Here in Provence, the days are getting shorter and cooler. Even though I can sit outside after 7.30 in the evening to write a short post, I’m wearing a jacket. With a hood. Not that long ago, folk would still have been poolside; but time rushes on, and older age advances hourly without a care in the world. Good grief, that was a bit morbid thinks Donald, taking another hearty swig of the red stuff. The owl-filled nights move quickly from hot and sweaty (turn on the air con), to slightly worse than chilly (turn it off and reach for the velour dressing gown). In my curtained boudoir, it’s no longer possible to tell whether morning has arrived and I’ve successfully seen off another night. The room is dim – my favourite shade which I feel suits me best. Even the bathroom’s not too bright so, as I rebuild my face, it’s impossible to tell whether I emerge as Coco the Clown as, vampire-like, there’s no looking in a mirror in daylight for yours truly.

Wednesday, and the market at St Remy calls. No point in leaving too early as it’s October so the car park won’t be packed. I arrive around 10. The car park is packed. I attempt parking in a side street but Madame, walking a small rat on a lead, takes great pleasure in shouting obscenities at me. Merci beaucoup, I respond and drive further up to a point where I can’t be seen. Coffee and book a table for lunch. Then return to ask whether my reserved table will be on the terrace. You didn’t say you wanted to be outside says the patron’s wife. You didn’t ask, I don’t say.

I have a plan and head for the square where the clothes are. On the way, I pass a greengrocer’s stall and notice they have a few large artichokes winking at me. It’s a dilemma: do I buy them now and lug the the things around the clothing department, or do I risk leaving them behind in the hope that they’ll still be there when I return. Tricky, but I opt for the latter. I’m headed for a particular stall which I’ve only ever seen in this town and frankly, who wants to be encumbered by a bag of cultivated thistles when perusing lovely dresses?

My favoured stall is called Rhum and Raisin. It’s a designer brand from Aix-en-Provence and is super expensive. But, at this market, they have an outlet stall where one can purchase some real bargains. When I first found them, it was cash only, but they’ve upped their game and now have a card machine. It’s always packed and today, as usual, there were American ladies aplenty purchasing goods by the armful. You can’t even try the stuff on and the options for those of us who aren’t stick insects are limited. Nonetheless, I found a beautiful princess skirt reduced from 150 euro to 30. (Only one of my readers will appreciate this description).

Back to the greengrocer and guess what? Three artichokes left so I took two. But what is this? Courgette flowers? I had these once before in Italy with lobster but I’ve never cooked them – not the sort of thing one finds in Tesco. There follows a long complicated conversation between myself, the stall-holder, the phone, and anyone else that’s passing by, on how I might deal with these treausres. At one point, Madame shows me that Google might be involved – BREADCRUMBS she shouts, as if this is the meaning of life. An American lady intervenes. Do you speak English, she asks? Mais oui, I respond stupidly. They’re very expensive she warns me. Not if you’ve just saved 120 euro on the clothes stall and are unlikely to ever see these flowers in England, I don’t say.

Armed with purchases, I move back to my reserved table which now comprises three place settings plus a high chair. Did you change your mind, I ask? You’re outside now on that little table in the corner he responds. I had the lamb which was the reason I chose this place. Here’s your lamb Madame Green they said. It’s the best lamb in the world and the house rose couldn’t be bettered. Sometimes, people you’d like to be present are missing, but I was happy.