The Garden is tidied

A few months ago Whale received a letter from  the French  government stating that as he is handicapped he would receive 200 euros worth of  ’cheques emploi  services’  to employ additional help.

This sounded like wonderful news  but when they arrived they bore no ressemblance to the normal  ‘cheques emploi service’ which are used to pay legally for any work done by someone not employed by a business.

After asking one or two French people if they could make sense of the directions on how to to use them I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t being totally thick and, maybe, the government wanted to put people off using their gift. Which, naturally, made me even more determined to find out how the system worked. 

So I asked at the Mairie  and a very friendly member of the council came round and studied the instructions. She scratched her head, read through the notes again and then decided to phone  for assistance.

After a long conversation she told me that my ‘employee’ must sign up with cheques emploi service and  then the ‘borderaux’ (slips which enable you to cash the cheques) woud be sent directly to him or her.

After asking around I found Thierry, who was willing to do 20 hours of gardening in return for this strange method of payment -but he didn’t know what to do either.

He said his aunt had used them so he took all the papers with him last weekend to ask her. It seemed you had to do it online, she said and she wrote down a list of instructions which he brought with him on Tuesday.

Going online resulted in me signing up to fill in the monthly forms by internet – something I’ve resisted doing up till now  but will have to get to grips with it  at last.

When it came to Thierry’s part it clearly stated that he culdn’t sign in without a valid email address. Thierry doesn’t even have a computer so we were back t square one.

“I’ll send the form by post” he finally decided.

I hope we do get this sorted because he’s already done a good few hours and here are the results so far:                                                                          

The vegetable patch has been dug over and sown with mustard seed. Apparently if you dig in the mustard before the Spring it will fertilise the soil and help prevent the weeds from growing. The ‘bush’  in the far corner is horseradish and you may just be able to make out one lone sweetcorn just in front of it. I used two packets of seeds and  of the 3 (yes THREE)  that germinated this is the only one that has survived. I’m thinking of preservng it somehow!

The hedges that our friend planted last year had been sadly neglected but Thierry cleared away the grass and weeds and put cocoa  shells down to keep it tidy, and hopefully weedfree.

These cocoa shells smell strongly of chocolate and CC and I used them in the bed by the garden shed where the weeds come through from next door.

 

Yummy, they made our mouths water but there was no chocolate in the house to eat.

 

There’s a buddleia and two other shrubs planted in the earth and we’ve part buried some boxes to grow herbs . The plastic sheets are meant to stop some of the weeds from invading and the hosepipe takes well-water up to the vegetable garden.

In addition Thierry has weeded the borders by the path and planted some pansies to fill the gaps where the perennials have died.

There isn’t much colour left but here is the last rose of Summer, looking a bit of a sorry sight.

Next stage is to tackle the front of the house.

Le Bois de la Rosiere

Every September since we’ve lived here we’ve read the invitation to the ceremony at Le Bois de la Rosiere  but we’ve never been able to go to it until today.

We thought it would be a similar occasion to the ceremonies marking the end of the war but we were  wrong.

It started off in the same way. We met up with some neighbours half way down to hill to the church  and they said they were waiting for the procession to the cemetary to pass to save walking down and then up again. More people came and parked their cars along the road. We thought it was strange because they didn’t live that far away.

Eventually the band struck up and led a large number of people up the hill. There were eight flag bearers, about twenty children skipping and laughing and then a more serious group of adults including soldiers and police. We joined in and followed to the cemetary where a drummer and trumpeter from the band played during a short ceremony at the tomb.

The  we all followed the same music back down the hill. people started getting into cars.

“Do you need a lift?” Mary-Paule asked .

“Why, where are we going? I thought the memorial was in Rue du Bois de la Rosiere.”

“Oh no, it’s too far to walk.” insisted Mary-Paule.

We got into her car and drove out of the village and along the bypass. The gendarmes were on hand to stop the traffic while everyone turned left. Parking was haphazard and very tight as a large number of cars squashed into a farm. Then there was a long wait for the Prefet (or his deputy) who always arrived late.

During this pause Mary-Paule told us the history. It seems that eleven prisoners who were being held in Charleville prison for being members of the Resistance  were taken out near the end of the war and, instead of being released as they had expected, they were taken to the woods and shot.

