along with a reasonable amount of money. To reach a place we started from nearly three weeks ago. Isn’t that just how it works, in life, writing, and building, it is all the stuff you don’t see. The preparation, the learning how, the rewriting, (and hiding the evidence) that makes it work in the end.


The weather all over the UK has been terrible, rain crashing in. Makes me glad that I’m in France, we enjoyed a meal on the terrace with friends last night. Then sat out watching the stars, chatting and relaxing with a glass of wine into the evening. So this poem is for friends in England being swept away.

River.

Sometimes there is just too much
and the water can no longer be held back.
It spreads further than intended,
into fields and woods once thought safe.
We look on, but the banks have burst,
washing through the carefully ploughed fields,
carrying so much good soil away.


Happy travelling.

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