Teapot

I regret not being able to speak French. The idea of shutting people out, of never getting to know them because of a minor linguistic technicality is irritating to say the least. The village is a world spun from history and isolation. There is magic here, as real and potent as the shifting indigo horizons.

The work has begun and, as predicted, I am as useful as a chocolate teapot. Today we cleared the kitchen and screeded the floor with a rubbery cement substance that I couldn’t pronounce properly. I was mostly in charge of mixing said substance and we’d been going no more than ten minutes before my hand fell off and dropped into the bucket. Not literally of course.