One young man was still alive when the villagers came to remove the bodies but he died soon afterwards. Among the victims were the parents of a teenage girl, who had also been in jail. She is now a little old lady in a wheel chair and she comes every year to pay homage. Another silver-haired lady was pointed out to us. One of the young men who was murdered was her fiancé. She eventually married someone else but she always comes back to remember him.

The Prefet’s representative finally turned up in her chauffeur driven car and more time passed as she chatted to our Mayor while the band shuffled in position ready for the off.

 

Finally we all set off (with the band playing the same old tune) along a  winding path towards the memorial at the place where they were killed. Here there was a laying of wreaths, the band played the Marseillaise and then the children sang it (unaccompanied). The Mayor gave a speech that no-one could hear because the microphone didn’t work, the band played a slow dirge which was badly out of tune, and then we made our way back towards the parked cars, following the same march at a lively pace.

 

 

The morning ended with a Vin d’Honneur at the Salle de Fete  accompanied by pizza and quiche.

To mark the sixty-fifth anniversary of this event, the two ladies who survived the tragedy were presented with medals and flowers.

!t is surprising that it has taken us seven years to discover this sad story and to take part in the simple but moving ceremony of remembrance.

The lighter side of the holiday

Looking on the bright side, this last weekend did bring home to Bear the fact that, with the best will in the world, we couldn’t possibly undertake the longer holiday he has been hoping for.

It was fine while we went around with our friends in their car but they had to leave early on Sunday and that left us with the rest of the day to kill in Calais until our train to Lille  in the  afternoon.

We walked along the sea front taking frequent breaks on the wooden seats to stare across the sea at England as it was a very clear day and to watch the ferries as they came and went. Our brief walk along the sand on Saturday had done Bear’s knee more harm than good so we didn’t dare go on the beach and the town centre was much too far.

We passed the  time until midday and then went to the hotel for lunch. Even though we tried to make it a leisurely meal we had finished before two o’clock and asked the receptionist if he could order us a taxi for about three. Then we waited in the small lounge area beside the dining room until the cab turned up.

We arrived at the station with loads of time to spare and so sat around again until the train came in. It was a scrappy old model with torn, uncomfortable seats and filthy windows but we were able to find a couple of places where you could just about see through the glass.

We weren’t expecting it to be crowded but quite a few people boarded before we set off. Strangely enough it stopped at many of  the little stations we had passed through on the way there and more and more youngsters got on, two of whom played very loud music.

“Must be time for the University to go back”  we thought, but when we arrived in Lille we found that it was the annual ‘braderie’ in celebration of the beginning of the mussel season. The station was packed and the town was heaving with bodies, stalls selling all sorts of rubbish and heaps and heaps of mussel shells. There were skips overflowing and mounds of them on all the street corners and every eating place was advertising “moules frites ” .

We had been told that the hotel we had booked was 200 metres from the station so we asked directions from one of the many policemen. He told us which exit to take and said it was beside ‘Flunch’  so we managed to push our way through the crowd until we found it.

We decided not to risk going out to eat but dinner at the hotel was disappointing. We tried their speciality of  ’poulet au maroille’ – chicken with the local cheese. It was tasty but not very hot when it was served. Dessert was a rather tired apple tart for  Bear and a meringue and ice-cream concoction in a plastic container for me. The wine was served in a litre carafe and we were informed that they measured it after the meal and only charged for what we had drunk. Coffee arrived thirty seconds after dessert so it was a bit tepid by the time we were ready to drink it. This third rate repast cost over 60 euros!

What is it about the typical English  tourist that makes us accept these things without complaining. One of my excuses is that I don’t trust my French to be able to express my complaint in a suitably strong but polite manner, but I have to admit I would probably chicken out in English as well, unless I was feeling particularly stroppy.

 The streets had been cleaned up pretty well and were fairly empty when we ventured out just after 10.30 next morning.  Bear wanted to photograph the organs in the Cathedral and Church of St Meurice so we made our way in a stop-start  fashion to the latter and after helping Bear to negotiate the steps I sat down on a hard chair while he fiddled with the camera. Organ-hunting used to be quite a pleasure in the days when I was  enamoured but I have to admit I find it terribly boring now.

