All very pretty, but I guess it kinda put a dampener on the fete de la musique on Tuesday night. Difficult to play music with rain beating on the drums and filling your saxophone. (Not that I mind. In fact, I find the image of some poor sod making muffled geyser noises out of a water-filled sax rather amusing.)
And I must admit it's rather more fun to drive than I would have suspected. Let there be no mistake, it is not a sports car and getting from 1st to 2nd can be a bit sluggish but otherwise it's quite nippy and handles well - although I've not yet mustered the courage to see if she'll take the St Pierre exit at 115kph, that might be a bit excessive. And the sixth gear is definitely nice on the autoroute.
Because, being rather anal-compulsive that way, I have my music organised in directories, one per group, with subdirectories for each album and so on: unfortunately the frikking thing seems to want to play the whole damn lot in alphabetic order - except when it doesn't - which is not a lot of use to me. If I'm listening to Alice Cooper I really do not want David Bowie popping up irritatingly in the middle - and vice versa, of course.
Whatever, usual sad story today; dawned bright and sunny (and, unusually, stayed like that - something has to go wrong soon) and headed off to do The Shopping. Relatively painless, although I do rather tend to dither a bit at the market - do I really need to buy those shiny poivrons, or those fuzzy peaches?
As Jerry goes back to his stage at Aiguebellette tonight, and Margo is off to a salon in Normandy on Wednesday, the answer is probably not, but I gave in anyway, and bought both. And everything else that took my fancy.
Anyway, the point, to which I'm getting in my own good time, please don't try to rush me 'cos it's my blog in case you hadn't noticed, is that on a fine hot day after the market some
(Incidentally, should that apostrophe have gone there? It doesn't look out of place, and I can't be arsed googling it, but any grammar nazis may correct me if necessary. Not that I'll pay any attention, mind you.)
So once again time drifted on by, as it will, and having parked my arse before midday I was rather surprised to find that by the time we were all ready to get up and leave it was in fact 14:00.
(On the bright side, they know us now. I suppose there can't be too many loud English-speaking amateur alcoholics at Chambéry, so we probably stick out a bit. at least it saves me from having to actually order. Payment, unfortunately, is still required.)
In my defence, let it be said that Rebecca was to turn up in only twenty minutes after stopping off at the market to buy apples: either they were pretty scarce or she'd decided to plant a tree and harvest the bloody things herself, because Bryan had the time to occupy himself with his prostate twice and I had to get myself yet another glass to avoid dehydration while we were waiting.
And for the life of me I cannot recall exactly how it was we got onto the subject of Clapham Common. I think it may have been around the time that Bryan asked plaintively, with his eyes fixed on Rebeccah, if older men couldn't be loved too, and I rather acidly replied that probably yes, but only by other older men, which got us on to British politicians and then ... yes, you can see where this is going.
But the thought of Harold Wilson prancing naked, with only a pipe in his mouth, around those celebrated toilets whilst waiting for a blow-job (Bryan actually had to ask me how to pronounce fellatio. Can you believe that?) was not a happy one, so we rapidly moved on to other topics.
Which also, incidentally, escape me, and probably just as well for I suspect that it all went a bit downhill from there. I do remember being asked which century I was born in, just because I asked if someone wanted to see my etchings ... the rest is a blur.
Mind you, the noisetier isn't going to like it. Tough titty, no-one actually asked it to come and grow overshadowing my sacrificial altar.