I got lost in Arc sur Tille tonight. I was trying to find my way back from the Super U, a sort of giganto-Spar where I had been buying a demographic busting selection of sparklers, loo roll, condoms (yes, I am attempting a more responsible approach to contraceptive issues) and a bubble blowing machine. I keep trying to escape in small ways, and since I finished all 600 pages of American Wife on Friday, I have had to get more and more creative. I have tried: lying face down in the grass, using a dirty mug for tea (causing a hyperventilating breakdown from OCD), trying to write longhand blogposts and assorted words, and classifying mountains of Pokémon cards by prettiness. I have had exhausting dreams about cleaning up poo all over Chateau C'If (thank you, Mrs Trefusis) Super U was the last in a long line. Also, Sister in Law (we're not married, the CFO and I, but what else would I call her? The Disapproving One?) does not like feeding us much and we have been eating the heel of pâté the charcutier gave them for free on Thursday all weekend. And biscottes. God, why do biscottes exist? If there is a nuclear apocalypse making bread an impossibility I think my face melting off might be nicer than eating biscottes. Actually, Sister in Law gives every indication of not liking us at ALL, but I think that's more to do with the set of her facial features than real dislike. Though of course, we are disgustingly dirty, and I have several times forgotten to change slippers going upstairs.
Anyway, I left the Super U relatively confident of the basic direction I needed to head in, but after what I thought was a cunning, but in fact was a disastrous 'short cut', I ended up lost in street after street of identical pavillons. Arc sur Tille looks like nothing so much as a warmer version of Cumbernauld, where swathes of my family live. Though, thankfully, with fewer members of my family. I walked up and down peering into front yards with identical swing and slide sets. Occasionally, for variety, I would end up in front of a squat concrete public building of some sort. Haven't I seen that before? No, this time it's the town hall. Last time it was the gendarmerie. After about half an hour I thought I might just sit down and cry, or curl up in a field and go to sleep. Or maybe go and knock on someone else's door. The food might be better; I have no idea what cruel fate meant I have ended up aligned with one of the few French families who consider food essentially an irritating interruption in lengthy discussions about the neighbour's car and which cousin has put on weight.
In the end I found my way back after a couple of wrong turns around the bakery and attracting and then getting rid of a gang of bored youths on bikes who had left their post in the bus stop to stare at me. As an aside, the CFO and I laughed ourselves sick at the bus stop graffiti "Punk et Skin, c'est trop chouette" (a bit like saying "Punk and skins are really super"). Their disaffected youth are so POLITE. It must be all the hand sanitiser they're sniffing.
I have to go. It's time for Apéro (with no crisps, and blue Pastis). Normal service resumes tomorrow. Thank FUCK.