With St Meurice done and dusted he made noises about finding the Cathedral. But it was twenty to twelve and they’d be locking the doors at noon so it wasn’t worth it but we proceeded slowly in the right direction until Bear was near to collapse  and, luckily, came upon a small café.

We sat down gratefully at the nearest table in the shade of a tree but after the young lady had taken our order it became very noticeable that the local dogs had watered the tree copiously.

“It stinks of dog pee” I complained but Bear was not too keen on getting up and moving to another table. However, after a few minutes, the whiff penetrated his nostrils as well and we moved away.  Lunch was a light meal of quiche and salad for Bear and tuna salad for me before we set off for the cathedral.

It was still closed when we found it but there was a garden with seats where some of the locals were having their lunch break. We struggled towards an empty bench and Bear almost fell onto it. With more time to kill I began to regret not bringing my book with me. We sat in silence  and I found myself wishing I was at home.

Eventually the doors were unlocked and we went in. A beggar at the door waved a plastic cup under my nose asking for money. I told him I hadn’t any change – which was quite true;  in fact my purse was completely devoid of any money at all – but he followed us into the church and tried again a few minutes later. Fortunately he had gone by the time we  we ready to leave.

Several coffee stops later we decided to collect our case from the hotel and make for the station. We might as well kill time there as anywhere.  We found seats in yet another coffee shop and I left Bear there while I went to look for the toilets, clutching the handful of coins he had given me.

The signs seemed to lead nowhere so I had to ask a chap in SNCF uniform who informed me I had to go down the escalator and turn right, down some more steps. Sure enough there was the unisex loo with a stern looking attendant at the door.

“How much is it?” I asked her.

“Fifty”

I counted the coins Bear had given me: it came to 42.

“That’s all he gave me” I pleaded

“Well you’ll have to go and find some more” was the response.

Thank heavens I wasn’t in ‘desperate mode’. Back up the escalator I went and asked Bear if he had another 8 centimes.

A few minutes later I was back at the toilet with a 5 euro note.

The attendant grinned broadly and handed me the change.

We left the coffee bar and found a seat facing the departures board. Time passes very slowly when you’re bored and the seats are hard but at long last the platform number came up and we were able to make our way to the train.

Thank goodness it was a modern, comfortable train and we found a group of five seats where we could keep the case with us, and hopefully, not have anyone in the seats opposite. As it happened a lady did have to squeeze in until the first stop but after that the train was practically empty.

During the last part of our journey I broached the subject of Bear’s  difficulty with walking and the fact that a longer holiday wandering about all day without a base just wouldn’t be practical.

Much to  my relief he agreed. Our anniversary trip will be reduced to 48 hours.

A Short Holiday

Some friends of ours were coming to Calais to shop. They only had three days – not long enough to come and see us so Bear and I took the train to Calais last Friday.

It was grey and miserable when we left but by the time we reached Valencienne the sun peeped out from behind the clouds and it stopped drizzling.

By the time we changed trains at Lille it was warm with blue sky and sunshine and at Calais, despite the strong breeze, it was like a real Summer’s day.

Our friends met us at the station and whisked us off to the hotel to check in before going to Auchan. We left them poring over the goodies and went for a coffee and snack  as we hadn’t had lunch and Bear has to eat regularly now he is on insulin.

He chose a ham and cheese sandwich which turned out to be a whole baguette while I had a rather disappointing Croque Monsieur – the bread wasn’t toasted so it was soggy – but it prevented us from fainting with hunger.

Our weekend was spent visiting Cap Gris Nez and Cap Blanc Nez, from where we could see England very clearly, watching out friends shopping, sitting on the beach (!) and eating.

During Saturday evening dinner Bear started complaining that I was less than enthusiastic about our forthcoing anniversary. We have often ‘laundered our dirty washing’ with these close friends but my heart sank when I forsaw it all coming out again. They’ve heard it all before and are careful not to take sides.

But this time, when he was bemoaning the fact that I didn’t love him any more (to get sympathy), while he loved me ‘as much as ever’ I’m afraid I had to get involved.

“Didn’t you realise how much I loved you? Didn’t you know how much you hurt me in the past? What did you think when I told you you were killing off my love for you by the treating me as you did?”

His response was a classic:  “I didn’t believe you”

Our friends were flabberghasted – and so was I: I’d  never heard that one before, but it was enough to lose him any sympathy instantly.

