Legends from our own lunchtimes

Monday, April 11, 2011

Today was to be the day before we left for Saverne.

All that was necessary was delivery of an inverter and a charger and the use of a few minutes of expertise and we'd be set. Oh we have our contingency of course, we'll go and only use the fridge when we can plug into shore power. We figure we can do that in jumps of six or so hours, so things should stay coolish on the way, and the drinks cold when we actually need them.

Perhaps it goes without saying that the delivery did not occur, that it may tomorrow, and that if it does we shall have the parts early for the week after next when we start to assemble them.

We thought we had them outfoxed, that we were set to go despite them all, but for reasons which don't seem at all obvious, having spent a reasonable part of the day cleaning every one of his nooks and the odd one or two of his crannies to boot, I thought I'd give Mr Perkins a tickle to see if he felt like playing tomorrow.

Apparently he does not.

Bill, who is Scottish by birth but French by nature and by dint of the percentage of his life spent here, agreed to pop over and work some magic before he left for parts south this evening. Perhaps it was the Scot in him that caused his forgetfulness.

So here we lie, in the middle of our little harbour, our orange curtains a definite cry for help, unsure once more of where the morrow will take us, or even if it will.

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