MONDAY
A man is not sitting on a train, the British countryside is not flashing past his bright clear vision, his salt-and-pepper hair is not being gently ruffled by the breeze from the air-conditioning, instead, his usual calm persona is being run roughshod over by the scrum in the P&O office. Yes, he is supposed to be travelling through France on Eurostar but apparently the normal winter weather in Northern France is proving tricky, i.e. it has snowed near the coast and nothing works. P&O have been incapable of predicting that there might be a lot of people trying to use the ferry, and also incapable of keeping an electricity supply to their computers.
Nick (for it is he), decides that it is a toss-up between a heart attack and an ulcer, it is a close run thing, the coronary might get him out of the mayhem, but no nearer his destination (not that he’s going to get there) but the ulcer will fuel his ire, plus he has the chance to puke copious amounts of blood over the wastrels (multinational) who have pushed in front of him, potentially gaining him a place or two in the queue.
Eventually he arrives at the front, “Can I have a ticket to….”
“I’m sorry Sir (my capital) this is the reservations queue, I can’t sell you a ticket.”
I appeal to his common sense, perhaps he can see my sanguinary gorge rising, for (at my suggestion) he gets the bloke next door to sell me a ticket. An hour and a half later the ferry leaves and snails its way across the Channel, all hope of any sort of movement South has gone. Brother Steve books me into an hotel in Calais (when I say books, that means he makes a reservation in my name), and I sit with my fellow refugees on the boat, waiting for a coach, after Customs I will stand in the cold with my fellow refugees, waiting for a coach.
We arrive at Calais station, I stand in a queue in order to see if I can change my tickets for the next day. A miracle I have success! I also try and pick up my tickets for return, this is a bone of contention between Rail Europe and myself, I maintain that their information does not say what they say it says, they say it does. I put in the relevant details into the machine, it just stares monoptically back at me and sticks out a verbal tongue, "No record of any transactions under this name, this reference number, this bit of plastic, anyone with your stress levels, or phenotype, now bugger off and bother one of the TEN machines!" Oh good!
Now all I have to do is find my hotel. I ask Dominique for Boulevard Jaquard, she is unsure but after consultation points me down the main drag, I discover that this is, in fact, Blvd Jaquard and that the big red “Hotel” sign that I’m standing underneath is my hotel. After an incomprehensible chat about breakfast, and five fruitless minutes of cursing as my card fails to open the wrong door (305 instead of 503 – I was fraught ok) I wander round town to look for dinner, my legacy dividend cheques are burning a hole in my pocket (actually they contribute a mild warm feeling, like a slow dance with a girl when you’re eighteen), so I plump for a restaurant boasting a 15 Euro menu, which disappears on the interior one. I come over all English, don’t ask and go a la carte, which was very nice (skate wing in black butter). In a fit of largesse (and a faulty menu memory) I opt to finish with a calvados, when the bill comes, I realise I could have bought a bottle from Tesco for the same amount. BUT, this is the first time in 24 hours that my adrenal glands have stopped squirting, in the meantime they have left my cardiovascular system in tatters, and by now probably look like the moustaches of old men draped over my kidneys rather than the plump beans they’re supposed to look like. Relative calm descends and I head back to the hotel, skidding over the rapidly freezing slush.
One dubbed Sci-Fi film later (I read the story in about 1970, A Sound of Thunder, if you’re interested) and night closes over me like it does over people who haven’t slept for the last forty hours, and are in the transcendental state where they have forgotten to be sensible about spending (Ladies, this doesn’t last, watch out for it and take advantage while it you can), I was going to say “like an iron fist in a velvet glove” but sadly this isn’t the case, surplus adrenalin still roves my body like a fox in the reeds, flushing small ducks of panic, and bringing my consciousness soaring realityward, it is a pain in the arse!,
TUESDAY
Traffic starts at 5.00, I listen to a stream of vehicles steadily crunch their way through the frozen slush, little bursts of adrenalin still ravage my body, lending my drowsy dreams a lurid colour scheme. I risk the petit dejeuner, which was fine except for the cafe execrable (it didn’t actually say that on the button but it should, I opted for Fruits of the Forest tea instead – demi-execrable), and then ventured into town, well, I wandered around Carrefour looking for treacle (suffice it to say I did not want another Purple Sprouting debacle). Thence to the station for a quick diddley-dum to Lille, where I mooched around Carrefour looking for treacle, I did find golden syrup in the World Foods section but that isn’t treacle where I come from, O Crikey, I hope it isn’t!
