With love from France

My love affair with the French is being sorely tested of late. There are only so many times that the Gallic shrug is attractive. Once. There are only so many times that the upturned palms to accompany the shrug are attractive. Once. And if I am met one more time with the bald statement ‘This is France’to any query I might have then I shall do more than shrug with indifference. I shall scream.

I was pondering all this and more on a gentle drive back from Limoux and minding my own business, in a minding your own business sort of pleasant way, when suddenly I was shaken from my reverie by the realisation that a black Mercedes was heading straight towards me on my side of the road. But then it would be wouldn’t it ? A clear straight road and the driver chooses to overtake and inflict their death wish on me. I was so shaken and incredulous that anyone could be so dumb, and I wouldn’t normally mention it but it was a woman driver with black sunglasses on, and I so wanted to slap her face hard, that I decided to head straight on home. Did the true British thing and popped the kettle on.

Which means that we have no washing up liquid, no milk, no bread and everyone is going to complain.

Shrug.