I only got on a plane (eek) and flew to the south of france (oooh) to see the lovely patroclus (aaaah) then. That's all. Only that.
Good conversation with the chap next to me, who like everyone else on the plane was a semi-retired English businessman in his later forties. I'd already been in London for a week without a razor, so I was the sole representative of the tribe of scruffy bearded scriptwriters in their thirties.
MAN: So where are you going?
ME: After Perpignan?
ME: To a small village about an hour away.
MAN: Do you know what it's called?
MAN: Can you speak French?
MAN: Did you get any Euros?
MAN: Is someone coming to meet you?
ME: I really really really really hope so.
Fortunately she did come and meet me, although I was bit distracted, as there was also a welcoming committee of french chicks with guns! Even the french army is sexy! The french army chicks were holding their guns close to their uniformed french bodies, and casting saucy looks down the line of English passengers. Sort of saucy, but also sort of like they particularly wanted an excuse to shoot somebody, so I looked straight ahead the whole time and decided not to make jokes about, I don't know, surrendering and running away but maybe putting up a bit of resistance, and other french things.
And then patroclus (who is sexier than three french chicks with guns, but rest assured that's all I will say on the matter) and I went to a quite posh seaside hotel (steady).
Lots of the hotel rooms had a little tiled mural on the corridor wall, so as you walked down towards your room you got a series of images that went:
1. A nice underwater scene.
2. Some animals.
3. Examples of local food, cheese and that mainly.
4. A tiled mural of death.
I took a photo of that one, as many people believe this blog is a TISSUE OF LIES, so here it is. Death, with his great big scythe (of death), looking a bit tired, underneath a big moon.
Good work the French!