A slightly better cup of coffee in the station Irish Pub, and then on to the train, where I discovered that I’d been upgraded to First but sadly in the downstairs bit. One of the ways I could tell it was First is that there was no room for any luggage, I presume these people commute from house to house and wardrobe to wardrobe. I pulled out the laptop and set it up, to look seasoned-traveller savvy, I didn’t want these people to think I was the sort of person who’d spent the entire previous day cursing, instead I typed, uttering the occasional, “Oh ha ha. Jolly good.” and doing pensive chin-stroking, then I reverted to puerality and went and checked out the First Class toilet and the view from upstairs (better, bastards!), that is after I’d discovered the reclining seat button (this took up a good five minutes and distinctly reduced my S-T cred.
The North French countryside speeding past the window is dull at the best of times, the patina of snow moves it into the mind-numbingly boring. Eventually I arrive at Sete, and am met by Tessa and two excited princesses, who whisk me away through the Christmas lights to Rue d'Auvergne, Tuscan Bean soup and red wine. I sleep well.
WEDNESDAY
I emerge for a breakfast and embark on what I suspect is the start of a week-long cholesterol fest. Then we, "the boys" are dispatched into town to do the market, every time I draw breath to speak, people start to talk to me in English, I begin to suspect that my neice, or even my brother, has perhaps tattooed me with a Union Jack during my unconsciousness. We return for lunch and are then dispatched to the hypermarche for an ubershop. Shopped out we succumb to pizza followed by cheese, a chat in the bath with the neices and a couple of choice readings par l'Oncle Nick.
In bed I decide to pad out the reportage of the day, hence: The house has changed since my last visit, so that the guest bedroom has changed ends of the building, it has an en-suite shower and basin and an adjacent toilet. Now I say en-suite, there is a room off the bedroom that does indeed feature a shower and basin, it also features a large window that opens onto the kitchen (very handy for instance when you're shaving and are asked how many slices of toast do you want, unable to verbally reply one can merely open the window and hold up the requisite amount of fingers, though, in reverse, kitchen users may feel an unsolicited desire for sausages, or in my case salami).
The bathroom door is also noticeably shorter than its counterpart leaving one with the distinct feeling of going down into the bathroom, contrast this with the toilet which, though adjacent, is under the stairs, I can foresee unpleasant incidents involving the quaffing of an excessive amount of wine, and a drunken attempt the keep the ceiling parallel to the top of one's head. I'll let you know after tomorrow.
Finally, the bathroom features some squirty handsoap, a transient phenomenon I realise but still worth mentioning. The soap is vanilla-flavoured but is also yellow, so every time you use it you have the strange sensation of squirting some Birds Custard onto your outstretched palms, I feel like turning to the left, opening the window and appealing for some rhubarb crumble.
THURSDAY 24th December -MY BIRTHDAY.
The dawn chorus appears to consist of a selection of small girls singing "Happy Birthday", realising that it is mine, the birthday not the selection, I join in. After that I am inviegled through various orifices (see above) to "Hurry up!". At breakfast, after I have donned a pair of antlers (though this sits uncomfortably with the concept of a horned man) there are presents, all edible, I count the number of marzipan fruits and, while tempering my face into an amiable rictus, gloomily survey the number round the table, I resolve that my brother will receive the banana one.
After a few more renditions of HB, Steve goes into town to pick up a prescription and most of a chocolate shop (I remember this, and perk up, fruitwise, there may be a trade off) and the rest of us head off to listen to rival brass bands (Santas vs Santa's Elves) and chat to school friends, after this we have some exertion in the playground before returning for lunch and Tessa's first piece-de-resistance of the day (versatile huh?) a version of my favourite chocolate cake, made from Great Aunt May's recipe, which features no instructions. For a first attempt it is a masterpiece, though I expect better in the years to come....if I'm allowed to live that long.
In the afternoon, after some playing, Tessa and I sneak out for a stroll along the sea-front to admire the biggest sea I've ever seen in the Med. There are sneaky blow holes that go off when you least expect them, and interesting explosions of spray. When we round the bend we indulge ourselves by rescuing a kite surfer.
How to rescue a kite surfer:
1. Watch them get into difficulty when they lose their board.
2. Point helpfully at the board as it wilfully avoids contact with its master (point from two angles to allow cross bearings.
3. Keep pointing as the kite surfer gets dragged to another bit of beach by his kite, and another surfer comes up to find out what you're pointing at .
4. Indicate to finder surfer when an enormous wave is about to crush him against the breakwater, there are two ways to do this, one is to point dramatically behind them, the other is to skip backward at high speed, the latter, with its sense of purpose is probably more effective - and drier.
5.Retrieve board from battered surfer and reply to comment/interrogation with non-commital non-verbal Gallic sign-language.
6.Return board to effusive dragee.