He realised this and shut up. Our friends decided it was time to retire and we went to our rooms. Nothing more was said but I couldn’t get to sleep for ages going over the past and getting nowhere.

Wedding Anniversary

Today is LOM s seventeenth wedding anniversary and reading about it made me think about the looming 25th anniversry for Bear and me.

It’s wonderful to hear that for LOM and her husband the second time round  is a success. Also Pat and her True Love had to wait many years for their happy reunion.

But if you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time you’ll realise that not all second marriages are bliss – not by any means . . . .

It’s true, if I’d  listened to my head, and my mother, I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it but, at the time, we had been living together for nearly a year, and the thought of a ’split’ was just too bleak to handle. It was not long after Bear’s divorce was finalised in 1984 that he announced casually that if there wasn’t anything ‘on’ for 13th October  we could get married because he had booked the Registry Office.

I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or worried by the lack of ‘romance’. I was due to play at concert given by the choir I accompanied in the evening – but that didn’t seem to make any difference. Any celebration would be well and truly over by then and there certainly wouldn’t be a honeymoon: it was school as usual on Monday. I should have taken the warning when, a week before the ‘big day’ I told Bear I was feeling a bit ‘unsure’ – ‘uncertain’  – hoping for  some reassurance – but he snapped back with something like “Well, if you don’t want to get married you know what you can do, don’t you.”

The wedding was a very low-key affair – my sister and Bear’s brother were to be witnesses,  my daughter came but my son didn’t want to –  and just a few close friends  made the total party about a dozen. Bear had bought sandwiches and nibbles from the local pub and we all went back to his old house (he had bought his first wife’s share) which was to be our ‘home.’  But it didn’t feel remotely like a home to me. He  deliberately avoided putting beds in the children’s rooms for well over a month so they had to stay with their dad (Whale) and when they did move in they were made to feel most unwelcome.

However, the very worst thing about my wedding day, the thing that made me realise I’d made an enormous mistake was when my daughter, who had accompanied me to the Register office, tried to get into the back seat of the car that Bear and I were in.

“Your mum belongs to me now”. he snarled, “You’ll have to go back with someone else.”

I took her to our friends car saying they’d need someone to show them the house, but inwardly I was devastated and I’ve not been able to talk about that incident  with my daughter either.

To say the last 25 years have all been bad would certainly not be true – but I can’t honestly say it’s been a ‘marriage made in heaven’.

Neither would it be fair to lay the blame entirely at Bear’s door. I should have realised and accepted that he was jealous of my children and that he couldn’t be happy sharing my love.

He claims that he “still loves me as much as ever despite the fact that I’m not the girl I used to be”   – and he wants to go away for a holiday to celebrate our Silver Wedding.

Unfortuately I can’t summon up any enthusiasm .

Is the World going mad – or am I?

It was LOM who published a video about the coming of Nibiru (planet X) recently and it seems that more and more people are reading about 2012 predictions and various conspiracy theories but dismissing them immediately.

So, am I insane  to look more carefully and try to fathom what’s going on?

This video  is by an Argentinian who claims that the ‘Powers that Be’ – in other words a group of  mega-rich people – are looking out for themselves at the expense of ‘ordinary mortals’, who, in their eyes, are useless and expendable.

His claims relate to Argentina and how people obsessed with money and power have stripped the country of its democracy and the people of their rights and even their liberty.

 

Think about it – couldn’t that apply to other countries – to the UK for example? How could any government worth its salt have  failed to see a financial crisis looming? Were they really taken by surprise when the banks collapsed – or did they know about it – or even plan it . . . . .?

Then there’s their response;  to borrow yet more billions to solve the problem of  debt from too much borrowing. Isn’t  that madness? Then they give billions in taxpayers money to bail out these greedy bankers so that they can lend to small businesses to get the economy going again – but the banks hang on to OUR money and refuse to lend!

Do you believe them when they try to tell us the recession is nearly over when, at the same time, experts are saying it’s a much deeper depression than at first feared  and will take years  before we see signs of recovery. In fact, our descendents are lumbered with a huge debt thanks to the government’s ’solution.’

Then consider the  reaction to ‘Swine Flu’ . It would appear that this ‘flu is no worse than normal seasonal flu and it has not spread as fast as was predicted. Yet pharmaceutical companies are working full out to produce a vaccine which is to be issued untried and untested on we poor unsuspecting souls.

