I read the blog of a Yorkshire lady who lives in Belgium (score 2 coolness points right there) who has:
- hens in the back yard (including one hen named Hillary who should have been named Hendini for her escape artistry),
- une ouipette (which is, in essence, a greyhound for people who can’t for whatever reason have a full-size one),
- teenaged sons (which entitles her to combat pay),
- pet tortoises* which go into hibernation in the winter, at which point she puts them in the vegetable crisper in her refrigerator for the duration — evidently, this is just hunky-dory with all concerned, including les tortues, and a big surprise to anyone else who happens to open that crisper drawer looking for salad greens.
I’m pretty sure that in Belgium they speak a reasonable facsimile of French but, apparently, she lives in the part where it behooves one also to learn Dutch, which she is doing.
All of the above puts my life into perspective right smartly, I can tell you . . . I used to know where the pen of my aunt was, but I have forgotten . . . I thpoke the pretty Thpanish, too, onth upon a time . . . ¡Ay, chihuahua! Quelle desuetude!