Everything was calm this morning as we wandered through the old town, some might even say deathly calm, the eye of a storm kind of calm. Not everything was bright admittedly, but there were an awful lot of brand new flags flying that were, and given that we are less than ten kilometres from Belgium as the poule flies, (very) occasionally the flag of that country could also be seen as a sign of some sort of contrary bravado or perhaps in the a failed attempt to give it equal air time.
That was this morning. Tonight, hysterical is one way of describing the scenes on the streets after the match perhaps the only way. While just a minute before the full time hooter sounded the village was blanketed in silence, a second after every car that ever there was, and perhaps a few more took to the streets with horns blazing, flags and bodies flying from every orifice.
The super foolhardy rode on the tops of cars, a giant tricoleur or even two streaming behind, or they would have been streaming had the traffic not been in a complete jam in the misty rain. For more than an hour this continued, with sirens, fireworks and flares added to the cacophony in a madness that makes one shudder at the thought of what might happen in the event of a win next Sunday.
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