Day 29: Je Pars En Vacances

Here is a very accurate 19th century artist's impression of me drinking on a bottle of Cognac and smoking a small cheroot, both of which I will be doing virtually non-stop for the next 12 days.

In preparation for my evacuation to the country - which is obviously necessary, what with increasing levels of anger about ambient noise, 4x4s, middle class people being twats in the gym and anything else that crosses my path - I have, over the course of today:

- Remained convinced that all you can buy to eat in France is cheese and enormous buns with custard in (even though I lived there for 4 years when I was little and know very well and that all they eat is Champignons A La Grecque, rillettes and foie gras with fried grapes), so panic-bought oatcakes, brown Basmati rice, wholemeal pasta and seeds which I have very little intention of eating

- Been to have a consultation about an unmentionably vile cosmetic medical procedure and snorted with glee with a very amusing Australian nurse called Bridget, who showed me her armpits

- Bought a proper parking permit from a Zulu warrrior

- Had the following exchange with a very irritating woman in a pet shop:

Me: Great shop! (which it was - Dr Doolittles on Streatham High Street, since you don't ask)
Her: (in sneering tones): Oh! Haven't you BEEN here before?
Me: No! (still smiling)
Her: Where do you LIVE? Streatham?
Me: (want to say The Moon) GOOD GOD, no. Brixton. (Same as Streatham, but has public transport and more middle class Guardian-reading cocks like me living in it)
Her: Oh. Where on earth do you buy your Royal Canin? (poncy dried French catfood that I had to buy as only one that said: for fat stupid cats. She pronounces it with French accent)
Me: At an agricultural supplier in Oxfordshire, where I keep my horses.
Her: Oh, how LOVELY!
(I bet she wishes she lived in Ealing.)

- Had keys cut by man with wall eye who smelt of mackerel and beer

- Eaten half an unspeakably horrible 'low GI low fat' bagel with tuna and fucking celery in it in the car and dropped most of it down my front. Proof: removed 'pretty, if it's dark and he likes fat birds' bra to change into 'fucking ugly, but means you can run without knocking yourself out' sports bra and seeds fell from my cleavage onto the changing room floor. Which reminds me: the French expression for big knockers is il y a du monde au balcon!, which loosely translates (for those of you who are not virtually bilingual, as I smugly am) as cor, she's got some people on the balcony! which, although not a particularly literararararararary translation, will give you the gist.

- Drunk peppermint tea with the lovely friend who is looking after my stupid cat and flat when I am away, and discussed meditation and yoga.

Now all I need to do is pack an assortment of ill-fitting and unflattering black linen trousers and variously-coloured linen shirts, 3 skirts I won't wear, one thing that is nice that I have no need to wear, and a swimsuit that I have only just realised is 3 sizes too big (fuckwittery, not astonishing weightloss) and that will billow about me in manner of Victorian laydee on a day out in Brighton c. 1875, books I won't read, a sketchbook I won't open, and the first draft of a book I won't finish. Hey ho.