7.Become bathed in self-glorification, ignoring the fact that you only pointed.
8.Return to Family Home for a levelling bout of disinterest from dry, occupying family members.
After more playing we were forced to eat again, another P-d-R of sushi and some more cake. The day is rounded off with a rendition (en francais par le Birthday Boy [le garcon anniversaire doesn't alliterate]) of Barbie le Mousquetaire, and a film for the adults. I have to confess that I made a bit of a cods by getting "Enchanted" and the "Princess Diaries" confused, still isn't Ann Hathaway lovely (and doesn't she have an enormous gob?).
Finally, we helped Santa drink his drink and eat his biscuit, and I went to bed, listening to the traditional Christmas sounds of my Brother wrapping his presents at the last minute, until he starts to read one of the books that he's bought.
FRIDAY - CHRISTMAS DAY
Such has been the excitement of the previous day, that the Princesses don't rise before the dawn. Christmas Day is a well-regimented affair. Presents are viewed before breakfast, a single present is allowed to be opened after breakfast, lunch is taken and followed by an orgy of ripped paper, after which there is playing before supper. After supper all those under the age of twenty go to bed, and those over, go to seed over chocolate, liquorice and a selection of books.
I stare at the mound of presents under the tree, thinking that Christmas is a time for children - the lucky bastards! After breakfast, and some sliding on the slide that seems to have fallen off Santa's sleigh into the back garden, Steve and I head off to the Patisserie/Boulangerie for some bread, I festively sport my dishevelled deely-boppers as I can no longer find my birthday antlers. On our return we meet a Tennis Player (as explained in previous posts they know a lot of Tennis Players) who has a chat with Steve peppered with a few asides to me, my translational lag means that the conversation becomes disjointed, and the TP's gaze keeps wandering back to my boppers, I begin to suspect that for him they have moved from the realms of British frivolity to the slightly marshier grounds of British Care in the Community.
We return and a family present is opened, it is a briefcase-sized table tennis table, this will partially occupy us as Tessa retreats to the kitchen armed with a timer and no-nonsense attitude. Vegetables roast perfectly, on pain of death, on the strength of this (and other miracles of will - for details send an SAE to me marked "Steve") I intend to take Tessa to Hastings on a rising tide, and dependant on the outcome make a bid for the Danish throne.
Dinner is, of course, immaculate, even the bit of animal has been cooked to perfection (by the vegetarian). As the table is cleared tension mounts, soon there will be presents. Even I get some, a selection of liquorice and some truffles. As the whiff of paper-rending adrenaline subsides, Steve and I are dispatched for a post-prandial walk in the afternoon sunshine (cf Thursday), I offer a truffle, the cocoa hit is overwhelming, like being banged over the head with an expresso machine, small objects (like atoms) stand out in sharp relief, the slightly cool air tornados in and out, neurons die of ecstasy.
Later we will eat more, starting with oysters and finishing with mercifully milky chocolate.
SATURDAY - BOXING DAY
After breakfast I went and got the bread, honing my one sentence of French and reprising it by substituting "bread" for "beer". I then went and got exposure with the children at the tennis club, before returning for lunch of a cold collation.
After lunch I began to fret about my non-existent return ticket and so Steve and I went off to the Station. First we tried the self-service machine, "Oh hello Mr Hayes, here's your ticket!" We came back from the station and ate - Chinese. You see this is how JK manages to make Potter so thick, I say Chinese, she bangs on for five pages and may even drop in a fart joke (Expelliarmus Fortissimo).
Then we did some playing and had a bath and watched another of my choices (The Life Aquatic) (with chocolate) and went to bed.
SUNDAY
Walk Day, we had trawled through the walk book and re-elected to go back near Salagou (where we went earlier in the year) in fact to a village called Liausson, where we were to traverse le petit montagne. The sun was out, God wasn't in his heaven (the atheist view) and all was temporarily right with the world. Off we went along a driveway before ascending up what was probably the donkey track between Liausson and Mouzeres. It became clear as we progressed that my brother made a significant contribution to global warming. When the track swung through 180 degrees he allowed me to move in front, still downwind, such generosity of spirit, fifty six years later and it's still my fault for being born.
We ascended until the trees thinned out, and the view crept in, eventually reaching a small col, where we turned left (East) along the spine while the trees thinned and the view over Mouzeres and its garden of dolomite pillars appeared. The path became slightly more scrambly until we popped out on the top (when I say "popped out", I mean that a thin streamer of methane was wafted towards Savoie). We declared it lunchtime and sat to eat our frugal repast of, bread, saucisson, clementine and liquorice.
