The Market

Thank god, someone turned up yesterday and filled in the hole. The end of the drive is now a muddy quagmire, but at least we can get the car out. Which was just the job this morning because we wanted to go to the market. Monica and I feel markets are one of the joys of France and the one in the local town is said to be a marvel. Before we decided to come to live here after I retired, we’d been visiting for years and going to the market was always a high spot of our visits. Stalls groaning with local cheeses, wonderful fresh vegetables and acres of delicious sausage. Every year Monica bought one of those baskets all the locals seem to carry and we absolutely merged into the background. Monica got me a beret to complete the transformation but quite frankly I thought that was going a bit far. Anyway, we trotted off to the market in the car, about ten miles or so, and found a space to park. The little place really comes alive on Sunday, with stalls up and down the streets and even the square in the centre is heaving with produce.

The only problem is it seems to be full of Brits. I mean, you can’t move without hearing, “Oh hello, Samantha, how’s Charles,” and such like, all bellowed in cut glass posh English voices. It’s a bit embarrassing to know these are your compatriots. Of course, most of them are second homers, come for a few weeks of la vie Française, and you have to put up with them, but it’s not an edifying sight. I said to Monica, shoot me if I start sounding like that.

We picked up some jolly nice sheep’s cheese and a couple of salami things. Cost a fortune, but worth it, though I have to say, I suspect the stall holders have a special price for les anglais. Back at the car we put away the shopping and strapped ourselves in then… nothing. Flat battery. I was furious. Monica had driven on the way there and clearly she had left the lights on. There were a few words said at that point, but I’ll draw a veil. We were standing about outside, wondering what to do next, when old Rupert hove into view. He obviously cottoned on to the fact that not all was right – Monica was snivelling into a hankie – and said he had jumper cables. “Always carry them, never can tell when you’ll need them.”

To cut a long story short, he brought round his ancient landrover and parked alongside while we connected the two batteries. After a lot of rather dramatic sparking, we got it sorted out but not before a chap in a spanking new Renault started honking away because Rupert’s car was blocking the road. Absolutely no patience, the French. I waved at the cables, but he just hooted, it was so rude. I had a good mind to go to the driver’s window and give him a piece of my mind, but Monica did a lot of smiling, while hissing at me not to be so stupid. Anyway, we got the car going, with a lot of roaring and black smoke from Rupert’s old wreck, and managed to get home without further incident. I told Monica that if she couldn’t be trusted to switch the lights off in future, I’d had to do all the driving. She was silent after that.

Carols rehearsal this evening at Mrs Boothby’s smelly cattery. And it’s getting cold so I’ll be lighting the stove, the first time since I swept the chimney with old Pierre’s brushes. Should go like the clappers. Looking forward to it.