I’m sure you will be relieved to read that I made it to the UK and back with only a couple of minor glitches last week. Despite my fear of flying, I made it over the Channel unscathed, The Book in hand for a little free advertising, although arriving on a cold, wet Monday afternoon in flip flops was not my idea of a welcome back present. Mercifully, the weather was gorgeous for the rest of my stay – the Gods deciding to wait until I got back to France to drum up a thunderstorm over my head. To add to their messing, the return flight was delayed at Gatwick due to potholes needing filling on the runway so not only did I have to endure an extra hour with agitated toddlers in the seats adjacent to me, I also had to find my car which I had stuck in one of the long stay car parks in the middle of a very soggy night. Thinking I was clever, I’d taken a photo of Giselle (my car in case you had forgotten her name) in her spot with the bay number clearly displayed – only I didn’t look to see which multi-storey automobile lot I had put her in. With one of 3 to choose from, I spent at least half an hour dragging myself and my luggage up and down staircases, temper at tantrum level until I finally found her. I would like to point out for those who may wish to park in one of Toulouse Airport’s concrete monstrosities, the ‘I’ section only exists in car lot number 2, that is to say the others have every letter of the alphabet except ‘I’. I have done extensive research.
It is a fact of life I suppose but funerals and reunions go together. Having caught up with Rene’s sons and Lareine’s family the night before, I was fully prepared for the onslaught of hugs and ‘oh my God it’s you’ on arriving at the crematorium the following day – after all, I hadn’t seen any of my old circle of chums in 3 years although I did feel a bit like the prodigal child returneth. My bestie Rene did herself proud with a beautiful and touching funeral service, even if I did have to reach for the tissue in Lareine’s outstretched hand when Rene’s sons gave their speeches. I raised a silent mental toast to my T too. Both he and Gary (Rene’s husband) would have had a bit of a giggle if they had noticed what I saw whilst standing outside afterwards waiting to go to the wake – a small metal sign attached to one of the pillars facing the crematorium doors saying ‘Smoking Zone’.
As much as it was lovely to catch up with friends, I am glad to be back home again. The much-discussed Denis was waiting at the door when I got back from my epic car park adventure and the woofers were delighted to see Mum again. Sort of. For about 10 minutes – apparently life with Denis is so much more exciting judging by the huffs I got after he left me crashed out on the bed. Thankfully I am forgiven and said bed is once more covered with panting pooches hogging any available fan – it’s flippin’ hot out there and if you think cooling off in the pool sounds like the perfect solution, the water temperature is 30 degrees. Once more into the soup and all that.
If my brief visit to my former turf taught me anything, it’s that I don’t miss the place one bit. I am sure I will pop over there again, certainly next Autumn as I will be attending Rene’s oldest son’s wedding but my heart lies in this little corner of France now. After all, Rene and Lareine, we drive on the right side of the road here…
“I’ve had a splendid time and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home”. (L. M. Montgomery)
Widow plus woofs 