Lay in.
Got up, stepped outside, walked barefoot in the cold morning dew.
Stroked the cats.
Splashed hot water over crumpled face.
Wrote this.
Stepped outside again, looked at sky, listened to a distant bell, birds, a bee and a leaf falling.
Stroked cats again.
Stretched, showered, shaved.
Drove to town, (soundtrack – Jack Johnson car stereo) parked by the bridge, walked to the boulangerie (soundtrack French Thirties open upstairs window)– baguette, croissant, orange juice, and apricot jam.
Ate.
Brought washing in, hung washing out, washed washing.
Vacuumed, ironed. (Soundtrack - Rod Stewart CD player, I was feeling a bit nostalgic).
Wrote an email, read some emails, download an I-tunes update (the computer thought I needed too, I didn’t, computer won).
Hung out more washing.
Planted flowers.
Got on bike and set off up the hills. (Soundtrack – the colours and smells of an autumn-late-afternoon. The colours bursting around me, the smells - autumn’s warm reassurance as the earth is liberated in the shutting down for winter and releases promises of a spring to come).
Sweat, followed by sandwich.
A coffee.
Light fading, should bring in the washing, enjoying this coffee.
Brought in the washing.
Drove through falling night and sudden confusing lights of oncoming traffic to the city (soundtrack- Rod again, I’d forgotten how good some of his stuff is).
Stopped three times, before crashing, to answer mobile phone and listen to my kids slowly destroying all the plans we had set before I left.
Parked in taxi rank, rushed to shop to exchange fire wire cable, convinced doorman to let me in (soundtrack – Nous sommes fermé monsieur).
Bought pumpkin.
Went to Irish bar, which by chance, was next to the only place selling pumpkins open at this time of night.
Thought to sit and read my new book, which by chance was Irish – Eoin Colfer – but too “pub” for me. I guess I should have known, it did say Irish Pub in big letters on the outside, but since I had dreamed last night of walking in an Irish town by the sea I thought it would make a neat tri- something.
Wandered streets looking for that quiet corner in a café where I could write this.
Chose “Chez Authié” (depuis 1882) and chose a glass of red wine and a plate of stuffed vegetables – it was, by chance – Tapas night (soundtrack – Lou Reed/Jacques Brel café speakers).
Admired the (original?) zinc top circular bar, the waitress's cobweb earrings and eyebrow piercing and the stark graphic line drawings on the wall and for sale. Is 200 euro too much?
Suffered the attentions of a VERY drunk, very polite gay guy who tried to kiss me as he whispered in my ear. Guessed my corner was not so discreet.
Acknowledged, “YES!” when the waiter caught my eye, raised a questioning eyebrow and nodded his head towards my suitor.
Waiter had discreet word.
No more trouble.
I wrote all this. Sipped wine, ate stuffed spicy artichokes.
Looked at watch, panicked, finished last artichoke, looked up, waitress apologetically gave me a plate of bread.
Drove to station to find wife returning from Leipzig via a theatre festival in the French Alps.
Hugs.
Kisses.
Stories.
Drove home.
Posted this.
Posts
4 comments:
So what question was that waiter asking you and what exactly did he say to that guy?
I think the question was "Is he bothering You" but in French and i think he explained that i was "working".
Now ...what was the drunk saying?
I was at the limits of my French in that situation but it definitely involved money.
Nice post. I like the title (very Dostoyevsky-an) and style of writing.
Always an intriguing read.
Thank you, i had fun writing it too, except for my friend in the cafe.
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