We're back. Back to DSL. Hoorah to an internet connection that doesn't give up every time the phone rings. LK types with two fingers and you should trust me when I say he wasn't too happy to spend forty-five minutes morse-coding out a message to J. and Skeletor only to have it zapped by a phone call from someone concerned with my Mum's bowels. The poor boy had to have fifteen pints of Landlord at the Black Swan (aka The Mucky Duck) to recuperate.
Am I glad to be back? Hard to say. As usual I really ache with missing family and England. My heart and insides feel like they've been beaten with a mallet. Although it's true that that pain could be down to the two packets of pork scratchings, pickled onion monster munch and the huge bag of treacle toffee I had before going to bed. Who can say?
Most of the reason I'm not so keen on being back, and the reason why I'm blogging jet-lagged and mopey at 3am, is the huge amount of *stuff* we have to deal with now we're back. This trip was of such monumental length that it allowed me to put off thinking about a lot of crap until we got back.
On a positive note though, I am really glad to be back in a country that has toilet-seat protectors in public bathrooms. Uncannily happy.
As promised, here are some photos:-
Me trying to order three wheels of goat-bollock cheese in the fromagerie.
Caught in the reflection in the shop window. This apparently is what I look like when I speak French.
Vite. Takez-vouz le picture. It's going to pleut any minute.
The view from our not-too-shabby apartment.