Parallel lines

We've been on holiday this week and I'm typing this when I should be snoozing or perhaps getting a massage to remove all my aches and pains. The boy and I have been skiing in the fairytale village of Megeve. I'm told the mountain is owned by the Rothschild family. When I grow up I'd like to own a mountain. It would be a nice addition to the back garden. Along with the gnomes.

The trouble with going away is that all the things I meant to write down I simply forget...even though I did take a little computer with me...it's just that the holiday got in the way.

We travelled by train from the newly discovered Ebbsfleet. I know it's newly discovered on two counts. The SatNav thought it was about an hour further away than the big station in the Kent countryside tended to indicate. And when we got there we discovered mammoths. Yes a quite extensive natural history display dedicated to proving that Ebbsfleet had been around a lot longer than the British Museum.



We arrived late in Paris, necessitating a costly ride in a less than official mini-cab. The jolly driver (if you read the personal ads, you'll know what that means) turned his CD up full blast...fortunately we both appreciate a bit of Youssou N'Dour. This was clearly a part time job...although he told us he'd been doing it for a decade; his other full time job was stunt driver for films such as French Connection or perhaps the french series of films Taxi! (I can lend you the DVDs if you like). The boy grinned, I cringed, and the police frowned when they spoke to the driver...on a couple of occasions.

On the train, the boy and I travelled in separate compartments. Just like royalty. Nothing to do with a somewhat late booking. We kept in touch by text. His first one read "im with a nice family they helped me with my bag =) im worried my feet smell =S"

Over the course of the week, we had some highlights....



Our glass runeth over...one too many drinking games

Drinking unusually featured heavily in our holiday. Me not the boy! (yet). One afternoon, we did a runner from a bar after downing vin chaud. When I say runner, I mean saunter having tried to no avail to pay. Really. Yes really. Not done that since I was a teenager.


Our friends dining on the mountain

We managed to let a waiter throw a glass of water over himself...a very serious waiter indeed who picked up a wine glass not realising it was half full of water, he spun it in his hand soaking himself, And then spent the next minute looking variously at the glass, the ceiling and the window trying to work out what happened. We collapsed.


The boy posing with friend on top of a house roof

Some years ago, I had promised the boy a pair of skis, and of his own choice he's waited until he'd grown enough. As we came out of the shop where we bought them, our friend decided to take a picture from the other side of the road. The continuous line of traffic seemd to put paid to the idea. Until a car screeched to a halt. The driver grinned, his wife looked less than pleased. Our friend took the the picture, the traffic started moving again. Who says the French are all bad?!!



Whilst we were away, we had the builders round. We moved into this little victorian cottage (properly translated as end of terrace workers house) a couple of years ago. It was well decorated and meant that we didn't need to do anything. But the observant will have spotted the York stone fireplace, some may have previously seen the swirly patterns on bothe curtains and the carpets. Yes it was ideal for the retired couple who lived here before us. In our absence, the artex walls of the staircase and upper corrider were being replastered. I should perhaps thought it through a littel more. Half way through the week, the builder admitted missing an important delivery. He didn't hear the door bell because "It was very noisy". At that point I realised my first port of call on our return would be the neighbours. And indeed it was. They were charming as ever, but not sure we'll still be on their Christmas card list.

Oh and I must mention the boy (again), who's been working hard for the last eight years, and achieved a 9* award for his skiing. That's the best you can get...ski instructor standard I'm told. Not bad for a 13 year old. And I feel my chest swell with pride.