Queaux

162 – Blogley in Bordeaux…almost

The book sale went well. I sold three copies. But that was before The Cement Manufacturers of Great Britain nominated me for their Annual Blog award – third category, second division.

Luckily you can still buy The Ridiculous Ramblings of a Man in France – The Book! at £3.18 by clicking on the picture to the right of this post. Of course, once I’ve won the award I’ll have to increase it to £40, so best buy now and get yourself a bargain. Plus I won’t be here for much longer. Soon it’ll be Blogley in Bordeaux and I’ll have to release another book, so you better get cracking.

Yes, in two weeks I’d be gazing out through the porthole sized window of the flat I’ve rented in the city. Downsizing from 110 acres to 26 square metres. Going from 445154 square metres to 26 square metres in the space of three hours – the time it takes to drive to Bordeaux. That’s 17,000 times smaller!

I could be in for a mental fall of gigantic proportions. But I think I’ll be alright.

I’m not bored with the countryside, far from it, but I think it’s time for a change. I need to see some right angles. The perpendicular. Data. People. The massed scrum of a supermarket or a city square on a Friday night. Events, action, noises, voices. A shift from code green to code red.

Wholesale rioting and unremitting street violence would be a welcome change to watching angry deer rip bark off tree saplings – the most violent thing I’ve seen all year. The scene of somebody getting beaten senseless might give me something more to write about other than fairytales and dandelions. As long as it’s not me of course.

It’s going to be hard and difficult moving from here I admit. But I like hard and difficult. It makes me feel that I’m living in the present rather than reminiscing over past times or worrying about the future and crippling old age. Not knowing where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing from year to year stirs the soul like nothing else.

And so Bordeaux it is. The roulette wheel turns. The dice are thrown. The stakes are made. The hands are played. Another set of clichés rolls off the Blogley tongue. And on I go.

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