Oh – too brief my little trip to France. Even the problems of the great freezage did not weaken my love for my adopted home. We lumbered our possessions back into our UK rented house grateful that there were no floods, ice or power cuts. There was no heating because the modern state of the art wi-fi thermostat system had suffered an “Electronic anomaly”. And there was me thinking it just did not work. A while later the auto fire alarm system developed a “signalling issue” and activated the “tamper threshold” on the theft alarm system. Stuff is trouble. More stuff is more trouble. My stuff and jargon decoder is at critical meltdown.
I left the return booking a little late and there were no cabins on the 2300 service from Caen to Portsmouth. That meant a night in the “reclining chairs”. Deep joy! For a few extra pounds or euros you can buy a kit comprising of eye shades, a small blanket and an inflatable plastic pillow. Gilles and I gazed into each other’s blindfolded eyes and puffed into our stubby inverted nipple nozzles. My Romantic novelist DNA flipped towards a public love scene where two lovers – perhaps fleeing from her crazed aristocratic family of sword wielding knights, attempt to escape on a Brittany ferry to find love in a Portsmouth concrete housing block. Realizing that members of the family had boarded, their one chance to cement their love before death was in a reclining chair, surrounded by iPod playing bleeping electro-geeks, a snoring drunk with a body freshness issue and some leather clad English biker who wanted to talk to his mate about his chain lube. Oh yes – public sleeping is a whole new game. Luckily there was a coffee machine a and a door to the outside deck. I would have kissed my lover in the moonlight if there had been any moon and if he had woken up. And they say Romance is dead! Now – looking for a link to Pavorotti singing “Nessun Dorma” (no one shall sleep) I saw on the you-tube menu this truly inspirational moment which many of you will have seen before. Even so – please allow yourself a pure surge of surprise and joy and watch this clip. You cannot tell a book by it’s cover – except mine.
On the doorstep at the English house there was a soggy frosted parcel containing the hard copy of “Knockout”. Wow – it looks like a book that a proper writer person could have written. Rosina had ordered me a copy to proof read. Oh no – can I face reading it again?….
Emma thinx: Read to a child. You can cover a book by it’s telling.