Le Mercredi Soir

On Wednesday evenings Princess 2 goes to her fencing class. Le Comte and I feel it’s important to encourage her as now the Princes have returned to dear old Angleterre (currently Prince Everton is selling superdrugs and Prince Arsenal is exercising his rising arm in the paradise that is Lufbra) there is no one apart from us to defend the Chateau. Princess 1 cannot be relied upon as this year she is dividing her time equally between writing essays and filing her nails. No doubt when the Chateau is attacked she will be sitting in her boudoir touching up her makeup incase her handsome prince is among the assailants.
While P2 waves her sword about à la Pirates of the Caribbean, I avail myself of the local piscine; swim up and down a few times, sit in the jacuzzi and then shoot down the slide as a finale.
Recently la piscine has taken to insisting on the wearing of swimming hats for all users, even very small ones. This, like many of the little things in France, is very strictly policed: the lady on the till demands whether you have yours with you before you are permitted entry. Should you admit to not owning one you are directed to the swimming hat and goggle dispenser in the foyer.
The larger things in France, of course, are often barely policed at all – road safety springs to mind as an example. I won’t bore you with the number of people that tried to kill or seriously injure me on the local roads today, but suffice to say they were several. I do appreciate that this is nothing personal; their dangerous driving could just as easily kill someone coming the other way or, indeed, themselves. The young man who overtook me on a blind bend whilst swigging from a beer bottle was probably aiming for all three.
To return to la piscine, you may not know that charmingly, the French word for swimming cap is ‘bonnet’. Inevitably this conjures up visions of those peaked sunhats more usually seen adorning Kiera Knightley’s ringlets in Pride and Predjudice. A pool, then, full of swimmers sporting variously flowered and fruited versions of Georgian headwear. It makes diving very difficult.
We arrived home to discover that Princess 1 had descended from her boudoir and spent the afternoon stuffing unseasoned mince into little tubes of pasta. She claims the Italians do it all the time. We were very hungry and thus, very grateful, which was just as well as the accompanying white sauce had apparently been a trial and she is never making one again.
I can only hope the handsome prince, when he finally arrives to cart her off, understands what he is taking on.