28/06/2008 by Brigid.

At last, at long last, John’s bike is officially, legally, French. Of course it didn’t go quite smoothly. Nothing ever does with us. John has had to pay the extra tax, and we have yet to hear anything from Triumph as to why we had to pay two lots, when both dealer and manufacturer knew the bike was to be exported. However, that aside, we paid, filled out the import certificate and presented our documents to the Sous préfecture. An hour later we were home with a new Carte Grise and a number plate.

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28/06/2008 by Brigid.

Ree is here at the moment with her son, Alex, 5 ½ months. Just for them, it seems, summer has put in an appearance. The weather is still a bit iffy, 92°F one day and thunder the next, but today the sun is shining and all is well in the state of Denmark. Well, we hope all is well in the state of Denmark, as that is where Alex’s dad is at the moment. Wonderful, wonderful, Copenhagen, to be precise.

The team is out at the moment. Hans and Flick were going to throw out a very handsome wrought-iron rose arch, before Bill suggested that it might be the very thing to tame the Bonrepos wilderness. So, sight unseen, our heros have hitched up the trailer to help fetch it. I forget whether John mentioned that it is 3m tall …

I, meanwhile, am sitting at home nursing a filthy cold. It came on suddenly yesterday morning and, since I feel like sh*t anyway, I have voluntarily quarantined myself in the second floor flat – well away from baby Alex. At least I have the cats for company.

Earlier in the week, while trying to prise him out from under Ree’s bed, John noticed that Foggy seemed to be hurt. We gave him a bit of a prod and poke to try and identify the problem, and found an odd sort of bulge in the vicinity of his lower ribcage. Definitely bone, and definitely out of place!

A vet visit confirmed that Foggy had, in fact, broken a rib. Goodness knows when and goodness knows how. Anyway, he was now a very sore boy, and had a mild temperature. The vet prescribed painkillers and an antibiotic and told me to try and keep him quiet. Unfortunately, I don’t speak “cat”, so this last piece of advice was a little hard to explain. Once on the painkillers, Foggy resumed normal activities: rampaging round the house, play-fighting with his brother, and jumping for flies.

By lunchtime the following day, he was done in. I suggested cage rest, but the vet decided that would only make him depressed. Instead, Foggy, Tig and I are all now confined to our second-floor sick bay – and, with the exception of Tig, feeling rather better for it.

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