In Woodstock I recently caught up with two brothers of my age, who are family friends as our fathers were best buddies. In our twenties we would endlessly make fun of our fathers after their reunions as they grumbled and griped about the modern world. We now agreed that our fathers did not go far enough.
While on in the UK, I frequently came across the British Transport Police catchphrase ‘See it, Say it, Sorted.’ Individuals are meant to contact the Police if they see something that does not look right. OMG, as a sexagenarian looking at the present world, where would I start and would I ever finish?
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Shopping at the LeClerc supermarket in St.Martin en Re (in France) was quite an experience. Midday on Mondays should be quiet but not a bit of it. I have never seen so many people crammed into a supermarket. Must be the French restrictive trading hours. Meanwhile the French like their food fresh necessitating shopping at least every other day.
The ensuing crush of people and trolleys made everyone just a wee bit tetchy. The worst were the grannies who were clearly on a mission. With trolleys used like dodgem cars, they would race each other for the best produce. Woe betide those who got in the way. One unfortunate man, who had spied the Camembert special, was cut off by the trolley pincer movement of two grannies and then rammed from behind by a third. It was like a perfect carjacking and the three grannies made off with all the Camembert.
The passage to the check-out tills was like a current of trolleys. Working as a threesome with our trolley we swam our way to the centre of the current. When it was our turn to check-out, we suddenly remembered we had forgotten the eggs. Manning up I volunteered to get the eggs. Channelling Sebastian Chabal (see last blog: ‘Gatwick I love you’) I put my shoulder down and bulldozed through the oncoming current of trolleys. On finding the eggs I raced to the check-out with them under my arm. Two grannies lunged for my eggs, but the tackles came in too high and I was able give them the classic hand-off in the face. One even fell in her trolley. Once at the check-out I mounted a rear-guard action until we had paid. God, it’s good to be playing rugby again.
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We went for lunch in a town called Ars on the Ile de Re. Yes, there is such a place. Its full name is Ars-en-Re, not Ars-on-Fire. I WhatsApped some friends that we would be lunching in Ars but I would first be going to the Ars market. These are the responses I received. ‘What a bummer’ from the Australian contingent but the best were from the British contingent. First was ‘Watch out for the bottom-feeders’, but the best was ‘Try not to make a tit of yourself.’ I may have miserably failed on the latter but you will have to ask my lunch companions. Anyway, well done on the responses and the cheques are in the post.
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This will my last blog relating to my recent travels. Getting out, so to speak, has provided plenty of source material for me to write about. Now that I am back home the source material may well dry up and I may not blog as frequently as I have the last few weeks. Anyway fingers crossed.