Okay.



Okay. So. France was good. The house was great, apart from the things like having no central heating and, okay, the electrics were a little squiffy (you couldn't run the washing machine and the kettle at the same time, for example, and the lights flickered all the time), and, okay, the wallpaper looked like a very, very disturbed person had exploded in every room, but other than those things (oh, and the oil heater in the kitchen was possibly leaking), the house was great. No sarcasm, I am for reals.

The first few days were spent in a haze of cheese, wall-paper removal, more cheese, flag-stone scrubbing, strange and slightly fevered dreams about Katie Melua (methinks I spent a wee tad too much time with the cleaning products there), puntuated with moments like having to carry the previous owners bidet to the correct skip at the tip. The correct skip was of course miles away, and I noticed half-way round that the disconnected pipe sticking out under my arm had a plug of hair and muck sticking out of it. It was a bidet. That was not going to be hair from someone's head. I pretty much ran (or, okay, seeing as it was very heavy, it was more like that weird speed walking they do at the olympics) to the skip and tossed it in as far as it would go, which wasn't far.

Chaaaannnggginng the subject, the hotel next door had a very friendly cat that would come and say hello to us and try to wander into the house. We had no idea what his name was but he didn't seem to mind being called 'Monsieur Tubby', which is what I christened him.

The hotel also had a rather fabulous little wine cellar, and they also hired bikes. I'm not sure what kind of bikes I was expecting them to have but they were actually fantastic, if a little well-used and in need of some repair (the one I always had had no front break and some of the gears didn't work, but I still really liked it), so after the first few days I started going out on some little exploratory rides up and down the canel. I think the furthest I did there was about six miles.

The second time I took a bike out, I was heading toward Chateux Neuf along the canel when I passed under a bridge and thought, upon exiting, that the rather large, green branch on the path looked a little shiny in the afternoon sunlight. It was only upon slowing down to investigate that I realised the large shiny branch was actually a large shiny snake, which I missed the head of with the front wheel by about an inch, if that. Mr snake was not very happy with this turn of events (not that I blame him, to be honest) and so decided to raise his head and give me what I can only describe as the dirtiest look I've ever been given. He also decided to show me his fangs, at which point I decided to be elsewhere very quickly. About a couple of hundred meters down the path I happened across an elderly gentleman who was walking a teeny tiny little dog, and decided I really had to warn him about the snake, for fear his little dog would yap its last . I started the encounter with 'Excuse me, sir, I don't speak French but...' which is when I ran out of French and had to rely on the universal language of mime. I was about ten seconds away from getting off the bike and wriggling around in the dirt when he cottoned on to what the crazy English girl was saying and grinned. 'Don't worry,' he seemed to be saying, and then he mimed hitting the angry snake with his walking stick. I laughed, nodded, and with a few 'sorrys' and possibly a 'thank you' (I was getting a bit mixed up at that point), was back on my way, with a wary eye out for large green wiggling things.

The next day, after another morning of cleaning and wall-paper attacking, my luck involving French men and animals held, when on another ride I came across a white cow escaped from its field and the farmer (or, at least a farmer), within sight. This time, my powers of mime (and moo) failed me miserably, and it was only when he approached the road and saw the cow that he realised what I'd been trying to say. He nodded and shrugged, and then asked me where I was from. At last! I thought. A question I can answer! 'My mother lives in Vandernesse', I said, pointing down the hill to the village past the lake. He sighed, nodded and gave me a look that seemed to say 'Another British couple moved in.' He shrugged. 'But what can you do?' And with that, he trudged off in the opposite direction of the cow.

So, when I wasn't cleaning, running away from snakes or attempting to start writing for NaNo, what else did I do? The answer is very simple: drank, ate cheese and played cards. Mum and I spent at least a few hours every evening playing the few games we know (Gin, German Whist and Shithead, if you were interested), and became card fiends. Plus, I managed to play the same card trick on her three times, which amused her no end.

On Tuesday, we went for dinner at the next door neighbours, who are also British. It was myself, Mum, Keith (her husband), and Andy and Jackie, who I do have to say, was a rather brilliant cook. Despite Jackie making efforts to include me, Mum and Keith did rather dominate the conversation (to the point that I felt uncomfortable for the hosts), and I left half-an-hour earlier than they did, instead going back to the house to hijack Keith's laptop (which is what I was using for NaNo). Then a couple of nights later, we went to the restuarant next door for dinner, which was lovely. Keith and I managed three courses, ending with an apple crepe/sorbet thing which we shared and then did not stop talking about for the next hour. And why should we have done so? IT WAS AWESOME. AAWWEEESOME.

