Stephanie Plum inspired cream cakes, gloves, as I've lost mine, one of those sticky roller things for cleaning clothes and two refills, no egg cups, but in a moment of optimism, fuck gel. Met a welshman and gave him a business card 'Are you expensive' he asked 'Very' quipped I. Put latter on top of first to see if cashier would bat an eyelid. She didn't, but we all laughed when Monsieur whipped out his Laguiole (it's a pocket knife you smutty-minded lot) to cut the tags off the gloves.
Second stop - serious ironmongers next door, while I bought a Lulu Guinness toilet bag and a Yes Smoking sign,
Madame browsed the woodburning stoves. The words '20 percent off' have a hypnotic hold over her, which was all part of our cunning plant to replace hideous cream Jotul with something black and cast ironish and around 14kw. Checkout impulse buy of bulb which might fit moped.
Move car to nearer town centre, put shopping in boot, and off to continue PS.
First stop, the pharmacy, where Madame bought two strengths of Nurofen.
Then on to baker's for an emergency croissant for Monsieur, where Madame also bought 3 loaves of bread. Stop outside as there was an Amnesty tat stall, and felt duty to buy something. Four tacky plastic egg cups with matching spoons!.
Buy right-on environment magazine from a greenie. Why do these fucking people rabbit on so much? Have bought magazine and will presumably read it so why he intent on listing entire contents.
Slight contretemps about price of Parmesan in cheese shop. Her 'I'm not paying 20 fucking € a kilo' Me 'Don't think you have to buy an entire kilo'. The wiser counsel prevailed, and we left with a mere half-kilo, and a healthy chunk of Salers, which is the nearest the French can get to decent Cheddar.
Quick split - moi for more money from cash machine, elle for Golden Virginia. Market absolutely packed. so pausing briefly to say hello to the woman who makes and sells our local favourite rouge which she will hand pump from into whatever container you have to hand,
to tell her We Are A Grandmother, buy some Accras from the stall next door, and then to our 'local' of 18 years for a coffee. Forgot how fucking noisy it was - sound reflection from medieval stone walls and designer stainless steel. So not the best place for a mutton jeff bloke, and because of some silly law, you can't smoke a fag and drink an espresso at the same time. Just before we left, waitress presented us with two bags of baby clothes so we stagger out laden like bag ladies, for a quick roll-up outside.Monsieur is left guarding the plunder, while Madame shoots off to get the car. Monsieur soon gets itchy feet, and staggers off like two bag ladies to see if artist chum - incidentally daughter one's first teacher who wrote on her first primary school report 'Elle a maitriser la langue francaise'.
She not in so stagger back by a different route to see if old house was still there and if wisteria had bloomed.
Unfortunately, stroll interrupted by old lady who had fallen over. I know a lot about falling over, so staggered down to help. Fortunately a couple beat me to it, and we all processed back to old lady's flat. Old house (15c) still there and wisteria hadn't. Shuffle back to Cafe and wait for Madame to appear at secret parking place. She arrived dead on time, I loaded the baglady stuff into the pot de confiture and we sped off home.
Sat down, rolled one up, looked at mag. Even the article that an oil company wants to start opencast mining our beloved departement for gas and bitumen in he schist didn't spoil the day. Etheral phone call to sister, who started wittering on about David Nash who does things with dead trees. Me 'So do I' her long pause.....
I always had him mixed up with the bloke in the Hollies. Still, seems I have bought this
and have finally got rid of awful orange background. So will celebrate by mending lav. From blog to bog, so to speak.
Madame and moi have house to selves tonight.
Might ask Ruby round
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