Life at № 42
We went to the market in Castres where the girls bought all sorts of cheeses, we got charcuterie and that became lunch here on the terrace with the addition of a tomato salad (and much wine.)
Then an Olympics enthusiast tried to put a flag up at number 42:
Mike made her take it down lest people think we’re Brexit supporters; which we’re obviously not. The visit is going wonderfully, as it always does. It’s done something fantastic for me which was sort hit the reset button in my head. They arrived and I was suddenly me again. The candles and canapés, Villa l’Africaine me, which is really the best version. Much more pleasant than the sitting in the dark guessing at which age I might die me.