Legends from our own lunchtimes

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The French Open

We weren't sure whether we wanted to do anything at all today. Perhaps a small bask in the glow of our new-found titles before we attempted anything constructive during the day - should we, we wondered be known henceforth as Captain Jojo and Captain Papa?

Perhaps not, but even the effort of even finding the railway station which was no more than fifty metres from our hotel was stretching our energy reserves so we put the debate off for another time.

We seemed to be afflicted with a combination of couldn't be bothered and a touch of the sleepies brought on by all that brain exercise of the last week. The fact that we'd decided before buying our tickets that we'd stay overnight in Paris, but hadn't actually found anywhere to stay because everyone in the world was in Paris for the French Open Tennis and had selfishly taken all of the accommodation including apparently the bits under the bridges, wasn't contributing positively to our demeanour either.

When we arrived, the nice lady in the Tourist Office told us there was not a room to be had in Paris, as indeed she has done on so many occasions previously. This time though, she said she meant it, and gave us a book with a list of phone numbers to try ourselves if we didn't believe her. It's the Tennis Open you see.

It's nothing that a spot of lunch won't fix we thought, and so we retired to work on the problem over omelette and green salad in the company of some dear (does that sound too sooky?) friends. While Peter and Jayne have sat opposite us in many tables in many cities around the world, seeing them with what was clearly Paris blooming in the background seemed almost surreal.

It was Peter who voiced it: "We aren't in Weller's Hill are we?"

By the time we had finished our coffee, to the miracle of the internet we had a room reserved and even an address where we might find it, which as it turned out was in a place called "Opera", a buzzing little spot quite near some sort of theatre with a red windmill on top, and just above some sort of entertainment establishment which clearly had more customers than tables.

Peter was right of course, it was nothing at all like Wellers Hill.

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