Grandad September 15th, 2011
One of my favourite pastimes here is supping coffee in the local bar or cafe.
There is nothing better than sitting outside the cafe in the warm sun and watching the world go by. The best ones are the ones in the cities as there is usually a lot going on, and I can just sit, relax and watch the young girls people going about their business in that peculiar unhurried way they have. Come to think of it, I don’t think I have ever seen a French person run.
Cafes and bars are everywhere. You’ll pass them in villages and most streets in the towns have them.
So can someone please explain something?
How come I seem to have picked the one spot in France where the nearest outdoor cafe is about ten miles away?
That is fucking annoying.
Grandad September 14th, 2011
I didn’t scribble much here yesterday because it was kind of mizzly outside.
As the fates would have it, I was in a writing mood, and when I’m in a real writing mood I don’t waste my time here. Oh no. Yesterday I made a ferocious dent in The Buke. Remember The Buke? The one I have been writing for years and never getting anywhere? I made a bold decision yesterday and deleted the fucking thing. Started again from scratch, I did and it is trotting along very happily.
Until today arrived.
Today was one of those days I dream about during the long Winter. An azure sky withe ne’er a cloud to be seen. A light breeze just to prevent it getting too hot. Not a day for playing with The Buke. We went for a bit of a drive after the sun had burned us to a crisp. We found a lovely waterside restaurant that actually has my favorite item on the menu – Confit de Canard.
The place wasn’t open, but we’ll be heading back at the appropriate time [whenever that is].
Already I have seen my main course just beside the restaurant.
Raw Confit de Canard
Grandad September 13th, 2011
Do the French have smaller arses?
Their toilet paper seems to be narrower.
Or maybe it’s just my imagination?
Just wondering………
Grandad September 12th, 2011
I’m still not sure why I am writing this damned thing every day.
i suppose you lot think that I have nothing better to do, and me on my holliers and all?
Personally, I think it’s because it’s a challenge. There is also an element of stubbornness. I refuse to let the fucking Interweb connection get the better of me.
I have mentioned this connection before. I really don’t know what’s wrong with it but it is as bad as, if not worse than a dial up connection. I have measured it and apparently I am supposed to be connecting at 1 megathingy, which should be enough but it isn’t. The fucking thing keeps disconnecting and when it is connected, some sites take more than an age to load. It can actually take over ten minutes to load one of my own pages. It connects all right, but then it apparently just sits there doing nothing. I have worn out the poor old Refresh button.
As for having better things to do – just at the moment I haven’t. It is sort of misty outside but it’s set to clear later so I’m just idly passing a minute or two.
Of course another reason why I’m still scribbling – I have to earn a bob or two so that I can start building up my funds for next years holliers.
And you lot thought I was just doing it to entertain you?
Hah!
Grandad September 11th, 2011
There are some things the French do exceptionally well.
They maintain their roads to the highest standards.
Everywhere, from the remotest country lane to the heart of a city is as clean and fresh as an entrant in the Tidy Towns Contest. You would be very hard pressed to find the smallest scrap of litter anywhere.
The people [in the region where we are] could not be friendlier if they tried.
Why then are they crap when it comes to the simple act of buying a carton of milk of a Sunday? Not one fucking shop open, and we traveled for miles. I got petrol all right but that was at an unmanned automatic place. Back home in Ireland, just about every shop in the village is open all day Sunday. For fuck’s sake, I can buy milk at any time, night or day, on every single day of the year without traveling more than a few miles. 3AM Christmas morning? No problem. As much milk as I want. Here? No fucking way. Not even on an ordinary Sunday.
The French have a funny thing about milk. If you do manage to get inside a supermarket you will find a whole aisle of the stuff. Dozens of brands, types and flavours, and all of it UHT treated so that it tastes shite. You have to make your way to a cold cabinet [usually at the other end of the shop] to find a very small sample of bog standard fresh milk. There will be about eight or nine bottles of the stuff tucked apologetically at the back of the cabinet as if it’s hoping no one will find it.
Very fucking strange.
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