It appears that Flybe have stopped selling gifts and take-away booze on their flights to France. I don’t mind because I never buy anything anyway. However, aboard their noisy prop driven little plane, it was always pleasantly distracting to browse a brightly coloured catalogue of cosmetics and perfume. About half way through the journey, the stewards seemed at a loss as to what to do next. I was second seat from the front so I could hear them:
‘Shall we ask them if they’d like another drink’, suggests number one?
‘That’s a good idea’, number two replies. And over the tannoy comes the momentous announcement that if anyone would care for further refreshment, they simply need to press the buzzer above their head. It’s not yet 8.30am and the demand for alcohol is lacking. I wonder if Flybe are ahead of the game and are currently garnering a new range of products in readiness for the time when Brexit = duty free.
At the airport, I was eventually met by my American friend who, despite having sent me an email that included a photo of her calendar marked ‘Saturday – meet Alison at Caumont, 10.30’, had forgotten that Saturday comes after Friday. Terribly apologetic, she stated her embarrassment.
Me: ‘You’re not as embarrassed as I am turning up here after Brexit’
Her: ‘We feel your pain. All I do these days is try to explain to people that I am not responsible for Trump’.
I’ve not been too well lately and my case is packed with prescribed medicine that fails to work. I went to see a doctor this morning. What follows is NOT a criticism of the NHS; it’s just another way. I arrive at the surgery without an appointment. I wait less than five minutes before a jolly medic arrives and invites me into his room. I explain the problem and show him the empty pill carton so he knows what I’ve been taking.
Dr: ‘Bah! These are no good. They don’t work. Here’s a prescription for different medication plus some proper pain killers’.
Me: ‘Merci beaucoup’.
Dr: ‘Drink plenty: water mostly, no Pastis and some wine’. He writes some notes on EU headed paper which necessitates him asking me where I’m from.
Me (quietly): ‘Angleterre’.
Dr: ‘Ha! Ha! Pas EU now’.
Me: I’m sorry.
I take my prescription to the pharmacy. A young woman relieves me of the script, goes out the back and returns toute de suite with two packets.
YW: ‘Seven euro please’.
Me: ‘Crikey, that was quick’. Young woman is confused.
Me: ‘Sorry, I’m English’.
YW: Ha! Ha! Ha!
The Kiwis who run the joint where I’m staying didn’t have a vote. In the week that included that fateful day, all their guests were English; folk who’d taken advantage of the advance voting facility. The news broke on Friday morning just as a huge cloud of despondent gloom swathed Mas Saint Antoine like the Turin Shroud. K1 told me that one couple felt unable to leave their gite, being too distraught. Others stumbled around in bewilderment and the shroud did not lift until the following afternoon. It’s difficult to stay sad for too long here.