They've worn us out!
Seriously, they have.
From the minute we arrived back after making sure they caught the Rocket train to Marseilles we planned to resume what we were doing before the alarm went off, but with only a small detour we managed to find some pastry and the Bastille Art market and before we knew it it was after ten.
Undeterred, and revelling in our new found alone-ness, we were barely back aboard before we were hijacked by Peter and Joan inviting us to accompany them to a little restaurant they'd found just near Notre Dame, where we could have a proper lunch. Despite our weariness, none of that seemed like a bad idea at all to us, nor did the walk back via the steel bands and the jazz musicians on the bridges.
Eventually though, we returned and succumbed in one smooth, well practiced action, sleeping soundly for a time in the late afternoon warmth, to the beat of a miscreant drummer who may well have been a kilometre away but had somehow perfected the art of throwing his sound to a point just above my pillow.
Time to rest is time to reflect, and I was mid reflection when I suddenly felt a wave of concern.
In one of my letters to Mr Five when he was Mr Four, my illustrations may have accidentally implied that the trains in France are actual Rockets, and indeed that is exactly how he and I refer to them. They are of course quite fast, for instance the journey they embarked on today is a mere eight hundred kilometres and will take a little under three hours to complete including stops, but the reality is it is also about as smooth as sitting in a lounge room and not at all like riding in what a five year old perceives to be a Rocket.
I do have a week to work out a plausible explanation. . . . . . . if only the drumming outside my head would stop!
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