We spend a large amount of time munching these delicious numbers on the beach, whether Quatre Veux or Pissot: our two clear favourites ...although Pissot is now a tad stained with the memory of my mp3 player’s unfortunate end. I drowned him: my chirpy little mp3 player. Here’s hoping he avoided the rocks, sea life and disgusting weed and has made it to some little fish’s ears who can enjoy my, now long lost, Jam collection.
Feeling a tad gloomy about the loss of my little friend, I made my way over to a favourite rock pool to admire its clear depths (without my usual soundtrack). I found myself perched on a barnacle covered rock, feet floating on the pool’s surface, admiring the variety of sea life trapped in this rather nice prison. I even let the seriously large shrimps (although not quite edible size) nibble on my feet, although this turned out to be a mistake as they used their surprising strength to try and rip off my toenail. Little buggers. However once I’d taken my feet out of the water the larger fish snuck out of their nooks and started pouncing on the smaller fish. One of them even pounced on snails, rolling their shells all over the place. I’m still unsure as to whether that was a game or they were munching on them, but it was amusing to watch none the less – it’s weird how possible death makes for a good spectator sport.
Upon the arrival of 3 small children who rapidly disturbed the calm atmosphere with their ripples and piercing screeches I headed back to our beachy camp, where I rapidly realised that those bastard barnacles had burst my largest blister (I obtained 3 from the building of a spectacular beach pond the day before). I have come to the full conclusion that barnacles are my least favourite creature that, in my eyes, serve little purpose other than as possible grip on the rocks suitable for those who are lucky enough to have some form of beach shoes. I don’t care if they have each a record breakingly long penis (in relation to their size), because their mating ritual is essentially rape and funnily enough I care for neither barnacle penises nor rape.
Regardless I, after days of Mutter’s begging, braved the chilly waters of the channel for a ‘family swim’. I edged my way in with an inflatable boat that slowly sank (we lost the cap and replaced it with a baguette wrapper and hot water bottle top) and once that had truly encompassed me, filled with water and dragged its way ashore I switched for my slightly more reliable lilo which, although had at least 3 holes in it, never actually sank… so plus points for that find. Who would leave it on a bin? (NB it didn’t have holes when it was one the bin, it was still packaged and lasted a good year before the holes appeared).
Bin finds are pretty incredible. People chuck out some brilliant items that make rummaging surprisingly worth it. My recently drowned headphones were found on the floor during a morning festival clean up (alongside with my new fudge addiction) and I found the frame to my recently stolen bike on the estate. It’s just a shame that they (or perhaps I) have a habit for destruction. There’s other items that have survived or been eaten though! M&S throw out some seriously good, untouched, but just out of date food and I’ve obtained a toy truck and trailer that I filled with unopened Lego. WHO THROWS THESE THINGS? I shouldn’t complain really, it keeps me thoroughly entertained.
I’ve somewhat diverted from the point. We were swimming: as a family. Except I was sinking, Chris was trying to repair the boat, Dad was snorkeling with his wetsuit AND t-shirt like the wimp he is and Mutter, having been scared by the seaweed, abandoned us for less weedy waters. Mind you, that was considerably better than the Caribbean where she was “attacked” by an admittedly large shoal of fish. She tried to “save” herself by climbing out of the water using Chris as a rock, which subsequently just shoved him further underwater and closer to the “demon” fish. That’s motherly love for you. She then spent the rest of the day trying to convince us that a re-enactment would make a best selling horror movie, and the rest of the holiday for that matter; somewhat irritating considering the pathetic-ness of the whole situation.
Her piece de la resistance this holiday was a close call between her completely and utterly most definitely undeniably shattered (self diagnosed) broken toe and her renditions of Jess’ classics. On the one hand we have constant moaning yet refusal to rest and on the other we have occasional outbursts of our dead cat’s “favourite tunes”, which is essentially her miaowing famous songs. Really close call, ‘ey?
When we first turned up at the French house we discovered that not only had the gravel drive filled with weeds and one of the bushes had made a valiant attempt at stopping us from entering the house, but a few hornets had made a nest in the roof. After much plotting as to their demise, Dad decided that the plan was to get them when they were sleeping on our last night. So, we closed all the openings to the outside world and Dad made his way up the stairs to sneak up on them. It was at that moment that I realised I could see one on the window from the sofa, and upon further inspection we realised that they were attracted to the light and had accumulated with at least five at each of the three windows. So none of them were asleep in bed unsuspecting of their, now non-existant, doom. I thought that was the end of it, we would be living with the tens of hornets which to be fair had actually only been violent to the neighbours. That was until I went and took the last of the rubbish to the bins the next morning. On my walk back I was met by a frantic looking family, all in the packed car, opening the door to pick me up on the way out of the ferry. Good luck neighbours.
Say - John Mayer
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