Venez, Tentez Le Gout De Mon Blanc ...

Sometimes you have to wonder ... I mean, when you come across a headline reading "Porn star arrested for toad death" then you know that something is seriously wrong, although with what exactly I'm not entirely sure. (In the interests of total disclosure, I did not actually look at the story that would have followed, had I clicked on the link. The headline by itself was quite enough to put me off.)

Anyways, we is now out of lockdown, gatherings of up to ten persons are permitted provided that social distancing is respected, bars and restaurants have reopened. (The ones that have not closed definitively, that is.) I am not sure just how well all this is respected, given that we were numerous at the bar on Friday night and today - being the fête de mères - there were at least forty, mingling: still, you have to die of something.

As in, if you died for no reason at all, that would be rather embarrassing, I think. Just saying. (Note to self: make sure to have a good reason to drop dead. Preferably at a fiscally advantageous time.)

 

Much, much later ... somehow, I seem to have other things on my mind than writing, these days: you too may have found this to be the case. And to be honest, this being Moux, and our not having much inclination to get out and about these days, there's rarely much to actually write about anyway.

Let it be admitted though, the enforced seclusion does give you time to do some of those things you've been meaning to get around to for quite a while now but somehow have never found the time: like changing the spark plugs on the septic tank, or finally watching that four-hour long French art film of paint drying.

Or, in my case, framing and hanging something like 60 photos: I bought the frames over a year ago but always had something better to do - no longer a valid excuse, so I pulled finger and did it.

Three times, in fact, because about halfway through the job I actually looked at the framed photos and said to myself something along the lines of "Bloody hell, those look really washed out! Don't tell me I shall have to get new glass ..." and then as I got the next one ready realised that there was, in fact, a sheet of protective film on the glass.

 

So I turned back to the pile, opened up the frames, pulled the glass out and stripped the film off, then put everything back together again - only to see that they were still washed out - at which point I repeated the whole damned exercise, taking care this time to remove the film from the other side of the glass ...

And oddly enough there was no excuse for it, because I'd bought the same frames before and I knew bloody well that they had this film on them - and had I bothered to read the packaging I would have been reminded of this simple fact.

Whatever, it's done - took, admittedly, rather longer than absolutely necessary - but I seem to have temporarily run out of wall space so there's still twenty or so waiting to be hung.

But just occasionally things do happen: the open-air markets have reopened (wearing a mask is, of course, mandatory) which is always a pleasure, although sadly we've now arrived at that dread time of year when there's only dull, boring produce available, the nectarines and apricots and luscious peaches and melons having disappeared.

(Not entirely true, for a short while there'll still be pears to remind me of what fruit tastes like, and if you search long enough you can find the odd tomato that hasn't fallen off the back of a lorry from the Netherlands, and consequently doesn't taste of the cotton wool it grew on.)

Still, while the weather's fine I shall continue to head off and buy what I can, and sit out at a suitably socially-distanced table at a bar and inhale a few vitamins in the sun.

And speaking of the sun, just at the moment that's in pretty short supply. Less than a week ago we were still enjoying temperatures up in the 30s, too hot to take the dogs off for a long walk: at this very instant it's all of 12° out there (not counting the wind chill, for the Cers is gusting up to 50kph) and hence too damn cold.

But if I can trust the long-range forecasts (about which I'm always somewhat dubious) this is but transitory, and we shall soon enough find ourselves back in the 20s, with the normal Indian summer lasting through October ...

At least, whilst it was still sweltering a few weeks ago, I found myself in the Ariège with my piratical friend Philippe, checking out a vintage car auction. For several months ago he bought himself a 1934 Fiat Belilla roadster as a restoration project - destined, no doubt, to end up in the air-conditioned garage in Versailles next to the Sizaire Torpedo and others - and as they happened to have a chassis for sale, which he wanted for parts, that is where we went. ("We" for he does not currently have a car, due to an unfortunate incident involving the rear end of a heavy lorry ...)

I left the autoroute at Castelnaudary, possibly an error for Goofle Maps binged frantically at me as she hastily recalculated and took me along roads that in other circumstances I would not have wished to find myself on, but no matter, we made it ... spent a happy few hours looking at some of the lots on offer before heading off to find a decent restaurant, then back for the actual vente.

Rather to my surprise the Lamborghini GT2+2 stayed at the reserve, 450K, whilst the Spitfire went for 17K, double the low estimate, and a TR4 went for about 26K, also way over the odds. Don't ask about the Rolls. And Philippe's chassis went for a thousand - estimate 200 - which saddened him, but too bad. A fun boy's day out, anyway. And good food - once we found a restaurant that was actually open.

Otherwise, we are wondering if there is not a secret pyromaniac in Moux, for but recently a car was torched in rue de la Pompe, and I found myself dragged from innocent slumber about 2:30 Friday morning by the pompiers, who had learned that I have the keys to Nicole's place on rue de la Paix while she's away: as the house next door to hers was blazing merrily away, getting the keys at least meant that they could check her place out without going in mob-handed and bashing the front door down. (Very thoughtful of them, really ...)

So, as you might imagine, there is some speculation in the village as to whether or not these incidents are linked. My personal hypothesis is that it's Antony and Sarah Jane, trying to maintain property values by flushing the undesirables out of the quartier, but no-one takes me seriously.

Just in case anyone's wondering, the title is of course a contrepetèrie, the French equivalent of a spoonerism but obligatoirement obscène, or at least somewhat vulgar. (Or grivoise, although what a thrush has to do with it I've no idea ...) Once you've swapped letters and flipped a few it comes to "tentez le bout de mon gland", and of course you know that a gland is a penis ... thanks for that, François. I should really go rinse my brain. With bleach.

Also, "j'aime vachement ton frangin": as is the custom I shall leave that as an exercise for you, dear readers. Mind how you go, now ...