A check-out at the Intermarché gives priority for the disabled. At first sight a good idea. Granddaughter Bella saw an elderly woman, wracked with Parkinson's, hand over her purse to the till-girl.
But an old man joined the queue behind us, moving slowly, needing his walking stick. Did he qualify as disabled? How does one verify?
The situation solved itself. A younger, more vociferous chap tagged on and with him I established the French for disabled. Handicappé, of course. Then the younger man opened his wallet and pointed to a certificate stamped with the unrelated letter R. Some kind of anti-foreigner scam? What the hell? I waved them both through.
In future I'll avoid the Caisse Prioritaire check-out. Or possibly apply for an R stamp myself.
LOST TIME I used to crawl-swim a mile twice a week, posting about this to excess and boring many commenters. For several complex reasons I had to give up swimming.
It's hot here in Autignac. Yesterday I donned my cozzie and my sun-proof tee-shirt and stood timidly. I used to jump in but I'm older and fear a heart attack. Like a wimp I use the ladder – but without a trace of oooh-ooher-oohoohooh! Not surprising, the pool thermometer registers 28.7 deg C. Did three ten-length swims and will jump in today.
LIVING ON Clive James has leukemia and emphysema and may die any moment. His collected TV criticism should be ephemeral but isn't. "Joan Lestor was a splendid chairperson (at the Labour Party Conference): When a speaker's time was up, she slung him off the platform. 'Thanks comrade.Lovely speech. Don't spoil it.' And back the poor sod went to another year of anonymous toil."