Boulangerie

I nipped down to the boulangerie this morning to get croissants and a loaf. Marvellous air, I could have just stood outside the house, sucking it in and out. Unfortunately as I was doing my breathing exercises, I trod on the dead pigeon and got innards all over my shoe. Oh well, the joys of country life.

There was quite a queue in the bakers – whoops, boulangerie -  I must remember it’s not the baker any longer. One woman ahead of me seemed to be ordering a cake and the woman behind the counter (the baker’s wife) was showing her endless pictures from a book. While I was waiting for this performance to be over, a woman tried to barge me aside and I said, rather without thinking, “I think I was first.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, “I didn’t know you were English. Are you visiting?” As there was time to chat, I told her we’d just moved in, though of course, we’d had the place for some time. “That must be the Donald’s old house, did you know them?” Just then the cake ordering woman finished and it was me. I sorted out the bread and croissants and as I was leaving, the women I’d been talking to said, “We’re Jeff and Megan, up at the Tor de Point. Everyone knows where it is, you must come round.” That was nice of her, and I’m sure we’ll take her up on it. But of course, it’s the French we really want to integrate with. After all, that’s why we came.