Another way to get pregnant?

I laughed out loud this morning and it felt good. Silliness really, political incorrectness even, but it helped shape the start of my day.

"Apparently, in some place around the world, girls are being told that swimming in public pools can make them pregnant."

Listening to the car radio and concentrating on the twists and turns of the road, I grimaced and prepared to do an indignant head shake and cautious eye-ball roll, at what I imagined to be the forthcoming deformed ideas of a chauvinistic and repressive regime.

"Yeah, you know the red line that chases the Olympic swimmers during the televised events," a listener called in with his quip, "if it catches them, then they're pregnant."

My own red-line-pregnancy-test moments swam before me. I guffawed. Not even apologetically. I love clever people and I love clever, funny people even more.

So, with my day having started well, I expected it to continue in the same vein. Jobs, work, exercise all done, it was time for my warm shower reward. When the bucket catching water for the spring beans was full, the time was right. I committed. This was not a toe-testing timid trial, I was in and under completely.

"Mmm, nice and war...freezing!" There were only two of us at home, both supposed to be working. Why did he choose this moment to wash out the coffee pot (or so I discovered when I emerged with my shower story some minutes later)?

The up, the down. Life ... and only a very tenuous link with my French-themed blog today. The best that I can come up with is that we live by a lake in France and this is a story based around water.

Good enough? I hope so.

'But you are in France, Madame' available for purchase here

The power of the word

Early days in France. Bakeries were so tempting.

A flooded home during a bushfire crisis? Should this have been the hint that 2020 was not going to go to plan?

Rarely is there no-one in my sister's home. Hers is a busy place, with four children, partners, grandchildren and friends all happily bumping into each other regularly, randomly. For the hose under her bathroom sink to burst was in itself rather extraordinary. Don't these events occur every twenty or so years, if ever? For it to do so when all were out, preparing to hold hands and sing Auld Lang Syne was a wee bit mischievous. This; however, was not the adjective that my sister used when, flush with the peace of a day - and night - away, she opened her front door and sloshed through ankle deep water. No slow leak here, this show-stopping soak had pulled out all the plugs at its own private New Year's party.

For those of you who read my blog, you'll know that my last post was a bit impetuous, a lot angry. I wrote, and it helped, but I resisted multiple attempts from the outside world to talk in person, including from my family. I just wasn't ready. A few days ago, months after the bushfire flood event, my sister was finally able to unpack some of her salvaged items. My book was amongst the pile and, before placing it back on to the bookshelf, she paused to flick through the pages.

Grey skies

"Helloo..."

My phone screen lit up. I picked up and answered, "I was just thinking of you. Thanks for your messages. Are you free to chat?"

"Yes!!"

It was affirming, reassuring, nice to talk, plus she told me a story. That of my book on her bookshelf.

"You know the section where you were diagnosed ... and you mention that one of your stubborn sisters Skyped you every day even though you refused to look at her and pointed the computer screen at your couch instead?"

"Yes."

"Well, I know that that wasn't me that you were talking about. But, having re-read that, I knew what I had to do. I had to keep sending you messages. I just had to keep trying."

Blue skies ahead

Again, thank you everyone who took the time to contact me after my outbursts here and on Instagram. I didn't always get it right. In fact, without thinking I chose my words badly on one occasion and unthinkingly caused some pain.

It made me reflective. Words are powerful, but bring responsibility.