Life at № 42 by E.M. Coutinho
There was a dead pigeon in the garden yesterday. I didn’t know what to do with it. I was terribly tempted to fling it into the neighbour’s garden or onto the street- but of course I did neither. I put it in a cardboard box and waited for Mike who then put it in a plastic bag and in the trash. Eyes wide open, bloody beak. Thoroughly unpleasant experience.
And speaking of death, we have a funeral to go to tomorrow morning. I’ve managed to successfully avoid such events for most of my life (only been to 3.) I think they are, in essence, unproductive rituals. People put much energy into embracing pain and loss and I don’t see what’s gained from that. Mike and I have agreed that we don’t want any sort of funerals for ourselves. Cremation and that’s that.
In other news, it’s tax month in France. This is my first declaration here and I’m reading everything I can find to understand the system. I’ve learnt the hard way you can’t just leave it all to accountants because if they make a mistake, you’re still responsible for it. You pay the fine, not them. My method in Spain was I’d do a declaration, the accountants did theirs and then we’d go over both. I was mostly concentrating on the apartments in 2015, so there’s not much to declare anyway. Hurray!