After lunch we moved on through scrub oak and the odd juniper, meeting lots of people coming the other way, and began our descent until we came to the Grotte de Liausson, a small hole. I investigated using the flashlight feature of my phone and found a hole that went about 5 metres with a possible (very) tight extension, and a few formations (mainly caught up in a boulder choke at the entrance). Grotted out we continued down into a change of rock and forest, before re-emerging at the village, it was declared a good walk.
So taken with the countryside were we, that we decided on the scenic route back, it was very scenic, bits of the GPS kept disappearing and swinging back into view from another direction, it was very exciting. Then we turned off onto a single track road littered with hunters, presumably after boar (of whom. there was a lot of evidence on the top). Fortunately the hunt had just finished so les chasseurs were still struggling into their vans rather than driving home after, I'm of the opinion that it's the French who put the "party" into hunting party.
At this point we had a 'phone call to ask where we were. Upon being told that we had decided upon the scenic route, our veracity was called into question so it was with some dudgeon that we came down to the coastal plain along roads lined with plane trees, and watched Agde and Sete disappear below the horizon before skedaddling down the motorway to make Sete reappear again.
Evening, a chick pea and aubergine curry to remind me of other stuff I forgot to bring, followed by a lengthy read to try and finish Glen David Gold (or Mr Sebold as I like to call him) 's second novel.
MONDAY
Tessa goes off to play tennis leaving me to play the "shopping game" with the children (a pictorial and exploitative version of Lotto). The first game is fine but all Hell breaks loose during the second as both children vie, first by volume, and then by lachrymation, for the card bearing the (apparently) Fabled Cake of Atlantis, guaranteed to give its owner the power of flight, a chat line to several deities, omnipotence and access to the Haribo factory. After a long session of trying to be reasonable - a dismal failure, appeals to logic - what that, an explanation of equanimity - see both of the above, I depart to one end of the room with a ball and the Mooshter, and Steve supervises some drawing with Imo.
Tessa returns, slightly miffed at allowing her opponent a couple of games (she is now known as L'Anglaise - it is used as a curse), and a small lunch is declared.
After lunch we go swimming, well, sort of swimming. We head off to the pool in time to catch the wave-machine, yes, that sort of swimming. As the pool fills up with children I am disappointed to discover that this means the flume is turned off, apparently the Lifeguards attention is turned towards the child-destroying swell. In fact it’s most unpleasant in the shallows, where the chop rolls in and pushes you up the slope past the two year olds. The wave-machine stops, and I head off for the flume, my first big one (I go to pools to swim, they’re not there for leisure y’know, they’re there to teach life skills, like suffering), it is shallow and populated by people fifty years younger than me. The family in front are too busy chatting to notice that the previous user is now down and standing dripping in the queue behind them. They ignore my “Pas de personne!” avec gesture, and appeal to the Lifeguards for an adjudication, this, of course, is reliant on the lifeguards being in the same psychological arena as everyone else, sadly they have been diverted by each other, and so we now stand around waiting for several more minutes for the Tobogganer Phantome. However, I eventually get my go, a wind up on the crossbar and a quick schusse down the sluice with suitable graceful entry into the pool. What, no applause! I eventually take Imo down, it is embarrassing, we don’t move until the last few feet, and then I forget that I should stand up, so that we both disappear in the plunge pool, though to be fair I am supporting Imo two feet above my head, sadly, I’m lying in four feet of water. Apparently the Lifeguard notices an absence of bodily presence on the surface and is nearly moved to action, probably a shrug and hand-wave.
After waiting for Steve’s towel in the Jacuzzi (a slight misunderstanding) I notice the water is brown, we quit the Jacuzzi and spend a long time under the showers. Then, pausing for bread, a quick shop for Tartiflette goodies, and we return to cook said Tartiflette plus sauté potatoes for Tessa. The concensus is that we should have added the rest of the Reblochon ten minutes before the end, still, we can have another go. I then set off on a marathon read in order to finish the book, I succeed at 11.00 pm and retire to bed to explore the next one.
TUESDAY
I arise and expose myself to shower roulette for the last time, after breakfast I mosey upstairs to harmony, Imo is writing and illustrating a story, the Mooshter is playing the shopping game, strangely the card featuring “Cake” is missing. We then troop off to the Tennis Club to watch Steve battling one of the Coaches, the sun is low in the sky, that’ll be it. The Clubhouse is full of bonhomie but ere long I have to depart.
A quick go at stopping Mooshie falling off the slide (Mooshie’s fleece trousers are the business as far as sliding goes, she keeps ending up halfway across the catchmat, cushioned by her nappy), then I get in the car and catch the train, now all I have to worry about is whether my flat has been flooded, or whether the freezer has defrosted to the point of putrefaction, that is – after Paris.
