Our New Year was kind of quiet: drove the yoof up to Geneva to catch their flight back to Glasgow: of course, by preparing for the worst (autoroute clogged with bloody holiday-makers, and snow) no such thing eventuated, and we arrived early, around 12:30. Missed some quality drinking time, there. Their flight was still marked as being on time, but the preceding one, that should have left at 11:50, was up as being expected around 14:30 ... I assume they got back eventually, will doubtless find out some time.
So we staggered off to somewhere more congenial, like the Café de Paris, and as we sat nursing our restoratives who should stagger up to the bar but the odious little morsel himself. Still, he paid our round of drinks, which was rather unexpected. (Still didn't make up for poor Bryan's heartbreak on seeing Alison, the hot waitress, with her arms draped around him. Doubtless fishing for his wallet.)
Jeremy has moved back in with us, and I must admit that we're already counting the days until he heads off on his next stage. Not that he's unpleasant company or anything - surprisingly human in fact, when I look at what some other people have to put up with - but my god does he stick the food away. Having no great inspiration I made lasagna the other night - enough for six or eight normal people. And Jerry wasn't hungry ... until the munchies set in at midnight, and the rest disappeared with him to school for his lunch. I had rather been counting on leftovers, seems that's a thing of the past.
So it was off to the market, and I'm pleased to note that I'm starting to find my way around again. Rediscovered the cheese-monger, and managed to find a second source for my preferred rougette lettuce (just as well as I have not yet found the first source, I know they're there somewhere, but well-hidden).
I said that they'd severely reduced the floor space for the indoor market: this has one unfortunate side-effect (amongst others, but let's not go there) which is that the old hags with their shopping bags trundling approximatively behind them can even more effectively block the traffic. And to be honest, it's not just the old hags. More and more young folk (OK, we're talking 30's, 40's here) seem to be taking to the diabolical things too, and not only do I have to be athletic and all pointy-elbowed in the market, but on the footpaths around as well.
The road side is of course blocked with double-parked Porsches - not much to do there apart from scratch a key down the side - so your choice is to wait for them to realise that they're in the way (bonus points if you have an air horn in your pocket, or maybe a small airgun), or barge straight through.
Such are the delights of the marché. So you can see why I so appreciate the simple pleasures of a little apéro afterwards, if only to get my blood pressure down. Which is why Bryan and I (Beckham being apparently indisposed) found ourselves at Le Petit Bar du Marché, previously known as Le Bar Sans Nom, formerly known as Chez Liddy. (They've definitely gone downhill in the name department. But it remains cheap, warm, and welcoming: everything you want in a bar on a cold January day.)
The word ruelle, for instance - which would mean "little street" - actually derives from the space between the master bed and the wall of the room: would have been the warmest spot in the place and was reserved for intimates. Only later, it seems, did it take on its sexual connotations. Which I will leave you to imagine.
It's a good way to pass an idle half-hour or so, even if Bryan did look rather embarrassed.
Although there is, somewhere - just have to dig out the trusty old Taride - an honest-to-god museum of erotica, and another which apparently has a fascinating and rather encyclopedic collection of wine corks. One day, when I have the time ...
Whatever, she's just gently reminded me that I still owe her one Xmas present, and sooner rather than later - like next weekend - so I'd better go and start brushing up those menus.