Legends from our own lunchtimes

Saturday, June 09, 2012

Waiting for the return.

By the time the scruffy horde arrived it was eight at night, and they were a little bit fatigued after their marathon day from Marseilles to Migennes via Paris.  

We were a little on the less than bouncy side ourselves for reasons we couldn't really fathom, but which we thought had to do with having spent the day in the sun (or variously not) doing much of the scrubbing and cleaning work we haven't been able to do since April because of the state of the weather, or because we were too busy, or because there were too many people on board, or perhaps because we simply had many better things to do.   Even refuelling, meant ten trips to the service station which was not quite three hundred metres away, which of course meant not quite six kilometres of walking with the jerry can.

Migennes is the sort of place where finding better things to do is not a particularly simple task, it's a sort of "whistle stop on the highway" town, a place to travel through rather than visit.  One of the occupations of its citizens seems to involve studiously ignoring young persons of Mediterranean appearance hanging about in shadows or contrarily revving their strangely eastern European registered Porches to ensure we know they are about.     I suspect the particular noises we were hearing was a bit like listening to Greensleeves played endlessly by the ice cream van of old.  I also have some suspicions that the snow cones on offer didn't need refrigeration.

With the way the weather forecast is looking, nothing is going to need refrigeration for a day or two.


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