A man is not sitting on a train, the British countryside is not flashing past his bright clear vision, his salt-and-pepper hair is not being gently ruffled by the breeze from the air-conditioning, instead, his usual calm persona is being run roughshod over by the scrum in the P&O office. Yes, he is supposed to be travelling through France on Eurostar but apparently the normal winter weather in Northern France is proving tricky, i.e. it has snowed near the coast and nothing works. P&O have been incapable of predicting that there might be a lot of people trying to use the ferry, and also incapable of keeping an electricity supply to their computers.
Nick (for it is he), decides that it is a toss-up between a heart attack and an ulcer, it is a close run thing, the coronary might get him out of the mayhem, but no nearer his destination (not that he’s going to get there) but the ulcer will fuel his ire, plus he has the chance to puke copious amounts of blood over the wastrels (multinational) who have pushed in front of him, potentially gaining him a place or two in the queue.
Eventually he arrives at the front, “Can I have a ticket to….”
“I’m sorry Sir (my capital) this is the reservations queue, I can’t sell you a ticket.”
I appeal to his common sense, perhaps he can see my sanguinary gorge rising, for (at my suggestion) he gets the bloke next door to sell me a ticket. An hour and a half later the ferry leaves and snails its way across the Channel, all hope of any sort of movement South has gone. Brother Steve books me into an hotel in Calais (when I say books, that means he makes a reservation in my name), and I sit with my fellow refugees on the boat, waiting for a coach, after Customs I will stand in the cold with my fellow refugees, waiting for a coach.
We arrive at Calais station, I stand in a queue in order to see if I can change my tickets for the next day. A miracle I have success! I also try and pick up my tickets for return, this is a bone of contention between Rail Europe and myself, I maintain that their information does not say what they say it says, they say it does. I put in the relevant details into the machine, it just stares monoptically back at me and sticks out a verbal tongue, "No record of any transactions under this name, this reference number, this bit of plastic, anyone with your stress levels, or phenotype, now bugger off and bother one of the TEN machines!" Oh good!
Now all I have to do is find my hotel. I ask Dominique for Boulevard Jaquard, she is unsure but after consultation points me down the main drag, I discover that this is, in fact, Blvd Jaquard and that the big red “Hotel” sign that I’m standing underneath is my hotel. After an incomprehensible chat about breakfast, and five fruitless minutes of cursing as my card fails to open the wrong door (305 instead of 503 – I was fraught ok) I wander round town to look for dinner, my legacy dividend cheques are burning a hole in my pocket (actually they contribute a mild warm feeling, like a slow dance with a girl when you’re eighteen), so I plump for a restaurant boasting a 15 Euro menu, which disappears on the interior one. I come over all English, don’t ask and go a la carte, which was very nice (skate wing in black butter). In a fit of largesse (and a faulty menu memory) I opt to finish with a calvados, when the bill comes, I realise I could have bought a bottle from Tesco for the same amount. BUT, this is the first time in 24 hours that my adrenal glands have stopped squirting, in the meantime they have left my cardiovascular system in tatters, and by now probably look like the moustaches of old men draped over my kidneys rather than the plump beans they’re supposed to look like. Relative calm descends and I head back to the hotel, skidding over the rapidly freezing slush.
One dubbed Sci-Fi film later (I read the story in about 1970, A Sound of Thunder, if you’re interested) and night closes over me like it does over people who haven’t slept for the last forty hours, and are in the transcendental state where they have forgotten to be sensible about spending (Ladies, this doesn’t last, watch out for it and take advantage while it you can), I was going to say “like an iron fist in a velvet glove” but sadly this isn’t the case, surplus adrenalin still roves my body like a fox in the reeds, flushing small ducks of panic, and bringing my consciousness soaring realityward, it is a pain in the arse!,
TUESDAY
Traffic starts at 5.00, I listen to a stream of vehicles steadily crunch their way through the frozen slush, little bursts of adrenalin still ravage my body, lending my drowsy dreams a lurid colour scheme. I risk the petit dejeuner, which was fine except for the cafe execrable (it didn’t actually say that on the button but it should, I opted for Fruits of the Forest tea instead – demi-execrable), and then ventured into town, well, I wandered around Carrefour looking for treacle (suffice it to say I did not want another Purple Sprouting debacle). Thence to the station for a quick diddley-dum to Lille, where I mooched around Carrefour looking for treacle, I did find golden syrup in the World Foods section but that isn’t treacle where I come from, O Crikey, I hope it isn’t!
