Networking

One of the couples we met at the restaurant got our phone number from Jeff and called us this evening. I vaguely remember them. He was wearing a rather holey jersey and she was dressed in what I can only describe as the hippy look circa 1968, though she must be seventy if she's a day. He's called Rupert - incidentally a name I have always found rather comical for some reason - and wanted to know if we would like to contribute to the seat they're planning to buy in memory of Owen. I didn't have a clue who Owen was and said why should I make a contribution for a chap called Owen. It was then I learned that the funeral in the village when we arrived was his. I thought I hadn't heard right when he said Owen had accident "with the mincer". I sorted of stuttered and said what a terrible accident that must have been - I obviously had the most terrible image in my mind for a moment and wondered in a gruesome sort of way what they'd actually buried - but he said, " No, mixer, he was electrocuted by his cement mixer. He'd got it cheap at a vide grenier." This was obviously dreadful and I made all the usual noises and said of course I'd contribute. I mean, civic duty and all that sort of thing.
On another matter Monica says the insurance people she visited today says we have to register the car in France. I thought as Europeans we could keep the English plates but it seems the insurance companies here are having no truck with that sort of nonsense and want their pound of flesh. There are forms to fill of course. That seems to be part of our life now, endless forms. Vive la France