You and I both know where you belong
It’s been quite the week, chez nous. It started with an uninvited and most unwelcome dose of norovirus, which spent Sunday night reducing me to a shadow of my former self. I’ve battled womanfully on in my usual stalwart manner, however, and here I am, still standing. What a trooper.
Staggering on, we lurched through Wednesday and the emotion of our lovely Chloe, a work day that had me in a dramatic heap on the floor by 7pm last night and here we are, once again at Friday. Lovely Friday. Day of no client meetings and the hope of some good skiing. So what did we wake up to? Fog. FOG. I can get that in Wales, ffs. I mean, I guess it beats being blown to the middle of next week, which is where we arrived, but even so.
Our current neighbours in the next door apartment appear to be experiencing a spot of weather in their relationship. Mainly gale veering towards violent storm with risk of hurricane imminently. At 2 in the morning. In spite of my ongoing attempts to learn French, I’m only managing to get about 50% of it through the wall, so although we know that Monsieur feels that all the days are the same and he is truly sorry, we don’t know why. So it’s all very unsatisfactory. I’m tempted to ask them, just for the sake of a bit of variety.
We’ve only got a week left…my thoughts are turning to home and all the good stuff I have waiting there for me. It’s always people that I miss when I’m here. Notwithstanding how much I love you all, however, to everybody who has felt it necessary to let me know that there is NO FOG in Wales/Scotland/Venice/anywhere fecking else, I say get it right up yez.