John Whatley, a friend in England, has a saying.
When we’re thoroughly enjoying ourselves – sitting on a stone wall in the countryside as the sun sets or having a cup of tea in the garden – he’ll suddenly say: “Aren’t we LUCKY PEOPLE?! There are so many people who don’t know just how enjoyable this is”.
That’s what it was like on our day out in Villeneuve-lès-Avignon the other week with no other than Nathalie of Avignon in Photos fame.
This was another of those lucky accidents of stumbling across someone’s blog, finding out that you laughed at the same things and vowing to meet up when the opportunity arose.
Which was a couple of Sundays ago together with her friend Marcel at the market in Coustellet on the day after we (and the Mistral) arrived in he Provence.
She didn’t run off screaming (probably more to do with Mrs jb’s presence than anything else, both of them appearing to get on like un maison sur feu, as they say) and somehow I got roped into meeting up the following Saturday to watch weddings in aforementioned Villeneuve-lès-Avignon.
Enough to drive a bloke to drink…..
(I was FORCED to POSE for my picture and I hasten to add that the unusual shape of my proboscis in profile is caused by the diffraction differentials of glass, air and beer. Ask Bro Paul – he knows about this stuff)
Things I learned:
French wimmin don’t always speak with a French accent. Some of them sound Brit. Or Oz. They also talk Italian with their hands. All very confusing.
Some French wimmin have great blokes who give you the password to their corporate WiFi. Merci Marcel.
I am now “infamous” This appears to be French for “a mess”
Wimmin in general like watching weddings.
2 non-participating wimmin in particular were the best dressed of the whole bunch, with the possible exception of the lady in the dress made out of fly-screens and the classy bird
with the great legs whose zipper was so heavy as to give her back ache.
(The guy in the striped muscle shirt – I kid you not… – at the THIRD (THIRD!) wedding gave them a run for their money, though.)
It is a requirement at French weddings to hire a municipal street cleaner who lurks on the peripherie, ready to pounce on any stray rose petal and scoop it up with a swift flick of his shovel. (The wedding’s officially over when he leaves….)
French wimmin paparazzi knock over their Perrier in the rush to get the best possie and blame it on the closest bloke. (Nothing new there…)
Avignon’s worth a major detour just to spend an afternoon with Nathalie.