Holiday

It was a public holiday in France today, so out of respect for our host nation, we thought we might have the day off, call it a weekend we thought.

More of a Saturday than a Sunday it was.  The washing wasn't going to go away, and while I must admit I may have been a little reluctant to co-operate, nothing provides greater incentive to yours truly to connect a washing machine hose than being told that if it didn't get connected NOW,  almost three Euros was going to go down the throat of the machine in the amenities block.

While the tools were out, it seemed reasonable to finish a few other odd jobs, the shelves beside the steering binnacle for instance, and it was a great time to get started on the great LED change over as well, an experiment in economy if ever there was one.

While I was having fun, the washing somehow magically appeared dry and ironed, (yes, IRONED!), all before the magic lunch o'clock.    By then it was time to start the ritual tidy up before the guests arrive, prepare everything that needed preparation, and nonchalantly wander over to the Latin Quarter to guide Frank and Carol back from their hotel for dinner.  

It would seem that at least half the population of Queensland is in Paris at the moment.

Dennis, the almost recluse as American's go, from three hulls down the dock, has become bemused observing the comings and goings from our little boat over the past four days.   This morning he flagged us down, suggesting that perhaps if we don't tell anyone next time we change our address, we may end up having the occasional night alone.

But if the sun is going to turn the Bastille Opera and the July Monument pink every night, right there in front of our dining table, why wouldn't we want to share our view with the world?