April's Fool

Malus Liset in all its glory

April has not started well. Despite the fact that it is - along with May - my favourite month.
You will have to forgive me, dear Reader, if I have a little whinge.

The north wind doth blow - even as they predicted -  and it cuts through you like the grim reaper's scythe. Moreover, it has, as expected, brought not snow, but hail which congeals in odd corners like rejected, frozen tapioca pudding.
And is just about as appealing.

That is not all.


Despite the promise of all his worldly goods, I am not at all convinced that Marie Walewska is in love with poor Napoleon. He seems pale and shell-shocked by comparison with his former self. He has lost the strut in his step since he lost his little Empress.

Marie Walewska is taking time to adjust

Despite her syrup-coloured eyes, Marie Walewska doesn't pamper him, and tell him that he's wonderful, or scold him if he leaves her side for a minute. She doesn't rush over when he triumphantly displays the smorgasbord I lay before them each morning, and pretend, as his loving wife used to do, that he has found it all by himself. She doesn't even flirt and seduce him as a mistress should. In fact, I think her chicken-heart secretly pines for Wellington and the faceless harem, even though it's dominated by girls twice her size.

 Wellington is as big as the Rock of Gibraltar, but blacker

But there is worse.
I have so far shielded you from my automotive problems, but I can do so no longer.
In these recessionary and impecunious times, the In-Charge and I share a vehicle, and I set out in this silver beast yesterday to collect my brother from the airport - dear brother of blog-repairing fame. Five miles into the return journey, the car coughed in a surprised sort of way and sighed to a halt. Twenty minutes later, during which we sat and watched the rain sweep sideways across the windscreen, it agreed to lurch another mile, and ten minutes after that it apologetically limped a final hundred yards before graciously staggering off the narrow back road onto the hardstanding outside someone's house.
Before you give the patient a round of applause, I would just like to point out that this is the third - yes, third - major breakdown of the year.

The silver beast is like some spoilt only-child.
It has  been showered with new things.
It has had all my money.
What does it want?
Blood?

Brother and I conferred by phone with the In-Charge, who instructed us to consult the manual.  Incredibly, this was to hand in the car - you see why husband is the In-Charge and I am merely the Boss!
OK, I'll be scrupulously honest here. I did not consult the manual.
Have you ever noticed that all manuals are written in Double Dutch?
Dear brother consulted the manual and even more nobly, braved the bitter wind to dirty his hands under the bonnet, but it was to no avail.
Thankfully a knight in shining armour offered to rush, ventre a terre to the scene on his trusty steed, or rather in his little red Corsa (does that make him a corsair not a knight, I wonder?) He arrived an hour or two later, bringing the In-Charge, but it was still to no avail and we all returned home in the trusty - the TRUSTY - little red car.

As the In-Charge has black fingers (the mechanic's answer to green-fingers), I know the patient is ill indeed.
It has been left, forlorn and lonely, to have a good long think about its uncalled for behaviour until tomorrow.
Heaven knows what will happen then, but I am not expecting an apology and I daresay Saturday detention will be called for. Detention until further notice, no doubt, during which the beast will sulk until we buy it an expensive new present - a fuel pump or something.
The brat.

And now it is 4am, and just when I need him most, Morpheus refuses to clasp me to his comforting bosom.
Also, although it is still pitch dark outside, there is a bird singing.
What is there to sing about, I'd like to know?

April has not started well.
Despite the blossom - despite the blossom.