Ah, you think you’re so pretty
Sickboy is apparently no longer sick, so calling him that is another avenue of pleasure closed down to me. However, he redeemed himself by casually saying “you were right, by the way” while we were on the Chéry Nord lift yesterday and I am going to put that in the book of remembrance and remind him of it RELENTLESSLY until one of us dies.
Life has returned to something more resembling normal* this week, now the freshly renamed Nick has recovered from the plague. My freckly nose has been at the work grindstone for a good chunk of it, interspersed with blasting myself down hills as fast as possible. Or running up them. It’s all about balance – and being able to eat a lot.
We’ve been here for almost three weeks and not yet had an artery furring amount of cheese in one hit – so next week will contain the magnificent La Fruitière des Perrières for as much Morbier as I can get into me before I pass out.
It’ll also contain friends. We had to cancel a return visit from the shocking enablers known as Clare and Hugh last weekend, due to the artist formerly known as sickboy – so I’m very much looking forward to other, more civilised friends coming to visit us from Les Houches. No wine will be harmed during the course of this visit.
Tonight will likely see France serve Wales up like a lightly toasted brioche. I’m off to be the token Welsh in a pub full of French, but my shoutiness knows no limits when it comes to rugby, whatever the inevitable outcome.
*A very subjective word in this family.