You have gone and made me cry in the corner of the Office de Tourisme and there is a surly teenager with an arm in plaster sitting looking over my shoulder willing me to finish and picking his spots with the other arm. I have had to pretend I am choking, possibly on a Chausson aux Pommes. Mamie made some kind of peculiar bakery error which has left us with eighteen Chaussons aux Pommes to get rid of before tomorrow. Any leftover food is treated as a personal affront, so there will be a lot of pastry and apple purée heading my way in the next 24 hours. And although nearly everything improves for being encased in pastry, apple purée seems to be the exception. I have finished the boil in the bag fishies, so heaven only knows what tonight will hold. There are a couple of sachets of Knorr powdered soup left I think. The CFO has tried to persuade me that this is Mamie's hommage to Cuisine Moleculaire and that Ferran Adria does something similar. I have resisted kicking him. But I digress. The choking/weeping is a great look. Thank you, though, for your lovely words and thoughts. There will be no rashness. After fifteen years, noone is in a hurry to do anything and I am already getting vertigo from looking over this particular cliff.
The holidays are drawing to a close and I have been granted a day off throwing myself down mountains, crying in terror and drowning in my own semi-frozen snot. I am too slow for the CFO in any case, so Papy has stepped into the breach to do dangerous unpleasant things with sticks tied to his feet. Papy is a hero of the revolution and must be fêted with melted cheese and wine in a box and long, long afternoon sleeps with the Sudoku book resting on his chest. I am relishing the peculiar sensation of being able to move my legs relatively freely, and have taken them down to the Office de Tourisme again, to hog the single internet terminal, glaring at the broken limbed youths who come too close. The sun is glittering on the snow, sending shimmery darts of light off the walls of the faux wood chalets. Jaunty fleece hats topped with fake multicoloured dreadlocks are bobbing around in the nine hundred strong queues for the lifts. It is all quite picturesque, if you like that kind of thing. Can we take it for granted I don't? Yes, I think we can. I am wearing hiking boots. The words send a shiver down my spine. HIKING BOOTS INTERNET!! This is not good. We still haven't located any non fleece garmets, clean underthings, or deodorant. I am hallucinating Estée Lauder Advanced Night Repair, cappucino, Grazia and Miu Miu shoes.
Strangeness continues, certainly. It is terribly obvious, in this confined space, how much Mamie and Papy love each other. They have been married for forty two years and they still hold hands when they watch tv or go to the shops. They go everywhere, do everything together. The CFO and I have often pondered what would happen if they did not have the other. Mamie barely dares go to a down the road alone, and Papy would starve to death unless the tin cans of ravioli had ring pulls. I wonder what it must be like to grow up with that kind of model. I don't remember my parents ever being together, and even in their subsequent relationships, they valued time apart quite as much as time together. Does it matter? I suppose it shouldn't, but I do think it makes for very different expectations of what being 'together' is. These thoughts go around my head late into the evening as I listen to the jolly Dutch family above playing wholesome games and pretend to be asleep. I am getting nowhere. My brain is befuddled by altitude and powdered soup and lack of drugs and I cannot quite think through any of this.
Tomorrow we head home. Home to the weepette, and the filthy house and a cake baking marathon for Finger's birthday, which has crept up on me and is, apparently, on Sunday. There must be a ladybird that he can hit with a hammer, a parrot, and a 'surprise'. I am game, but any inspiration, gratefully received.
Two minutes connection time left, the spot picker is hovering closer and closer. Must go.
Adieu, cruel Office de Tourisme!