Hot on the range

Big day yesterday, the range/cooker got lit for the first time! It provides us in theory with warm radiators and hot water as well as cooking facilities. It is a thing of great beauty fueled by the wood from our land and there is a lot of it, fallen or already cut by the previous occupant. It's so plentiful, I reckon it will be a while before we have to chop down any tree. The fact is the infamous Monsieur P...and his acolyte, did quite a lot of damage, stripping bare a large portion of ground. It looks awful now and I am wondering should I plant some sapplings or let the forest rejuvenate itself?
Anyway, more about the cooker, the plumber and envoy of the Gods Monsieur Ad, realized after having lit a nice big fire, that he had forgotten to fit in a thermostat- No worries back tomorrow with one. We caressed the copper pipes and radiators with parental pride, toasted some bread, delighted on just staring at the thing, and restocked the fire...and all hell broke loose!
An infernal racket ensued, a crescendo of clanging and rattling worthy of a highly qualified demoniac entity, boiling water spouting from somewhere under the roof and Himindoors deciding it's a good time to say he doesn't understand the laws of physics, pressure and steam engines and that I am not being very clear as to why we can't switch the pump off.
Himindoors is a strange being, he can make highly sophisticated musical instruments and play them like an angel but he cannot do or conceive anything slightly practical. Something no doubt,  I should have taken into consideration when he suggested over a year ago now, that we dropped out of the system as much as is possible and lived a self-sufficient lifestyle. His efforts in the creation of a composting toilets and a compost bin alone, are worthy of a separate blog. 
The two photos on the right are ample proof that there is a Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde force at work there and that the sheer mention of DIY affects his personality and looks!
I remember that in our "courting days" in the last century, I found him living in the dark in his squalid bedsit on Wellington road (best thing to do probably ) for a week, because he didn't know how to change a bulb...Nothing has changed much since. I stubornly insists that if he can make uilleann pipes he can probably hang a picture or put up a shelf, thus we live in a world of half finished, rickety constructions and I dream of a "storage system" which wouldn't be the ironing board (which also doubles or trebles as a cat's bed ...not good for black clothing as both feline occupiers are cream coloured).   
Taking anything from the metal shelves in" the pantry" has to be done with as much care as if handling nitroglycerin or else the whole construction slides to the left before collapsing on itself, an experience Monsieur Ad is familiar with, he suggested that Himindoors should be bolting the whole thing to the wall ...that was a month ago...
Anyway .... maybe...today...the elusive multi-talented Monsieur Ad, will come back with the thermostat and life will be a little less scary and maybe even warmer .

Breakfast is a time fraught with dangers

The field is silvered with dew and a white, clean light is streaming in through the french doors opaqued by grime and splashes of lime. I did wash them last week but I am fighting a losing battle against Dougal the giant Leonberger puppy and the general state of decay of the place.

Him indoors, the mystic, is doing his Kundalini yoga practice. His nights are filled with meaningful dreams and visions of Sri Yantra. Me, at best, I dream that Eric Cantona is in love with me. How spiritual is that! I have tried and will again no doubt, to do half and hour of meditation and some arcane excercise, that he swears will keep me young. Too late for that me old flower!
Breakfast since giving up coffee which was bad for Himindoors third eye, consists of chicory and some infuriating but delicious toasts briochés. Infuriating because you have to butter them with the delicate dexterity of an explosives expert or they break to smithereens and even with the softest hand, you risk ending up with a plateful of crumbs if your butter isn't at room temperature and it goes without saying, not the room temperature we have here during the winter months, which on a good day, is slightly colder than the fridge.
But this said if you have made it to the table unijured byDougal's affectionate display, you are doing very well indeed. Usually he hurls his 6o kilos at me on the stairs (which are outside with no railing or bannister) I suspect some sort of an attempted coup. He is the Tonton- macout to the cats Junta and I alone, stand between them and complete power.
It's like living with a teenage brontosaurus with attitude. His head being well above the level of the table, it takes enormous concentration to hang on to one's breakfast, any slip of attention results invariably in the gulping down of your toasts. Combine that with having to strategically reposition your cup constantly to avoid the bits of plaster that fall off the ceiling while Himindoors is pirouetting his way to Nirvana and the assault of 3 felines looking for seconds and you have an idea of how dangerous breakfast is.
I think I'll go back to bed!

Bohemian

So now that I have picked La Bohème as my blog title, where do I go?
First I have to say that I regret bitterly having very poor typing skills, a tiny keyboard and stumpy fingers, it makes blog writing a slow and awkward experience, not to mention the yankee doodle spell-check which constantly draws irate red lines under my words because I use British spelling. At the best of times, I am unsure of my spelling in English as my "français" still lurks in the background (be reassured, my spelling is equally bad in French) so I am constantly having to refer to the dictionary and I am starting to wonder if this blogging lark was a good idea in the first place?
La Bohème, not the opéra but the lifestyle...Here we go...The subject came up in the blog of an Australian artist and trying to answer her is what got me on this site in the first place. So thank you me ol'flower you know who you are!
I guess I am a Bohemian. I am excentric, reasonably creative with a lack of concern for conventions and a strong distaste for the system. I write and paint, have got too many cats, a rundown house and a talented husband much younger than me : a bit over-qualified wouldn't you say ?
I aspire to live in a yurt or a vardo screaming with colour and wear nothing but white flowing clothes, long silk scarves and heavy Berber jewellery. Yes I hear you say - probably not the most practical of attire when you live in a wagon, and you're right and maybe it' s that stubborn disregard for reality that qualifies me to belong to the tribe.
An ambiguous sexuality such as Colette's or Dali's Gala is also pre-requisite for Bohemians but it can be replaced by an all consuming monogamy which is equally disturbing for non Boh's.
A fondness for the Arcane Arts and mysticism is more authentically Boh than rationalism and atheism. But there are no rules of course, that's the rule. For me it's mostly about Creativity...that of Art but also that which imbues one's life and unites us ultimately to all creation.