We’re here. SummerSHINES is shining here avec ma famille dans le Toulouse! 

We left the tarmac in Manchester with high hopes, coupled with much relief on my part that I managed to navigate Terminal 3 with no panic attacks, managing to smile and remain serene and “tres normal” the whole time. 

Relief. 

I don’t have to stress about travelling with PTSD any longer, as we’re already here and unpacked πŸ™Œ

I’m sat on a part-shaded terrace in my bikini with a granny cardigan draped over me for added warmth. All I can hear is the rhythmic chirp of the crickets, beatiful  birdsong from French birds who seem to make a far nicer sound than the British ones I’m accostomed to, and the sound of a light breeze rustling through the bamboo and other shrubs in the garden, punctuated with the occasional stacatto shrieks of two children splashing and chattering in the pool.

Their teeth are chattering as much as they’re chattering in speech. The pool is FREEZING cold. I know as I tried it as soon as we arrived here! It looks much more inviting to admire the pool than the reality of being immersed in it’s icy depths…pretty much like life itself really. 

I can see rolling Southern French farmland all around me. We are surrounded, in the most beautiful of ways. 

Clouds make up 2 percent of the skyline. The rest is clear and unspoilt. I can observe an ombre effect of the lightest blue shading into the darkest, from farland horizon to 180 degrees upright.

Writing in France is different to writing at home I think, based on first impressions. I feel so relaxed already. There is nothing to do here but relax and indulge in the pleasant simplicity of outdoor living. It feels nice and novel to be both outside AND warm. Usually I have to choose one or the other! It feels so nice to be sheltered from the winds of the exposing and bone shattering North Sea. Where I live at home, I am literally cold permanently. Even Manchester yesterday seemed tropical in comparison. I wanted to get out my hula hoops and grass skirt and do a celebratory conga down Altrincham high street yesterday, but now I’m officially here in France Manchester is long forgotton.

Interlude. My hubby has just presented me with an ice cold glass of vino. Lush.

To be honest, I don’t much care how this post sounds or how well written it is. I am a blogger on holiday. Nothing else matters. I don’t even know if I’ll blog while I’m out here. I’ll see how I feel.

The stuff that bothered me at home isn’t bothering me here. Life stops between now and next Saturday. This is life, interrupted. I am etternally grateful for this scheduled interruption to normal living. 

I have left my mental health problems at Manchester airport. If anyone sees an unattended load of emotional baggage there, kindly alert security and arrange for a controlled explosion obliterating the entire contents.  That would be marvellous 😊. I’m not intending to collect this baggage next weekend you see. It isn’t mine anymore. It belongs to Manchester and all the crap that ever happened to me in the North West when I was a child growing up there. It isn’t myour property. It’s yours to deal with however you see fit 😊 

Deal πŸ’›πŸ’›πŸ’›

SummerSHINES (far brighter when she’s in a French farmhouse with pool in Toulouse) πŸ˜›πŸ˜œ X

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