Did you know that these same companies are immune from any claims for damages due to death or disability caused by their vaccine? If the results of being vaccinated are likely to cause worse problems than the flu itself why is the government planning to push for everyone to be injected with a substance containing lethal ingredients like mercury – squalene etc. Don’t take my word for it – look it up on the net.

So can you see why I’m puzzled that so many of my friends and family seem willing to accept all this as ‘normal’ when, to me, it looks decidedly fishy – to put it mildly?

Makeover

Sometime ago  I may have mentioned that  CC, Jay and I were planning to continue redecorating downstairs to remove all the wallpaper (badly scratched by the cats) and paint the walls instead.

The job was started  well over a year ago when my brother-in-law replaced the dark purple walls in the living room with nice fresh off white paint, and then continued by Pascal who took over a month to redo our bedroom, despite the fact that we had stripped the wallpaper ourselves!

The children first tackled Whale’s room and then, as there was plenty of paint over we carried on with the dining area. the breakfast bar had to be removed and we put it back along the wall instead of sticking out into the room. It will take a bit of getting used to but I think I prefer it. What do you think?

 

It makes the kitchen-diner look much more open but you have to walk a long way to the worktop and it’s a bit high for making pastry.

 

There was still a good supply of paint left so we moved on to the library where the cats had scratched the paper off in the places where there were no bookcases.  

 

It’s not very noticeable in this picture, but, believe me there were bare patches either side of the window and behind the table and armchair.

Also, you may find it hard to see that the wallpaper was  green.

 

Anyway, the room is now much lighter  and fresher. We have painted the window ledges with white gloss paint which we had to buy in England as it’s banned here!

 

Let’s hope it’s claw proof!

 

 

By the way, in case you’re wondering,  Bear is still being good . . . . . .

Bear comes home

We were planning a ‘last celebratory meal’ on Tuesday evening but while Jay was out shopping for the wherewithall to make one of his delicious vegetable lasagnes the phone rang.

It was Bear with the news that they were  letting him out that same afternoon. The atmophere  deflated immediately: the holiday was over.

I collected him  at three and the nurse gave us a whole pile of letters, prescriptions and further appointments before seeing us off. He seemed almost sad to be going as it had been quite a novelty for them to have an Englishman in their care and he had behaved with charm and good humour – for a whole week!!!!

Since  coming home it has to be said that  he has been very good, apart from last night when he refused to wait for the nurse to oversee his insulin injection and did it himself. CC and I have tried to carry on with the type of menus he had in hospital and we have insisted that we eat ‘en famille’  at the table for every meal.  So far he hasn’t objected.

He is eating foods he  has previously refused to try, like yoghurt and fromage frais,  and doesn’t moan when he is offered salad and vegetables. He even said he liked  the cabbage and bacon soup I made.

However, he seems to have aged and is visibly slowing down – perhaps due to a week of inactivity – so it seems more than ever like looking after two elderly invalids. On top of that I’m looking after my neighbour’s  house, dog, fish and budgies this week.

That’s why I’ve only just got around to posting.

Whale misses Bear

It’s strange that although they dislike one another, Whale has been eager for news of  Bear  and keeps asking how he’s getting on.

When Whale was in hospital Bear wasn’t remotely interested in his progress except to moan when he was due home.

Whale even said he kept expecting Bear to appear in the  mornings with his customary grunt of   “   ‘morning”  before burying himself in a book or turning on the TV.

However, he is enjoying the freedom as much of the rest of us.

The downside is that his own little idiosyncracies can be more noticeable.

For example; he has his teamaking tray on a table in his bedroom, but while I was making mirabelle jam this morning there was a frantic cry;

“The wire on the kettle has been made shorter! I can’t plug it in.”

“I think you’ll find the table has been moved.”

 

I ask you. This is a man who has a Ph.D but was obviously at the back of  the queue when commonsense was given out.

Bear goes into hospital

Bear has not been careful with his diet for a long time. He refuses to eat many of the meals we make because they include salad or vegetables and so I often have to make him something separate that he  does like – and it’s usually very high in carbohydrate.

It’s not surprising, therefore, that his diabetes is not well stabilised. The medication he takes is very bad for his kidneys so the doctor decided he must spend a few days in hospital for tests and to be put on insulin.

