S’s knowledge of French was (fairly obviously) greatly helped by his year living there and he has generously passed on bits and pieces to me. Thus I know that ‘mechant’ is mean or naughty – the equivalent of Beware of The Dog is Chien Mechant – which was particularly helpful when I trod the well worn path on Sunday of bread buying (another bon mot from S had been the word for a half of, which I employ frequently at the bakers as they sell my favourite bread by the kilo) and then to The Laughing Customs Woman – where le garcon mechant of the title was grinning as he went about his garconning – clad in a South African rugby shirt! I think he appreciated my admonishment being in French! It was just a shame that my stirring of the chicken’s entrails (ibid) were so accurate; I’ll have to change my name to Cassandra.
Having stopped using one bar on market day because it had been colonised by Brits. I could have almost have felt a tad guilty joining the steady stream of Brits going to TYT for the final on Saturday morning; almost… With Saturday being the last slobfest I went from there for a stroll along the post Crisis, clear the cobwebs, beach and cliffs walk and then to LCW for TOMA – and the trial by adversity continued. I fear Dick’s brother may be approaching the end of a short and inglorious tenure; perhaps it should be hope rather than fear, despite acknowledging that Old Rednose was within a match or two of the sack before starting his unparalleled run of success. The best part of it all was the battery running down with half an hour left to play – it saved me the agony of watching any more! It had not been a day of sports watching ecstacy… During the rugby all but two of us abandoned cafe before the end.
Having returned to LTC I was only indoors for a couple of minutes before there was a knock at the door – and the old adage of never swear at an unidentifiable person would have been good. Thinking it was Alchie Annie I “grumbled” as I unlocked the door – and there was Pat of It’s The Biscuit Man fame, come round to pay and invite me for coffee on Sunday morning!
October has, according to some neighbours been the wettest in living memory so it was a pleasure to leave the WiFi station and garcon mechant to find a pleasant , sunny day with the wind gently teasing the lines (as in rigging rather than parading) of the assembled yachts:
Trevor, bless him, is either the ultimate Brummie or does a very good impersonation – Pat suggested coffee in the sun so he wrapped up like the Michelin man and moaned the whole time. As they live close to C and D it gave me the opportunity to double check on a nagging doubt. We had arranged for them to suffer trial by my cooking again but I had written one day in my diary while thinking that it should have been another – and the other was sooner; the other was also correct!
It may be the cynic in me, but I have a problem with the comparatively recently politicised wearing of ever more prominent poppies in the UK ever further from Remembrance Day; it was not that many years ago that the two minutes silence was abandoned as being too disruptive to commerce. In France Armistice Day is a national holiday and treated with due decorum – and when I happened to be in Moscow once at that time of year I was deeply impressed with the dignity and respect shown there as well. Visiting Redon for food hall and Leclerc on Monday I was pleased to note that the latter will be closed for the day; it is good that some countries can put respect before money.
In trying to cook something different whenever C and D come to dinner, I realised, I use them as my eternal guinea pigs – and they never complain, bless them. This time the quantities seemed slightly out – I have enough in the freezer part of the fridge to last out until I return to This Sceptic Isle (as Willie The Wordsmith might have punned had he been still alive). They bought some quinces ready for baking but I managed to damn nigh incinerate them; it took me all of Tuesday morning to (almost) clean their baking tray.
With TOMA being consigned to the lesser European tournament for yet another (and final if they keep playing as they are) season it was odd in the extreme to see them playing on a Wednesday – and at a ridiculously early time. Despite that they continued in their currently abysmal style – all the faults of the Wenger decline with none of the flair. It was mildly amusing to see that Uncle Arsene is being touted as the next coach of Bayern Munich; it is less amusing to see that The Special One may be considered for TOMA if they do sack Dick’s brother. Worse and Worser? Spurs Robbie was moved to mention that even thinking of Jose Mourinho was going back to the bad old George Graham days and “1 – 0 to the Arsenal” and “boring, boring Arsenal.”
Despite the unusual timing of the game TYT was jammed packed with the usual suspects whilst paradoxically being otherwise empty; Cathy was there to use the internet, Cariad John came down for the second half and Spurs Robbie looked in after his work. Unfortunately on this occasion Bruno put the match on his big tv and so I couldn’t use the battery as an excuse to escape…
For Germany and the German people 9th. November is a bitter-sweet day – the anniversary of the Berlin Wall being torn down but also the anniversary of Krystallnacht – when Nazi thugs held a pogrom and broke the windows and any glass owned by followers of the Jewish faith that they could find (As well as burning down synagogues). There is a young German woman named Krystall who I used to know with her English partner but he and I fell out quite a few years ago; by strange coincidence we passed each other in a supermarket that lunchtime.
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