We
are on our annual holiday in France. I can call it our annual holiday
now because this is the third consecutive year. It is our yearly
pilgrimage to visit the mother of the Angry French Chef.
She
lives in a picturesque village in Provence called Fontaine Du
Vaucluse. There's rivers, trees, little bundles of lavender tied up
with string, young virgins on old bicycles in cotton summer dresses
with baguettes in baskets and a soon to be crushed Joie de vivre.
It's that bit of France you've seen in every film concerning coming
of age, long summer holidays and innocence lost to strange plinky
plinky music.
It's
also fucking hot.
The
first week was just the three of us drinking cold beer and cheap
rose, taking dips in the pool, reading throw away thrillers and
having little bbq's. For the most part a very relaxing endeavour.
Until I foolishly suggest we play some cards one night after dinner.
They both shrug casually. Deceptively casually. It's Gin Rummy, what
could possibly go wrong? Twenty minutes later I notice my hands are
shaking as I deal another hand and pray that I lose. Neither of them
have smiled since the first cards were dealt. I'm not sure either of
them have blinked. La Mamon, who is normally a warm, affectionate and
loving woman now looks like a professional card sharp and the Angry
French Chef is squinting at her, looking for any tells, any crack in
her stony facade. We play in utter silence. Years pass. I go to bed
and stare at the ceiling.
The
following morning we eat fresh croissant from the local bakery and
chat about the food we're going to cook that day. It's casually
suggested that perhaps, maybe, if anyone can be bothered, we might
pick up the card game again after dinner. I keep my head down and
bargain with any passing deity that might be listening. Let them
forget. LET THEM FORGET.
By
day three I have developed an allergy to the sun. I have a lovely tan
and a bubbling blistering rash up both my arms that is hotter than
hell and itchier than a bath of ants.
La
Mamon lets me experiment with over the counter medication for about a
week until she insists I let her take me to the doctor.
The
doctors in France don't wear uniforms. They wear jeans. And converse.
And trendy t-shirts. They have cool wire rimmed glasses and their
office walls are covered in framed photographs of them on exotic
holidays. He takes a brief look at my arms, nods and prescribes very
strong antihistamines. He tells me to wear a hat, long sleeved
clothing and avoid the sun for about two weeks. It's 36 fucking
degrees in the shade. He says it's okay to swim as long as I remain
at least a foot under the water. So presumably I need to grow gills.
I
decide to take the pills and mostly ignore the advice but every time
I lounge in the sun with a book La Mamon appears out of thin air and
throws a damp towel over me.
In
addition to this we are both the new hot spot in town for mosquitoes
who arrive in large groups with tiny napkins wrapped around their
evil necks. Or whatever passes for a neck in the form of pure hatred.
We're sort of used to that though and pass the cortisone back and
forth with minimal griping.
Two
of our friends, Mr and Mrs S, join us for the second week of the
holiday and within ten minutes we're enjoying cocktails by the pool.
We're excited to have them here and I secretly hope the mosquitoes
will enjoy a new source of food and leave me and Angry alone for one
sweet minute.
Mr S
is in his absolute element. Two of his favourite things in life are
fine wines and cheese and of course both are abundant here. Mrs S has
a dip in the pool and gurgles with laughter as she tries to teach Mr
S an exercise involving a noodle. She then lies in the garden as the
sun dries her un-blistered skin. I sit in the shadows smoking a
cigarette and slap away another mosquito that has settled on my neck.
Sunday
brings the World Cup Final and there is an air of nervous
anticipation from the moment we wake up. La Mamon has arranged a
party for the viewing. The first to arrive is her neighbour, Nicole,
who is around seventy and sporting a France T-Shirt, a comedy hat,
red white and blue sunglasses and the French flag. She is beyond
excited and shouting “Allez les Bleus!” before she's even through
the door. Within half an hour there's thirteen of us. Everyone is
facing the TV except me. I'm facing a bottle of prosecco and
liberally adding limoncello. When they all stood for the national
anthem I knew they had to win. The alternative was unthinkable and
terrifying.
Two
hours later a giant speaker has appeared from somewhere and people
are dancing in the garden, arms linked, heads thrown back with joy.
Raymond (a man built like a brick shit house) is naked in the pool
swinging his pants around his head. Homemade liquor appears, cherries
soaked in something toxic also and before long it's riotous. The last
thing I see as I drag myself up the stairs is La Mamon wrapped in a
yellow sarong, hands in the air shimmying across the garden, her
glass of rose spilling in to the grass.
The
next day is a quiet one. Everyone moves slowly with muttered groans.
Mr S has maybe the worst of it. The last to bed and the recipient of
many whiskey top ups he stares in to space and I can hear him blink.
My
niece La Dude joins us the following morning from Toulouse where she
now lives. Knowing she likes the rougher booze I ply her with Papa
Doble's that contain large measures of a terrible white rum we've
bought called 'Old Nick'. And rightly so. Only Satan and my niece
could enjoy that immediate and unceasing burn.
The
evening is spent peeling gallons of prawns cooked by The French on
the plancha in the garden. All of the women are in bed by midnight
(La Dude face down on the sofa with a mirror by her mouth) and the
boys stay up till 4am talking about whatever it is men talk about in
the early hours and drinking anything cold.
Since
then I've cooked a giant Paella in the garden with the help of La
Dude and Mrs S and afterwards we played a ridiculous mime game called
Heads Up. During one memorable round Mrs S had to guess the word we
were all frantically miming. The word was 'Tourist' and so we all
kept pointing at ourselves. She called out 'FRIENDS!' and everyone
paused and collectively sighed at the loveliness of it.
Today
we kayaked down a gorgeous river and marvelled at indigo coloured
dragonflies all around us. Afterwards we walked through a stream to
get to a bar that served icy cold Vedett.
We
are all now so relaxed we can barely acknowledge each other. Some are
lazing in the pool, some napping, some reading and I'm doing this
though I can hardly be bothered to finish this damn sente...