A slightly better cup of coffee in the station Irish Pub, and then on to the train, where I discovered that I’d been upgraded to First but sadly in the downstairs bit. One of the ways I could tell it was First is that there was no room for any luggage, I presume these people commute from house to house and wardrobe to wardrobe. I pulled out the laptop and set it up, to look seasoned-traveller savvy, I didn’t want these people to think I was the sort of person who’d spent the entire previous day cursing, instead I typed, uttering the occasional, “Oh ha ha. Jolly good.” and doing pensive chin-stroking, then I reverted to puerality and went and checked out the First Class toilet and the view from upstairs (better, bastards!), that is after I’d discovered the reclining seat button (this took up a good five minutes and distinctly reduced my S-T cred.
The North French countryside speeding past the window is dull at the best of times, the patina of snow moves it into the mind-numbingly boring. Eventually I arrive at Sete, and am met by Tessa and two excited princesses, who whisk me away through the Christmas lights to Rue d'Auvergne, Tuscan Bean soup and red wine. I sleep well.
WEDNESDAY
I emerge for a breakfast and embark on what I suspect is the start of a week-long cholesterol fest. Then we, "the boys" are dispatched into town to do the market, every time I draw breath to speak, people start to talk to me in English, I begin to suspect that my neice, or even my brother, has perhaps tattooed me with a Union Jack during my unconsciousness. We return for lunch and are then dispatched to the hypermarche for an ubershop. Shopped out we succumb to pizza followed by cheese, a chat in the bath with the neices and a couple of choice readings par l'Oncle Nick.
In bed I decide to pad out the reportage of the day, hence: The house has changed since my last visit, so that the guest bedroom has changed ends of the building, it has an en-suite shower and basin and an adjacent toilet. Now I say en-suite, there is a room off the bedroom that does indeed feature a shower and basin, it also features a large window that opens onto the kitchen (very handy for instance when you're shaving and are asked how many slices of toast do you want, unable to verbally reply one can merely open the window and hold up the requisite amount of fingers, though, in reverse, kitchen users may feel an unsolicited desire for sausages, or in my case salami).
The bathroom door is also noticeably shorter than its counterpart leaving one with the distinct feeling of going down into the bathroom, contrast this with the toilet which, though adjacent, is under the stairs, I can foresee unpleasant incidents involving the quaffing of an excessive amount of wine, and a drunken attempt the keep the ceiling parallel to the top of one's head. I'll let you know after tomorrow.
Finally, the bathroom features some squirty handsoap, a transient phenomenon I realise but still worth mentioning. The soap is vanilla-flavoured but is also yellow, so every time you use it you have the strange sensation of squirting some Birds Custard onto your outstretched palms, I feel like turning to the left, opening the window and appealing for some rhubarb crumble.
THURSDAY 24th December -MY BIRTHDAY.
The dawn chorus appears to consist of a selection of small girls singing "Happy Birthday", realising that it is mine, the birthday not the selection, I join in. After that I am inviegled through various orifices (see above) to "Hurry up!". At breakfast, after I have donned a pair of antlers (though this sits uncomfortably with the concept of a horned man) there are presents, all edible, I count the number of marzipan fruits and, while tempering my face into an amiable rictus, gloomily survey the number round the table, I resolve that my brother will receive the banana one.
After a few more renditions of HB, Steve goes into town to pick up a prescription and most of a chocolate shop (I remember this, and perk up, fruitwise, there may be a trade off) and the rest of us head off to listen to rival brass bands (Santas vs Santa's Elves) and chat to school friends, after this we have some exertion in the playground before returning for lunch and Tessa's first piece-de-resistance of the day (versatile huh?) a version of my favourite chocolate cake, made from Great Aunt May's recipe, which features no instructions. For a first attempt it is a masterpiece, though I expect better in the years to come....if I'm allowed to live that long.
In the afternoon, after some playing, Tessa and I sneak out for a stroll along the sea-front to admire the biggest sea I've ever seen in the Med. There are sneaky blow holes that go off when you least expect them, and interesting explosions of spray. When we round the bend we indulge ourselves by rescuing a kite surfer.
How to rescue a kite surfer:
1. Watch them get into difficulty when they lose their board.
2. Point helpfully at the board as it wilfully avoids contact with its master (point from two angles to allow cross bearings.
3. Keep pointing as the kite surfer gets dragged to another bit of beach by his kite, and another surfer comes up to find out what you're pointing at .
4. Indicate to finder surfer when an enormous wave is about to crush him against the breakwater, there are two ways to do this, one is to point dramatically behind them, the other is to skip backward at high speed, the latter, with its sense of purpose is probably more effective - and drier.
5.Retrieve board from battered surfer and reply to comment/interrogation with non-commital non-verbal Gallic sign-language.
6.Return board to effusive dragee.
