Imbecillity

I took a visitor down to Blagnac. The timing coincided with the morning rush hour and was further complicated by the President flying in to Toulouse and I was told that security might close off chunks of the airport and motorways. In the event we missed him and the trip only took 20 minutes more than usual.
We have a large population of collared doves; a few are half tame and beg on the bird table. Alas! I was told that their call sounds like ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ And I can’t unhear it. So this place now shouts its ignorance much of the day. It’s quite appropriate, I suppose.
The village lives in hope that the nasty grandson opposite us will win the Darwin Award some year – sooner rather than later. When working on his roof he erects his ladder thus and the bottom could easily be knocked since the blocks rest on a public road. I had considered it a myth that he punctures tyres if one parked in the square too near his house, but the oil delivery lorry came and we had to move the cars to give it room. And lo! A tyre was punctured. Of course there is no proof but I have been told that he would certainly have been to blame. I had it drummed into me by my lawyer father that one should never, ever have a serious dispute with a neighbour as nobody can win but, if I could think of some revenge that would not escalate the matter, I would be tempted to employ it even though the key to contented living here is not to obsess over his malign imbecility.

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