Leaving on a jet plane

Well, I'm off on my hollies. Finally, I managed to get hold of a bikini. It's purple, grape, or hyacinth in hue, depending on how much of a pretentious twot you are. To give you a measure of my husband's abilities in this area, he refers to it as 'crushed parma violet'. Perhaps he means crushed by my gargantuan physique. I dunno. I've given up trying to understand him...it's better that way.

I looked at a Trikini, which are all the rage in St Trop, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out where the third bit was supposed to go. Short of growing an extra limb, tit or head, there seemed too much to go around. I tied a piece of it around my head in a She-Rambo stylie, but the vigorous head shaking of the sales assistant convinced me it was a look that wasn't working. For me, at least.

I have been checking out the weather in Portugal. It's shite. So the bikini might languish in the suitcase. I am now wondering if I should ditch all the sheer chiffony numbers and just take jumpers. Spouse and I were hoping for a bit of Margot and Gerrying around the pool, him in his golfing gear and myself in a flowing, gossamer kaftan.

Sprog is off the clock with excitement. He is running around telling anyone who will listen that we are going to Porkugal. And after a fortnight of Portugese pastries, sumptuous seafood and barrels of port, I think he'll probably be right. I have been told that the local delicacy is tripe. Perhaps that's one area of consumption where I might be persuaded to exercise a little restraint...I have never eaten tripe. Have you? What's it like? Worth a punt?

Mental cycle

Countdown to the summer trip is underway. Operation buttock bronze is in full swing and reports of the attendant earth tremors are coming in thick and fast. The French secret service, who already have a file on me as thick as a king Camembert, have been asking questions. My ample twin globes have been showing up on their satellite images. They had to come around and check I wasn’t harbouring any stolen Semtex H in my secret buttock chambers. I told them straight, ‘listen guys, unfortunately, these babies aren’t hollow.’ They disappeared in search of lenticular clouds shrouding UFOs.

The millet twins have cycled off into the distance, yodelling probably. We chomped through a goat cheese and olive pizza and quaffed rosé while watching them chew less than joyously on their spartan grains. They were on honeymoon. Surely, it’s got to get better for them from here on in? I really hope so, for their sake. She told me she got married in Goretex. They treated the whole wedding day as a triathlon. They ran to the church, swam to the reception and cycled to the honeymoon suite on top of an iceberg. I’m relieved I didn’t get an invite. I've only got one decent hat, and it's not rubber. And how did their Grannies cope? We also established that we don’t really know each other. That also came as a relief. Spouse used to know one of their training mates. He actually thought he was dead. Apparently, not. That’s if we take their word for it.

After they’d gone, Spouse rather charmingly told me he would leave me if I ever got that hard and gnarled. He likes me soft and yielding. Or flabby and wobbly, he added…rather less charmingly.

Talking of sporting types, Mark Cavendish is doing well, isn’t he? What is he on? Oh yes of course…a bike. Silly me. The French are smelling a Rosbif rat.

Panic over

They brought their own millet with them...

French flashers

Now, there is one thing I absolutely love about the French. Without reservation. It is something that sets them apart from the rest of the world.

Can you guess what it is? Yes, I know...where to start? The French are over-burdened with top traits...I'd be the first to admit this.

Well...I just LOVE the way they religiously flash their headlights at oncoming drivers to warn of Gendarmes up ahead with speed guns. Twice in the past few days I have been saved from getting a ticket by benevolent drivers coming in the opposite direction, flashing their lights at me with great enthusiasm. It seems to be a matter of honour.

Before you all get on my case, I pretty much always stick to the speed limit, but the boys in tight-blue have recently taken to secreting themselves behind the plane trees on a stretch of road that is just within the confines of the town signpost...but really it is so remote and quiet, everyone has their foot down a little heavier. I suppose I should thank my lucky stars the Flics have time to dedicate to slightly speeding drivers. We don't get a lot of murders around here. The only stuff that gets nicked are tools. The crime of last year in our commune was Thierry's chainsaw getting half-inched. Oh, and the mysterious disappearance of Dolores the donkey. But, she turned up again, looking a lot fitter and happier two months later. Wherever she went, she was obviously getting her oats.

Summer hols mean summer guests mean cleaning frenzies mean migraines mean collapsing in an alocholic haze/heap.

To my mind there are three types of guest. There are good mates, where all the preparation involved is the chilling of the wine and the location of the corkscrew.

There are those guests you have to clean for (mother in law, various maiden aunts, some of Spouse's glamorous acquaintances, anyone who works in environmental health) and there are guests you don't really know, who are sort of ligging their way into your house via some dubious link with someone you once met somewhere, but can't actually remember their name now...but don't want to let on, for fear of offending anyone.

Tomorrow we are expecting just such a visit. I'm not sure who they are. They only eat macro-biotic...so I'm really praying they don't want to stay for any longer than an hour or so, as I might have to offer them food. And I don't think I have anything macro-biotic in the house. What is macro-biotic? Is it food that is rotting already? It sounds highly inedible to me. I have plenty of micro-bionic in the fridge, but people are so fussy about what they shovel down these days.

Do you know who my favourite guests are? The ones who turn up and yell 'Get in the car! We're taking you out for dinner!'

Invasion aversion

It's started again. Every year is the same. The supermarkets are full of them. The winding country roads clogged with them. Cafes and bars packed with them. Swimming pools and lakes flooded with them.

Holidaymakers.

Don't you just hate them?

Exposing their pasty, white blubber to us poor unsuspecting, apple-cheeked country folk. There should be laws against it. Cycling in the middle of the road. Taking an inordinate amount of time in the bank to perform the simplest of monetary transactions. Jamming up the roads in their RVs (don't they ever give these people eye/intelligence tests before letting them loose with their sheds on wheels?) And they always seem to be driven by eighty-five year old Austrians who travel with all their biscuits on board, thus contributing nothing to the local economy whatsoever. They just seem happy polluting our beautiful, clean air with their exhaust fumes and the faint smell of cat piss and nicotine.

Do I sound slightly peeved?

I am.

I hate the summer holidays. The whole fecking country ceases to function. Nothing gets done. Everything is closed.

Wishing time away is a dreadful thing to do...but right now, September can't come soon enough.

Rant ends.