American Tan

Got back from France Tuesday last week and on Wednesday was summoned to the hospital for a venous closure, that is the sorting out of a whacking great varicose vein that has gradually morphed into an ugly blue work of art on my lower right leg. I had hoped they would do it before my holiday, so I could get my legs out without scaring off any eligible French ladies. No such luck anyway as it bucketed it down for the rest of our holiday. After having had the op I'm a tad glad it wasn't carried out beforehand as I have spent a week in a set of rather fetching support stockings, day and night. They are particularly itchy and bothersome in the evening, I can't wait until tomorrow when I only have to wear them during the day. My daughter finds it hilarious, me wearing what look like a pair of American Tan tights but I quite like the colour, they make me look rather bronzed.

Belly flop

Woke this morning to the sound of squirrels tap dancing on the caravan. Checked my watch and it was 6.30 French time, still the middle of the night back home in the UK. I suppose the furry nut lovers had something to celebrate as it was a glorious morning, the first sight of sunshine in the three days we have been here. I didn't realise the French did overcast and downpours in such dramatic style, perhaps they have taken lessons from us up in Lancashire. Just yesterday a black cloud swept and wept over us in a matter of minutes, thankfully we found a beachfront cafe and whiled away the afternoon playing dominoes and drinking expensive espressos. Anyway after a carb loaded breakfast we trooped down to the pool, me in the skimpiest of swimming trunks, plastic clogs and my favourite Queen t-shirt (limited edition 'It's a Kind of Magic', if you must know). At 10am the queue was already forming and when the gate opened everyone dived for a sun lounger. Thankfully we bagged three but my daughter's boyfriend was sent out to change as he had insisted on wearing his board shorts. The lifeguard nearly ordered me on my way as well, as when I took my t-shirt off (and hid it under my towel, didn't want anyone nicking it) my large tummy was hanging down over my speedos giving me the appearance of being naked. It was clear that the lifeguard and his cohorts were stifling their laughter at my rather unflattering swimwear but hey they enforce it and who am I to argue? In fact I didn't utter a word, I simply belly flopped into the deep end, splashing the lot of them. C'est la vie!

No Short

I am in France folks! That's right, Dr Moonlove takes on the continent. It's my first trip abroad and it has been a rather enlightening week. My daughter booked a couple of cheap flights and a campsite stay on a whim after a little lottery win. She has brought along me and her ne'er to do well boyfriend, who has already been hauled up in a giant French supermarche for trying to pilfer a baguette. The fool. How he thought he could disguise a two foot long loaf of bread in his hoodie is anyone's guess but he tried and clearly thought les femmes francaises would simply think he was pleased to see them. Well one rather wiry but tough looking security guard clearly wasn't impressed and evicted him pronto, leaving me and my daughter to saunter the aisles on the hunt for two pairs of budgie smugglers. The French lifeguards have deemed our knee length surf style shorts unsuitable for the campsite pool, so we must wear the skimpiest of speedos. No speedos, no entry. Or 'No Short' as the sign says on the door to the pool. I'll let you know how I get on!