the short story

Monday, May 09, 2005

wednesday: before leaving I burned myself spending 32Eu on my favourite moisturizer. Loser. actually, I bought two vials because I'll be leaving for Canada soon, and I need to stock up now.

thursday: ate so much pike and roast beef, then played a very bad game of petanque, churned through 160 pages of a hockey book... Ice Time, by Jay Atkinson. Not down with his cloying fatherly moral justifications, but he's damn straight when it comes to hockey. (is it my imagination or are people actually so depressed that children are they only reason they find to live? horrible. rather be dead than bring more people in to be gunned down by small daily horrors.)

friday: nothing much, more of that hockey book... had a meltdown and crying jag over some silly fishing incident. virtual video game fishing incident. am beginning to hatch homicidal plans against the nephew-in-law who never speaks lower than a bugle horn in the morning. played a better game of petanque.

saturday: hockey book finished. start Marguerite Duras's The Lover. Father-in-law goes insane... clapping hands like mechanical monkey in front of french variety show nonsense. Really enjoyed eating tons of jumbo shrimp, but am rewarded with debilitating stomach ache. Take the only walk of the whole trip. Visit sister-in-law's house to give official approval of the new staircase, clip some fresh rosemary and bay leaves, when father-in-law, drunk on rose, confesses in front of the whole family, minus dacnar, that he's so happy I married the SOB because now said SOB is working a real job. Depressed over statement and get drunker myself. But I'm a happy drunk.

sunday: wake up at 7am, with numbness and pain in right arm so persistent it keeps me awake. Am scared of getting a heart-attack. Irrational fear created from too much butter/meat fat/wine consumption over week. Watch F1 and almost throttle father-in-law over "debile" sports commentary, because I am the F1 expert. Excellent scallops, followed by duck, followed by another horrible stomach ache. If I don't die of an infarction, I'll certainly keel over from an ulcer. Finish Duras's book and begin Mishima's autobiography.

N.B. - The Lover is a beautifully written little book, stringent and decadent at the same time. A very french woman's book...

Pick roses with mother-in-law from her miniature rose garden. Catch the end of the Tour de Dunkerque, cycling race, where completely obscure Polish guy wins. Commentators so stunned it takes them 3 minutes to find out who he is. Almost miss train because father-in-law attempts some F1 stunts in the village, trying to find the post office.

Train: try to use my computer to do work, write, and eventually give up and use it to watch downloaded TV shows. Proving once again that my computer is used 99% of the time as a toy. However, manage to annoy everyone within a 2 person radius with amazing staccato machine gun typing speed, for all of 23 minutes.

They tell you not to use the toilet when the train is in the station. This is because you do the business straight onto the tracks. Am severely tempted to leave my mark at Versailles, but am relegated to hold fort for 5 minutes, before train eventually starts moving. Still... that's a future project in mind.

At home, roses have survived journey. As has the lovely jar of homemade quince jam... perfect with yogurt.

Home sweet home.