Propaganda

Heather Smalls and co are taking over the world...

Dave O on the balcony

Beer o'clock at Ventenac.

Bienvenue a Ventenac!

Dave O got my message – “Bring earplugs. Seriously.” – and complied. We pinged and ponged beside la cave as we talked over the problems he’d had buying his flat in Catford. A beer, two beers and a third, and the holiday had started. The fun had been organised thus:

On the top floor: Dave O and me; Vin and Olly; Dom and Julia.
On the middle floor: Hannah and Tom; the Lovely Colin and the Lovely Jane; Anna Mc, Chaz, Clarkey and Sally.
On the ground floor: Rob

The Jones Baptism

The ceremony was odd. I could handle that it was in my old church, although I was a little perturbed by the fact that my old school joined onto it. Was it seventeen years since I’d used that door last? Fifteen? Weirder still, the minister used to be my scoutmaster. The past was dripping down the walls, it seemed. But not the same – was this room always this small? Surely not.

And who was the Godfather? Well, there were two - Owen and me.

Curry at Steele Road

Beth is getting bigger. Due at Christmas, but she thinks the doctors have underestimated the duration of the pregnancy by a few weeks; they think that the baby will come three weeks later than she does. I filled them in on the plan for Japan, and talked about Dad’s AA meetings with Owen. “I’ve been to them too,” he said, “and they’re really good. Tough work, like, but good.” He put down his Strongbow as he spoke. “But they only work if you want them to work. If you want to quit.” Quite.

Nothing flash

Great pleasure is found in the simplest of simple things. Food and wine, good company. A shared meal, shared smiles. We went out for dinner. Nothing flash – Zizzi at the Triangle, in fact – but pleasant enough to be a treat. A beautiful montepulciano, a couple of pizzas, a smooch, and a cuddle in the taxi home. It only takes these little things. Bliss.

And then, soothing and calm, an email from Dominic

Civil unrest across France! Oil refineries blockaded! Petrol stations running dry! Schoolchildren on the streets, burning wheelie bins and overturning cars! Aiports closed, flights cancelled! And - if the popular UK press are to be believed - rivers of blood flowing through the streets. Could it be that bad? Surely not.

And then, sooting and calm, an email from Dominic arrives:

Vin's sister emails

"Right, for all those relying on outbound or return travel by car for the holiday, you might want to start planning a contingency.

"There is currently ‘a bit of a situation’ developing throughout France, as you might be aware. Estimates on the wires are that the petrol supplies in France are only going to last another two or three days if current levels of striking continue (those on flights might want to check them too as apparently some are being cancelled).

A gift from the cat.

Gross.