FRANCE: LA CHUTE It was hot as the hinges of hell. Darren, OS's hubbie, ordered une pression (draft beer), I ordered une grande pression causing Darren to change his order. The beer came in heavy glass mugs that needed two hands to keep them steady. I hate these crude containers – they coarsen all they dispense. Thick dimpled glass is the enemy of all beer.
Quite soon we ordered a couple more GPs and eventually my personal thermodynamics re-assumed a steady state. I went inside to pay the bill. Told the waitress I was looking forward to lunch the following day “because yours is the sort of place that does blanquette de veau (veal in a white sauce) as the plat du jour (the daily special).” Left cheerily.
Too cheerily. I fell into space from a platform cunningly designed for minimal ostentation. Fought myself in the air; gave in. Fell saying “Shit”, the word pilots usually leave behind on the black box as they face their final rendezvous with Mother Earth.
Two youngish Frenchmen sprang up, one extending his hand. I smiled (I think I did) and said my most available hand was the one that hurt. “I'm going to turn over,” I said. Raising myself I not only used the hand that hurt but also a knee that hurt too. I thanked them both profusely in my most inventive French wondering if two Englishmen of equivalent age would have bothered.
THE NOMAD A sleek black cat wanders in offering insincere caresses. Later a scraggy grey cat enters timorously. If I throw gristle to the grey the black boxes its ears. Early this morning the black saw me typing through the French windows and screeched to be let in. The hell with it.