His appointment to present himself in ‘diabetologie’ was three 0′clock on Tuesday. Despite being very worried and having an attack of the runs he insisted on going for  lunch at the local hotel on Monday and Tuesday – the condemned man’s last meals – as he put it.

When you are admitted to hospital you have to report to the ‘Bureau d’admissions’  to present your Carte Vitale and insurance cover before going to the ward. When the paperwork was completed I asked the young lady how to find the diabetic department. She didn’t know and said we’d have to ask the man at the information desk.

There was no-one at the desk so Bear waited with his suitcase while I went to look for someone to ask. I was just being given very vague directions when the chap on the desk turned up so I hurried back but didn’t make it quickly enough to beat another couple.

He dealt with their enquiry and then asked what we wanted.

“Diabetologie?” he pursed his lips. “That’s a long way  – in the old hospital – and it’s not easy to find.” He paused to see what the other people waiting wanted. It was something quick so he said he’d be back to show us the way.

The suitcase was heavy so, much to Bear’s annoyance, I borrowed a wheelchair and made him sit in it with the case on his lap. We followed the man down the corridor  to the old building. Then it was down one floor in the lift and into the bowels of the hospital  – a dark corridor festooned with pipes  of various sizes.

Then  he turned left and we came to a door which, surprisingly led outside into the sunshine, across a coutyard and into the department we were looking for. I couldn’t help wondering if I’d be able to find the way out, but, looking backwards from time to time I had seen ’sortie’ signs.

We were greeted by a very pleasant young nurse who told us the room wasn’t ready yet and we’d have to wait. There was no waiting room as such, just an area with a few chairs at one end of the corridor.

Eventually we were taken to Chambre 8, a single room (thank goodness) small but bright and airy, containing an electric bed with pristine white sheets, a bedside table with telephone, a small but highly polished wardrobe, a television, an armchair on wheels, a table and two ordinary chairs. The ‘en suite’ contained a toilet and washbasin and we were told there was a  shower further down the corridor.

They gave us a few minutes to unpack and settle in and then it was a nonstop succession of people – the nurse filling in more paperwork;  forms to sign for ‘next of kin’, glasses, dentures etc. and also a very important one to keep in the single room. She told us that meals are served in the diningroom, breakfast at 8, lunch round about  12.15 and dinner at 7. Then there’s ‘gouter’  about 4 o’clock when they wheel in a trolley with hot water and coffee powder and people help themselves.

Then came the dietician, a tall chap with glasses, who seemed a bit stiff and formal at first but was, actually, very friendly. First  he wanted to ascertain Bear’s eating habits at home but, amazingly, didn’t seem at all concerned about the bad diet. Then he wanted to make a note of his likes and dislikes for the hospital meals.  It looks as though Bear will be catered for quite well because they will let him have potatoes instead of pasta or rice – but he will have to compromise and try to eat more vegetables and salads –  and soup every evening!  Desserts often include yoghurt or fromage frais but he can have a sugarfree  fruit compote.

The nurse came back to take his bloodpressure, temperature and bloodsugar reading and then we saw a young intern who went through his medical history and gave him a thorough examination including an ECG. She discovered a lack of sensation in his feet and said that some of the pain he has may be due to his diabetes.

The nurse came back in to look at Bear’s blood meter and check his sugar levels again as the first reading had been high. This tme it was better. I asked her when the admissions office closed as I wanted to arrange a telephone for him.

“Oh dear, it’s too late” she said. “but if you leave some money in an envelope I’ll get someone to do it for him in the morning.”

That was a relief because he wouldn’t have to wait until my next visit. To have your own private line you have to take the form given by the ward down to the admissions office and pay a minimum of 3 euros to be connected. Unused money is not refunded so it’s better not to pay too much as you can always top it up. Bear decided to start with 10 euros, and he phoned me at 9.30 next day to say they had kindly organised it for him and to let me have his number.

The television is rather expensive – 4 euros a day – but he has decided to have it. He can watch some programmes with subtitles when he gets fed up with reading.

So far, I think the experience is much better than he had feared and he seems quite cheerful.

As for the rest of us, we are taking advantage of his absence to enjoy family meals at the table accompanied by music instead of the telly and a lovely relaxed atmosphere. . . . . . . .