The only topic of conversation - French or English:
"Le temps. Incroyable!".
"How are you?" "Fine except for the bloody weather!"
We've had the wood fire on in the lounge every day since we moved up from the cottage. Thank heavens we ordered that firewood last autumn - just in case. Bertie lies on the hearth rug with his nose only inches from the hot glass.
We scuttle across the cold bits of the house to the next pool of warmth: the lounge, my study, the kitchen if we've just had the oven on, Tod's room (if he gets round to lighting the gas fire).
We're reduced to tasks in and around the house - sorting paperwork, tidying the utility room and the garage. The swimming pool still languishes under its winter cover. Between showers we dash out to do more strimming and mowing - though some days the rain has been continuous, or it's just too cold to summon up the courage.
I'm still wearing my thermals (shock, horror!) and I've cut some roses and brought them indoors. It's the only way this year that I'm going to enjoy them.
We have yet to eat outside in the courtyard of our favourite crêperie.
Two years ago, we feared a drought (huh!) and spent hours watering freshly planted trees.
Three years ago, we had French lessons in the garden and cycled along the canal under the shade of the plane trees. And I photographed the roses.
It's good to have a blog and to be reminded that May can be glorious.
Excuse me - must go. There's a thin watery shaft of cold sunlight outside - time to don wellington boots and gardening jacket and strim down some more weeds. I might even manage to take the odd photo of drooping roses and post some here.