Wednesday, 5 November 2008
An afternoon in the South of France
I never tell you about me do I ? this mysterious figure waxing lyrical about the delights of Southern France enticing you with captivating descriptions and scrummy pictures and wantonly luring you into my humble blogspot.
I knocked out my article and sent it to French Entrée, not a correction, not a seconds hesitation, the words seemed to flow effortlessly as I sat huddled and screwed up my eye's at the screen with His Lordship assisting from a horizontal position on the sofa. Lest he should fall asleep I read the piece to him time and time again. 'So what's the reason for the house being perfectly metric' I ask for the umpteenth time, 'Because in 1799 two Government surveyors introduced the metric measurement' he said sleepily. In the background The Small Cross One hovered like an annoying late season wasp round the remains of the Fig tree. 'I must have some boots' said the voice and I would be lying if I didn't admit to feeling a sinking of the heart and my mind wandered back to the time I placed my own Mother through this hellish experience. 'I'm working' I said pompously and then instantly regretted putting my selfish needs first. For if truth be known I was stalling for time.
To cut a long story short, for heavens if you want to kill time go shopping with a teenager, she found a pair of boots in the very first place we visited. The place where I suggested and of course was told we would find precisely nothing. 'Perhaps we should visit all the other shops too' she suggested hopefully. In the end though age and wisdom won when I craftily let slip that I was prepared to buy lashings of Nutella for the sleepover she was planning that night.
Feeling mightily pleased with myself and squashing any lingering doubts of guilt at having cut the shopping trip short we head for home. Clutching Nutella AND hot drinking chocolate we notice the sky is turning the most amazing golden yellow with the setting sun. 'The lights perfect' I exclaim and out comes the camera. 'Quick quick' I say 'get yourself against the vast corregated side of the supermarket, the light is spot on for a portrait shot'. Shoppers trundling along with trolleys and the checkout girl dragging on the remains of a fag outside look on with amusement. In the end The Small Cross One has to concede that they are jolly good shots.
Driving along we notice that the sky looks promising for yet more poses against the deep hues of the turning vines. She's grabbed the camera now and is clicking as we hurtle along the empty tree lined road.
'Post this picture up' she says, 'do something random so they get a flavour of what it's really like'.
For some reason we both found it extroidinarily funny. 'Thanks for a great afternoon' she adds.