Book signing in Bridport.

We had the most wonderful weekend staying at home this Easter.

Jokingly referred to as "Notting Hill on Sea" Bridport possesses all the ingredients together with a truly eclectic mix of people to satisfy most tastes. The Dorset town holds a market every Wednesday and Saturday stretching from East street and snaking all the way down South street. From locally grown produce, to skilled artisans and pre-loved stalls containing a staggering variety of antique/collectibles/jewellery/vintage clothes, its a fascinating way to pass a morning.

Monsieur P agreed to don a French beret and fix up some French bunting. (When I recalled the vintage bunting/flags I had virtually given away in France I nearly wept when asked to fork out for the nasty polyester version). Never mind, had I the ability to predict that I would be sitting on an old wooden French cart signing a book entitled 'Last Tango in Carcassonne' in Bridport one day I would be a self made millionaire. However, I was most fortunate to be accompanied by a dolly who practically stole the show in her 1930's Vauxhall car alongside me. Honestly, the amount of people who thought the car would be improved with a rub down and a coat of paint made me shudder. When I explained that the value would decrease ENORMOUSLY they looked rather perplexed.

But to the book signing...

The Bridport News had very kindly written a little piece accompanied by a photograph of yours truly promoting the event, so a few people came along to purchase a copy and meet the author. I felt very flattered to be signing a book I had written and grateful for the support. No-body was rude so far as I know although there were some forthright opinions on France which for obvious reasons I choose to gloss over.

After such a hectic day I popped to my Fathers grave to tidy it up a little, pause for thought, and reflect awhile. Me time in other words. He really chose the most perfect spot to rest. A blackbird was singing beautifully whilst new-born lambs bleated to their mothers. Bees were humming around some recently placed flowers on a neighbouring grave. I was just feeling the soporific effects of the heat and setting to with my shears when I heard a voice behind me. 'I know you' the man said, 'you were in the Bridport News, haven't you written a book or something'? He laughed noisily. I momentarily stopped what I was doing, aghast that I had been recognised, here of all places! He continued cheerily, 'what's it about then'? I looked helplessly down at my fathers grave and sighed, 'must we go into all that here'? and gave a helpless shrug. 'I'll buy a copy then' the man said, 'cheerio' and with that he was gone and I was alone once again.

The farcical nature of the exchange and where it had taken place didn't escape me and I laughed out loud. I heard my fathers voice, 'only you' he would say.

It was a joke between us.