The lady loves me…

Ah bien, less to drink tonight. Either my liver has found god or I am finally discovering some sense in my old age. The occasion was (as if the French need an occasion to be sociable) the birthday of a great man, Vincent. For the ladies in the audience shall I just say that he’s tall, muscular, ruggedly good looking, French and sings beautifully? For everyone else, on the day that a good friend here was being buried he was the man that didn’t go to the funeral so that he could landscape an entire garden which hitherto had been not much more than a building site so that the people at the funeral could come back afterwards and have a proper wake outdoors. Literally a weeks work for 10 men done by one in a few hours out of love. Top guy.

So let me take you around the table tonight. We have in no particular order; Falou who designs and builds yachts for Michael Schumacher among others and is a very gracious and funny man, Nellee, his lovely wife who remembers every time I am here that I am a vegetarian who doesn’t like tomatoes and cooks something separate and special for me, even managing to come up with something delicious when she doesn’t know that I will be abusing her hospitality in advance. Incredible. Sitting by them with a cigar in his hand and a big grin and a joke on his lips is Jean Mas, the man who went to bed at 3 am this morning after drinking the same as me yesterday x 2 and still managed to get up at 6 am to build houses for people under the blazing sun. Across the table is Vincent’s cousin who looks a little like him only a little older and more gay, he bought the designer t-shirt to the party and an easy conversation and a rapier wit. Next to him is Vincent’s grandmother who monopolises me and tells me that her husband was a Corsican and rude like I am, with a twinkle in her eye and a big wet kiss for the end of the evening. Oooh young man! Next, Vincent’s 2 brothers who I can never remember the names of, both moodily good looking for the ladies, but a little young for the ladies I know, except in their dreams. Then one of the boys girlfriends who was very cute, and if I was 15 years or so younger and less trust-worthy than I am, might have had to tell me politely to go away, while her boyfriend tried not to punch me. Then there’s me, bathing in the glow of being with these fantastic people, and failing to speak French properly, because again, with a 3 month break, I’ve forgotten all the words. But do they care? Hell no. They treat me like family and not the Mike Leigh version of family that we English do so well but like proper people who have no barriers. Do you think anyone would mind if I moved in? Please?

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