The next few days were a whirly-gig of renovation, with frequent stops for cheese. Then, on Friday, Mum and I drove to Lyon because I had to get up crazy early for the flight on Saturday, and it was easier than going from her place in the morning. We got the hotel and saw, through the window, a large group of men gathered around the bar. I felt that uneasiness one sometimes feels as a woman in the company of strange men in strange surroundings, and wondered whether I would spend the night in the room. Once left at the hotel and having showered, however, I felt brave enough to risk the bar area.

I was standing at the bar for about five minutes, having realised after one that the group were speaking English though were obviously made up of different nationalities, when I heard - and this is absolutely true - one of the guys on the far side of the group say "Sorry guys, I've just gotta say that that girls hair smells so nice."

I'd been minded my own business, and he didn't know whether I spoke English, but it became fairly clear that I did when I started laughing.

"Well it's true!" He said. "Compared to what I've been smelling for the last two weeks, anyway." He indicated the group of men he was with, and I laughed again.

"I'm so sorry," I said, tugging apologetically at my hair. "I left the conditioner on a little long." (This again was absolutely true. I'd been in the shower and had zoned out after putting the conditioner on, staring at the wall and thinking about funny jokes about hotels (and I came up with a great one, btw), and it was only minutes later that I realised I'd left the conditioner on my hair)

"Oh, don't apologise! It smells great!"

And that's how I met the men from NATO, who I ended up having dinner with and drinking with.

Oddly enough, this is not the first thing that my hair-smell has gotten me. Nope. It comes from a secret (and accidentally discovered) combination of shampoo and conditioner, and I'll never tell. It's like the Colonel's secret recipe, only for hair (and I bet the colonels secret recipe never got him any action. 'Hey baby. I make chicken yummy.' doesn't really seem like it'd work on the ladies, where-as good smelling hair, oddly, does). Yup, good smelling hair has gotten me an all night make-out session (with a girl), and groped at a party, repeatedly. Hey, I'm not fussy. I'll take whatever I can get.

Anyway, a few minutes later, while I was in conversation with some guys on my side of the group, the original hair man came over and actually wanted to smell my hair, which, okay, was a little strange, but I'll put up with a lot for a free drink and a conversation. The guys very kindly offered to let me join them for dinner when their table was called, an offer I was extremely happy and grateful to recieve, and we had an extremely funny and entertaining meal, during which food was eaten, drink was drunk and the French waitresses killed us all many, many times over in their heads (except, hopefully, the three of us that spoke or at least attempted French when we could).

The next morning, I woke at about 4 and, after about ten minutes, as parts of my body reported in, realised just how hungover I was going to be. (Answer: very very). Worth it? Absolutely. But regretted? Oh dear mother of jesus yes. The whole morning was an agony of 'Am I going to be sick? Oh god no, not in the taxi/check-in queue/security line/passport control line please no, no, no.'

Somehow (somehow), things perked up as we were queuing to board the plane. A woman two people behind me and I had been exchanging those 'oh, yes, we're fellow travellers' glances, and smiling the way you do when you meet someone's eye. She'd actually come to my rescue earlier in the queuing process when a French lady had randomly started chatting away to me about buses, and this lady - who to be fair I'd first noticed for her distinct and total lack of hair (Chemotherapy, isn't it a terrible process?) - jumped in and saved me from being swamped in ignorance and incomprehension. I'd mouthed 'thank you' to her with a grin, but she'd been too far away to talk to at that point, so when she appeared almost next to me in the queue later on I took the opportunity to start chatting.

Well, that was it. We sat together on the plane and complained about the price of things on planes, the world in general, taxation, recessions, did the whole 'where are you from' and delved into our life story things, and then, of course, had to spend some time talking about Strictly Come Dancing, which we both got far, far too excited about (We think Austin and Tom will make it to the final, we didn't want to like Lisa and Jodie but we do, there's just something dull about Rachel despite her technical excellence (although I mentally took that back last night upon watching her Rumba), we want Cherie to do well and John should go). It wasn't till we were parting on the British side, one of us heading to the train station, the other to the complementary shuttles, that I thought to ask her name, which was Jenny.

And then, exhausted and hungover and working on about three hours sleep (which reminds me, I'd watched some French TV upon returning to my room, including something called, I think, Star Academy, which despite me not understanding a word managed to hold me in thrall for about half-an-hour, and I think I decided I would vote for Joanna (?)), I faced a drive home that was longer than my flight had been. About half-way back I honestly thought I was going to have to pull over and pass out, but luckily a pint and a half of coke from Burger King and some nicotine managed to get me home.

And that was pretty much that. Now it's time for the results show from SCD, and if John doesn't go I think there will be fireworks.