Panic over

The early hours of Monday were a bit of a sphincter tester. With friends in the village posting facebook comments like 'anyone got Noah's phone number?', I logged in to the real time water height graphic as reported by the gizmo on the rive droite by the pont nouveau. The river started rising on Sunday afternoon, and by Monday morning it had risen by almost 4 metres. Parts of the Languedoc-Roussillon region had two months' rain in one day.

Eleven years ago, I was sitting in my flat in Munich with the telly droning away on a French channel in the background. When I heard the key word 'inondation' closely followed by 'Aude', I started to worry. None of my village contacts' phones were working, and it wasn't until the Monday that I could reach the gendarmes in Carcassonne to establish that there had indeed been flooding in the village. Well, after a fretful day or so, I booked a couple of flights and headed south. By the time I got there on the Wednesday, the neighbours, pompiers and army had swept out the worst of the mud, pumped out the cellar, and got someone in a neighbouring town to call me to tell me to contact my insurers. (For some reason, it had occurred to me a few days earlier to check when my insurance expired, and, on learning that the date was in the past, to call the agents to renew it.) That time it went over 7 metres.

Well, eleven years on, we still discover little pockets of mud here and there. Those of you who have ever been flooded will know that it isn't nice clean water that soaks your carpets and sofas, and sinks into the grout in the floor tiles. But we've got away with it this time, and if it hasn't recurred meanwhile, we might move the electronics upstairs next time we leave.

Sonst, not a bad week, so the grass is cut and patched, and I've scrounged even more from the garden of a friend who's about to move house. I'm going to try and over-winter her New Guinea busy lizzies, so that, if I succeed with cuttings, we should have young plants to put out next summer.

The washing machine arrived on Monday as promised. I was astonished that they'd sent one man on his own to deliver it, since it took us to our limits to hoist the old one in and out of the car when we took it to be recycled. But I suppose I have to recognise that he was less than half my age, fit and trained. Back in the mid-fifties, Dad asked for advice on what make of washing machine to go for. Reply from his contact in the trade was 'David: they a' wash claes.' This yin washes claes as weel.

Court Tuesday, interviewing yesterday followed by training on curfews, art this morning. I've had a final fiddle, I hope, with my two current canvases, so might slap on some varnish this afternoon so as to dissuade myself from further fiddling. And so to siesta.