Pre-election oysters.

you may know how many beans make five

Where are we?

Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m at the beach. On the beach in fact and half in it, the wind is kicking up the sand and it’s in my ears, in my hair and all over my feet.

As it should be! Are you also sticky with salt water, fresh from the sea?

That I am.

Fascinating… but  .. what I MEANT was - where are we in this alphabetically progressive salute to an old post (editorial note T) that we have been wittering on about for a while now? (editorial note t)

Oh, you don’t want to talk about the sun down over the salt marshes then?

Did you see it? Wasn’t it radiant?

It glowed!

It shimmered!

Made you good to feel alive!

Made YOU book a table at the end of the jetty for tonight I believe.

That’s true, so we’d better hurry and get over there.

On the bike over the salt paths?

Past the flamingos.

What are you going to eat – the baked oysters?

I’m hesitating…le poulet au croute de sel has piqued my curiosity.

Can you say that?

Piqued? I don’t see why not; no little red wiggly grammar thingy has popped up, like it has on poulet.

Ok, let’s leave that and return to the matter at hand.

This glass of wine? Cuvée de l’étang? It claims to be one of the oldest vineyards in the world – over é,§àà years old.

É,§àà?

Sorry, I thought I had the capitals lock on – 2,600. It also claims to be “plantées sur un sol calcaire balayé par les vents, bénéficiant de conditions climatiques de predilection et vous offrent ici toute l’expression de ce massif riche de couleurs vives et de lumière.” Strong and generous with hints of spice.

Sounds right up my alley, why didn’t you translate all of it?

Predilection is throwing me, I need a dictionary.

You don’t have a dictionary?

No, just a lot of sand and waves, and I’m being swept by the wind back towards the sea.

No internet connection either?

No, not unless I cycle back to the old town and the narrow streets at the foot of the castle and seek out the dark blue painted door hung with the sign of Jim Hawkin’s Schooner.

So you can’t check the blog prior to me having a word pop into my head to move this ‘alphabetically progressive salute to an old post’ along one letter?

Pop away.

Sand. Obviously.

I’ll have look, this evening. Now it’s time for a swim.

Also an s.

(editorial note t)