Slowly the world of childish anticipation contracts behind us, giving way to more lasting pleasures:
They say that Ingmar Bergman's one of his best.
I say, darling, how about...? No? I quite understand.
Jack's brother's an accountant; he's agreed to do the tax return.
Enthusiasm disappears. Recently VR lifted the cushion of the easy chair and found something brown underneath. A grape that had tumbled there weeks ago and had turned into a sultana. That's enthusiasm.
But this year is different. We booked this year's French villa within a month of returning home from last year's. The anticipative madness has described an eleven-month-long crescendo initiated as usual by Occasional Speeder. Through dark winter afternoons we were bombarded by emails describing restaurants on an increasing radius from the nearby village. We have argued about different techniques for getting up early enough to lunch in Carcassonne. Strategies for bypassing Rouen (and its damaged bridge) on the southward journey have been analysed and discarded. OS has produced a schedule covering the whole holiday fortnight: Friday June 13, afternoon: Chill; Thursday June 12, if it's wet: Narbonne cathedral.
VR and I, veterans of a thousand French holidays, have stuffed our Kindles with indulgence. We have bought jars of Hollandaise sauce (for the asparagus) because France doesn't do made-up Hollandaise.
I'm even looking forward to the drive (shared these days with OS). I know it'll quickly become a drag but that doesn't matter. For the moment my enthusiasm is virginal, something to be cossetted.