7.Become bathed in self-glorification, ignoring the fact that you only pointed.
8.Return to Family Home for a levelling bout of disinterest from dry, occupying family members.
After more playing we were forced to eat again, another P-d-R of sushi and some more cake. The day is rounded off with a rendition (en francais par le Birthday Boy [le garcon anniversaire doesn't alliterate]) of Barbie le Mousquetaire, and a film for the adults. I have to confess that I made a bit of a cods by getting "Enchanted" and the "Princess Diaries" confused, still isn't Ann Hathaway lovely (and doesn't she have an enormous gob?).
Finally, we helped Santa drink his drink and eat his biscuit, and I went to bed, listening to the traditional Christmas sounds of my Brother wrapping his presents at the last minute, until he starts to read one of the books that he's bought.
FRIDAY - CHRISTMAS DAY
Such has been the excitement of the previous day, that the Princesses don't rise before the dawn. Christmas Day is a well-regimented affair. Presents are viewed before breakfast, a single present is allowed to be opened after breakfast, lunch is taken and followed by an orgy of ripped paper, after which there is playing before supper. After supper all those under the age of twenty go to bed, and those over, go to seed over chocolate, liquorice and a selection of books.
I stare at the mound of presents under the tree, thinking that Christmas is a time for children - the lucky bastards! After breakfast, and some sliding on the slide that seems to have fallen off Santa's sleigh into the back garden, Steve and I head off to the Patisserie/Boulangerie for some bread, I festively sport my dishevelled deely-boppers as I can no longer find my birthday antlers. On our return we meet a Tennis Player (as explained in previous posts they know a lot of Tennis Players) who has a chat with Steve peppered with a few asides to me, my translational lag means that the conversation becomes disjointed, and the TP's gaze keeps wandering back to my boppers, I begin to suspect that for him they have moved from the realms of British frivolity to the slightly marshier grounds of British Care in the Community.
We return and a family present is opened, it is a briefcase-sized table tennis table, this will partially occupy us as Tessa retreats to the kitchen armed with a timer and no-nonsense attitude. Vegetables roast perfectly, on pain of death, on the strength of this (and other miracles of will - for details send an SAE to me marked "Steve") I intend to take Tessa to Hastings on a rising tide, and dependant on the outcome make a bid for the Danish throne.
Dinner is, of course, immaculate, even the bit of animal has been cooked to perfection (by the vegetarian). As the table is cleared tension mounts, soon there will be presents. Even I get some, a selection of liquorice and some truffles. As the whiff of paper-rending adrenaline subsides, Steve and I are dispatched for a post-prandial walk in the afternoon sunshine (cf Thursday), I offer a truffle, the cocoa hit is overwhelming, like being banged over the head with an expresso machine, small objects (like atoms) stand out in sharp relief, the slightly cool air tornados in and out, neurons die of ecstasy.
Later we will eat more, starting with oysters and finishing with mercifully milky chocolate.
SATURDAY - BOXING DAY
After breakfast I went and got the bread, honing my one sentence of French and reprising it by substituting "bread" for "beer". I then went and got exposure with the children at the tennis club, before returning for lunch of a cold collation.
After lunch I began to fret about my non-existent return ticket and so Steve and I went off to the Station. First we tried the self-service machine, "Oh hello Mr Hayes, here's your ticket!" We came back from the station and ate - Chinese. You see this is how JK manages to make Potter so thick, I say Chinese, she bangs on for five pages and may even drop in a fart joke (Expelliarmus Fortissimo).
Then we did some playing and had a bath and watched another of my choices (The Life Aquatic) (with chocolate) and went to bed.
SUNDAY
Walk Day, we had trawled through the walk book and re-elected to go back near Salagou (where we went earlier in the year) in fact to a village called Liausson, where we were to traverse le petit montagne. The sun was out, God wasn't in his heaven (the atheist view) and all was temporarily right with the world. Off we went along a driveway before ascending up what was probably the donkey track between Liausson and Mouzeres. It became clear as we progressed that my brother made a significant contribution to global warming. When the track swung through 180 degrees he allowed me to move in front, still downwind, such generosity of spirit, fifty six years later and it's still my fault for being born.
We ascended until the trees thinned out, and the view crept in, eventually reaching a small col, where we turned left (East) along the spine while the trees thinned and the view over Mouzeres and its garden of dolomite pillars appeared. The path became slightly more scrambly until we popped out on the top (when I say "popped out", I mean that a thin streamer of methane was wafted towards Savoie). We declared it lunchtime and sat to eat our frugal repast of, bread, saucisson, clementine and liquorice.
