Having been berated for purchasing the wrong kind of ham from the hypermarket I have got myself shod and out the door for an early evening walk. No matter that the right kind of ham invariably gets pushed to the side of the plate and is thus transformed into cat food. Our cat, Pot d’Colle (Pot of Glue- he’s a stray and he kind of sticks around…), loves it when the kids don’t finish their dinner.

Down on the main road parallel to the river there is a strong smell of decomposing eggs. It is either the sewage plant or a particularly vehement session of evangelising at the Vie et Lumière shack over on the cycle path.


Identical twin cats giving me the once over.


You’ll go well when you go with…

These ads are disappearing fast. I remember coming to France as a kid, they were everywhere. We’d see Vin Fou, Dubonnet, Ripolin, Suze and Noilly Prat painted on houses on the side of the road, as we crawled along in our yellow Datsun, mum and dad cheerfully puffing away on their cigarettes and not a seat belt in sight. Those were the days.

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