Ah, autumn. To me, it’s almost like the start of a new year. For me, at least, it’s the start of not just a new season, but a new season of me sharing my dumb thoughts with you. a bit of the old online schmoozing, if you will.
That’s right.
I’m back.
Okay, so perhaps schmooze isn’t the right word but I don’t know what is, so we’ll just have to deal with that. The dictionary defines it as:
“to converse informally : CHAT also : to chat in a friendly and persuasive manner especially so as to gain favor, business, or connections”
Well, let’s stick with the first part of that, shall we?
Anyway, it’s been a while. Summer here is chronologically over, but nobody has told the weather that. You see, as I’ve said before, September here is usually hotter and or sunnier than the more traditional summer months. As one of our lovely neighbours said the other day, ”The tourists have gone. It’s our turn now!” (In case you’d forgotten, we live in a very cute seaside town)
So how have you been? Did you have a good summer? Did you manage to go anywhere?
We stayed here, trying to keep on top of the capricious moods of the weather (hot/hotter/wet). But it’s been hot. I can say that much. Except for when it wasn’t. Which was rare. And even though we had to stay put this year, my summer absence was spent in the garden, learning several lessons the hard way. Like, for instance – cucumbers are prickly! Why did nobody tell me this?
My biggest problem, however was, as always, trying to sleep. If my feet are too cold, I can’t sleep. If my feet are too hot, I can’t sleep. And there’s no way in hailstones that I’m dangling them out of the covers. And however hot it is, I still have to have a cover over me. I just don’t vibe with the idea of lying there like the last haddock in a fishmonger’s display. But then something weird happens in the early hours. Throughout the day, the only thing hotter than the sun are my hobbit-like little furnace feet.
Then, at about 11.30pm (2.30am summer time) –
Me: Arrgh! I can’t sleep! My feet are too hot!
My feet: Don’t you dare dangle us out. We don’t want to get eaten by the under-the-bed monster!
Me: I have to do something!
My feet: Activate Arctic mode.
Me: Arrgh! I can’t sleep! My feet are too cold!
Oh… yes, I should have said. For anyone new to my ramblings, I have a very low body temperature.
It’s a vampire thing.
So, anyway, yes. The grumpy tourists have all gone home now. Not sure why they were grumpy. Perhaps because this was ’the best they could do’, given the current travel restrictions? Or perhaps their sense of entitlement comes across differently abroad, in another language?
So here’s a few tips for when you holiday at home but still want that ’holiday abroad’ feel…
1) Go into a baker, point at something, shout ‘two’ while holding up a random number of fingers. Pay with a £50 note. Get it back to your hotel/air B&B to discover it’s a meat pie, not an apple pie like you thought.
2) Wear wildly clashing t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. No matter what the weather. Then complain about the weather.
3) Book a week somewhere that doesn’t have any chain burger bars. Then spend every lunchtime trying to find one of these establishments. Finally find one. Take the entire family in and only start thinking about what you’re having when the harassed staff member tries to take your order. Pay with a £50 note. And for that extra ’Brit abroad’ feel, be sure to change your mind at least three times, up to and including when said staff member hands you your order.
4) Spend the last day buying random useless things to take back.
Which reminds me… This didn’t happen to me (I read most languages, so I tend to know exactly what I’m buying) but to someone who’s related to someone who’s friends with someone I sort of know. They’d gone on holiday to France. Had an amazing time. Did the whole beaches/sightseeing thing, finishing up at one of those enormous hypermarchés, which is basically a small city made of shops. To remind them of the vineyards they’d visited, they decided to stock up on wine. They spent a fortune on a particularly stunning bottle, vowing to share it with their friends on their return. And so, the emails went out. The menu was planned. The evening arrived. Out came the bottle with every bit of ceremony barring an actual fanfare. The cork was popped, glasses filled. Sips were taken in great anticipation.
And spat out in great disgust.
They had assumed that ’aigre’ was the wine growing region that the wine was produced in. This bottle of ’Vin Aigre should have been a delight for the palette.
Not speaking French, they hadn’t realised that ’vin aigre’ or, rather, ’vinaigre’ is actually the French for…
Vinegar.
Yup.
And on that note, I will bid you farewell as I go to the kitchen to cook dinner with random items I pretend I found at the back of the cupboard.
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For anyone wanting to read all my rants in one place – including all-new exclusive stuff, then click below!
Volume 1 of my diary – why not start at the very beginning?
Volume 2 – more rants, musings and fairly useful advice
Volume 3 – things are afoot! The thot plickens…