A year and a day ....

A year and a day - sounds as if it might have come from a nursery tale where it marks the amount of time the beautiful princess must sleep before being awoken by a kiss from a handsome prince.  No such luck in my case.

Were Victorian customs still in observance, 365+1 days (please don't anyone complicate matters by raising the subject of leap years) represents the end of my period of "Deep Mourning".   It's hard to believe that a year has passed already and what a year it's been!  Certainly not one that I would care to repeat but definately one in which I've learned and experienced a great deal.

Were I a conventional widow I would now be permitted to loosen up a little, add touches of lavender and grey to my wardrobe and to put myself about a bit.  However as I've always been one to do my own thing I've decided to write a poem to mark the occasion amongst other things.

THE MOURNING IS OVER

 

Bugger the bombazine.

Kick-start the clock .

The mourning is over,  I'm ready to rock!

 

Change the old hair style.

Put on a short skirt.

The mourning is over,  I'm ready to flirt!

 

Get out the phonebook.

Call an old mate.

The mourning is over, let's get in a state!

 

Book an hotel room.

Pack a few things.

The mourning is over so off come the rings!

 

Take a deep breath.

Forget all past strife.

The mourning is over so on with my life!

After the haircut!

In this mood of wild, borderline rebelliousness I have also had a serious session with Lydie the coiffeuse down in St Flo, reserved a place for the annual moules and frites after the brocante tomorrow and am ready for whatever the future has in store.  Bring it on as they say just so long as it doesn't involve another visit from my old friend

- the ratcatcher.