After lunch we moved on through scrub oak and the odd juniper, meeting lots of people coming the other way, and began our descent until we came to the Grotte de Liausson, a small hole. I investigated using the flashlight feature of my phone and found a hole that went about 5 metres with a possible (very) tight extension, and a few formations (mainly caught up in a boulder choke at the entrance). Grotted out we continued down into a change of rock and forest, before re-emerging at the village, it was declared a good walk.
So taken with the countryside were we, that we decided on the scenic route back, it was very scenic, bits of the GPS kept disappearing and swinging back into view from another direction, it was very exciting. Then we turned off onto a single track road littered with hunters, presumably after boar (of whom. there was a lot of evidence on the top). Fortunately the hunt had just finished so les chasseurs were still struggling into their vans rather than driving home after, I'm of the opinion that it's the French who put the "party" into hunting party.
At this point we had a 'phone call to ask where we were. Upon being told that we had decided upon the scenic route, our veracity was called into question so it was with some dudgeon that we came down to the coastal plain along roads lined with plane trees, and watched Agde and Sete disappear below the horizon before skedaddling down the motorway to make Sete reappear again.
Evening, a chick pea and aubergine curry to remind me of other stuff I forgot to bring, followed by a lengthy read to try and finish Glen David Gold (or Mr Sebold as I like to call him) 's second novel.
MONDAY
Tessa goes off to play tennis leaving me to play the "shopping game" with the children (a pictorial and exploitative version of Lotto). The first game is fine but all Hell breaks loose during the second as both children vie, first by volume, and then by lachrymation, for the card bearing the (apparently) Fabled Cake of Atlantis, guaranteed to give its owner the power of flight, a chat line to several deities, omnipotence and access to the Haribo factory. After a long session of trying to be reasonable - a dismal failure, appeals to logic - what that, an explanation of equanimity - see both of the above, I depart to one end of the room with a ball and the Mooshter, and Steve supervises some drawing with Imo.
Tessa returns, slightly miffed at allowing her opponent a couple of games (she is now known as L'Anglaise - it is used as a curse), and a small lunch is declared.
After lunch we go swimming, well, sort of swimming. We head off to the pool in time to catch the wave-machine, yes, that sort of swimming. As the pool fills up with children I am disappointed to discover that this means the flume is turned off, apparently the Lifeguards attention is turned towards the child-destroying swell. In fact it’s most unpleasant in the shallows, where the chop rolls in and pushes you up the slope past the two year olds. The wave-machine stops, and I head off for the flume, my first big one (I go to pools to swim, they’re not there for leisure y’know, they’re there to teach life skills, like suffering), it is shallow and populated by people fifty years younger than me. The family in front are too busy chatting to notice that the previous user is now down and standing dripping in the queue behind them. They ignore my “Pas de personne!” avec gesture, and appeal to the Lifeguards for an adjudication, this, of course, is reliant on the lifeguards being in the same psychological arena as everyone else, sadly they have been diverted by each other, and so we now stand around waiting for several more minutes for the Tobogganer Phantome. However, I eventually get my go, a wind up on the crossbar and a quick schusse down the sluice with suitable graceful entry into the pool. What, no applause! I eventually take Imo down, it is embarrassing, we don’t move until the last few feet, and then I forget that I should stand up, so that we both disappear in the plunge pool, though to be fair I am supporting Imo two feet above my head, sadly, I’m lying in four feet of water. Apparently the Lifeguard notices an absence of bodily presence on the surface and is nearly moved to action, probably a shrug and hand-wave.
After waiting for Steve’s towel in the Jacuzzi (a slight misunderstanding) I notice the water is brown, we quit the Jacuzzi and spend a long time under the showers. Then, pausing for bread, a quick shop for Tartiflette goodies, and we return to cook said Tartiflette plus sauté potatoes for Tessa. The concensus is that we should have added the rest of the Reblochon ten minutes before the end, still, we can have another go. I then set off on a marathon read in order to finish the book, I succeed at 11.00 pm and retire to bed to explore the next one.
TUESDAY
I arise and expose myself to shower roulette for the last time, after breakfast I mosey upstairs to harmony, Imo is writing and illustrating a story, the Mooshter is playing the shopping game, strangely the card featuring “Cake” is missing. We then troop off to the Tennis Club to watch Steve battling one of the Coaches, the sun is low in the sky, that’ll be it. The Clubhouse is full of bonhomie but ere long I have to depart.
A quick go at stopping Mooshie falling off the slide (Mooshie’s fleece trousers are the business as far as sliding goes, she keeps ending up halfway across the catchmat, cushioned by her nappy), then I get in the car and catch the train, now all I have to worry about is whether my flat has been flooded, or whether the freezer has defrosted to the point of putrefaction, that is – after Paris.
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