For the moment he seems blissfully unaware of this act of lèse majesté but he'll notice eventually, when he starts to stumble over the small piles of sticks on the pavement outside his front door.
And oddly enough, the place seems relatively unspoilt. You'd think the place would be crawling with tourists but no, it's still an isolated bay with a small harbour and a few tiny working fishing boats. (Including one small blunt-ended thing that must have been almost two metres long and called, with an irony which must be particularly Spanish, "Queen Mary".)
Part of that, I guess, is because the place is in fact not that easy to get to. I said that the roads were twisty and narrow: I meant that the roads are almost wide enough for two cars, and sufficiently twisty that the speed limit over the last 30km is 40kph. Which seems a bit optimistic, to be honest.
This too, is an amusement. Maybe I spend too much time looking at The Register. I should try to become a better person.
In the "Things You Really, Really Do Not Want Department": as it might be, having guests turn up and then finding the kitchen flooding when they inconsiderately decide to use their toilet. Believe me, you do not want that. Especially when you're busy cooking dinner.
Of course this would happen around 19:00 on a Saturday evening, a time when all self-respecting hardware stores have closed for the weekend, and in any case a fine butter sauce will not wait. So we stuck the ever-handy "Crime scene: do not cross" tape over the toilet, welded the taps shut, and told Beckham and her man to use the bathroom in the other bedroom, whilst waiting for clear heads and wiser counsel to prevail.
Waily waily and ohs noes: bird flu has hit the south of France, and as from this very day there will be no more ducks in the abattoirs. Which means that once my meagre supply of confit de canard and foie gras and magret has disappeared, there will be no more! How in hell am I supposed to make a cassoulet, is what I want to know. (On the bright side, I did manage to whip past Carrefour on hearing the news, and picked up the very last shrink-wrapped packet of duck legs to go into the freezer: so we're not completely destitute.)
A while back, in a fit of feeble-mindedness such as strikes me from time to time (usually in-between a couple of gins), I signed up for LinkedIn, which appears to be some sort of Facebook for professionals. They keep sending me emails, which I generally ignore, but having some time today I thought I might as well actually set up a profile (duly done) and go through the backlog of notifications about people who wish to know me and various job offers that they think might suit me.
In the nearest village to us - St. Couat, just a couple of km to the north, across the nationale (and don't ask why I still call it that: force of habit I suppose, because the state long ago reclassed most of them as départementales to push the maintenance costs onto the départments and so routes like the N6 are now but storied memories) there recently opened a small brasserie. Having no good reason not to I went in there a month ago, and found a young guy who brewed his own beer in a couple of 20l plastic bidons, and had decided to start selling it ...
Anyway, we have had an entire week of eating and drinking perhaps rather more than is, strictly speaking, necessary or even healthy, culminating in a meal last night at Martin and Angela's which damn near finished us. Don't get me wrong, it was excellent, but Martin seems to have as many bottles of gin (and whisky) as he does years of age, and takes this as a personal affront. So he is sad if we don't manage to get rid of at least one bottle of each in the evening: before, during, and after the wine.
So I think that I shall now go and whip up a very light stir-fried rice, and get a carafe of tepid water out to accompany it.