Anyway, I wandered around the market this morning and confided my (extremely) heavy caba to the care of Camille and Simon at the Beer Tree (for I did not really want to feel my arms perceptibly lengthening as I wandered about with the camera) and then on my way back from Dalya (motto: "Oriental specialties our specialty", or should be - they seem to have everything I need, and many things I never knew I needed, with the possible exception of jaggery powder which pisses me off no end for I have none left), feeling happy and warm with the afterglow that comes from finding something hitherto unknown and therefore ever so slightly sexy viz. some sugar-cane vinegar, I was hit with a sudden craving.
There is, incidentally, an art to this. For there in fact two queues, one for the charcuterie and another for the fresh piggy meat, and you must join the right queue or they may frown at you. Not for long mind you, for they are naturally cheerful and friendly people; so it's more like being gowled. As Jeremy used to say, back in the day, when he invented the word. Be that as it may, next time I need to make up some lard paysan, I think I shall go back there and get a slab of poitrine fraiche with which to do it. The supermarket stuff is all very well, but I'm sure that a bit of rustic porker would be that much better.
With some red cabbage coleslaw (yes, I found a small choux rouge at the market), garlicky green beans and baked stuffed potatoes (which our country cousins across the pond will insist on calling "twice-baked" potatoes, don't know why even if it is, in point of fact, technically true), I feel that should go down rather well tonight. Or if not the green beans, then maybe some blettes, fried with bacon, heaped atop half a pita bread and topped with tomato and chèvre before being baked for a bit.
Sadly all good things must come to an end, and Bryan turned up and talk turned to more serious matters, such as The Business Partner from Hell, and whether or not it would be permissible to use a bazooka to get rid of the top floor of the building that was starting to shade our table as the sun swung round.
A pragmatic solution, I must admit, but I still feel that it lacked elegance.
Still, suppose it avoided possibly tiresome recriminations from petty-minded municipal employees who are oh! so willing to dish out parking tickets but go all mediaeval on you at the slightest hint of visionary inner-city remodelling, especially if it involves state-of-the-art ordnance.
I mean, he has blown at least three PC power supplies by the simple expedient of their finding themselves in the same room as he, there are a few motherboards that just breathed their last when they saw him, and any number of light bulbs that have spontaneously combusted in his presence.
So I suppose it should have come as no surprise that, when he put his scooter away the other night, the ignition key bent and twisted of its own accord so that it was no longer usable. The thing wasn't even in the ignition at the time, how could that happen? And of course, he didn't have a spare key.
It even consented to go back into the ignition slot, which is one problem fixed, but I still wonder exactly what is going to break under his influence next time around. Hopefully, nothing too valuable.
|Hebe, goddess of laundry and shopping lists.|
Oh yes, like I said we accepted the offer on this place and now we sign the compromis de vente on Wednesday, which makes it all Official: with any luck we'll hear back soon from Peter and find out if our offer for the place in Moux is acceptable. Also, have to find out if the purchase is à l'anglaise, ie furnished, which would, if it turns out to be the case, leave us with an awful lot of stuff on our hands. Mind you, we are no strangers to accumulated possessions, or "junk" as I prefer to call it. I'll let you know.