Thelma and Louise ride again

Bear with … it’s been a long time since I’ve done this and I’ve forgotten how it works. Clicking on the creatures in the centre of the snap might give you a clue as to where I am and why I’m posting again.

Today, of course, is glorious beginning with a visit to the market this morning for provisions. You know by now how that one goes: a double expresso before shopping…the purchase of a beautifully cooked chicken from the van that’s always in the same place, served by the same ageless woman who, like the rest of the French female population, hasn’t gained an ounce in the last year. Pas beaucoup patates, I say, c’est juste moi. Madame places the potatoes in their own bag and informs me that they’re on the house for Norma-no-mates. Merci. I squeeze her hand and we’re both happy. On to the veg stall for a lettuce large enough to warrant its own carrier bag and a bright yellow tomate ancienne of size sufficient to allow me to remove all seeds and still have something left that will take me two days to demolish. And back to the pool to roast in temperatures of 34C.

It’s a far cry from last night’s debacle. Having collected my hire car from Marseille at almost 10pm…it’s brand new exclaimed the Hertz rep proudly, you’re the first driver, …I nearly managed to write it off within half an hour. Telling myself that driving a car I’m unused to up the motorway in the dark is nothing to worry about, I stopped at the toll station. Reaching out to collect my ticket, something peculiar happened to my feet and before I could claim evidence of ever having been in the place, I’d crashed through the barrier and landed some feet away (in the brand new vehicle). Shit.

So many things went through my deranged mind in a matter of seconds. Impossible to reverse. I thought about walking back to retrieve what I needed but the people behind were tooting at me. No change there then, so I continued on my not so merry way, unhappily driving in the darkness of the A7, wondering how I was going to leave the road at 11pm minus a billet. On reaching my exit, there seemed no way to bypass the machine obstinately demanding a non-existent ticket, and obviously, this being way past any helpful person’s bedtime, no-one to help me. I spotted a big red button that seemed to be the way out and off for idiots so I pressed it. A faceless voice, emanating from somewhere in the modern world: bonsoir? I told a lie. I said my ticket had flown out of the window during transit. Faceless entity, clearly sick of tourists, muttered something incomprehensible and the barrier lifted. Bienvenue en Provence.