Turning French

The big changeover day came and went and, as with most things that you build up in your mind to be something difficult, it all passed by very calmly and all got done more quickly and efficiently than I dared hope. Preparation is the key, and I was ready to go from first thing this morning with clean towels and sheets, and everything else required, all piled up for instant action. The danger now is that I will be too complacent about the next one - on Friday - so I will guard against that by getting everything I need ready to go tomorrow night. I predict a day of washing and ironing.

The Oxfordshire guests were very sweet when they left - vowing to send his mum and dad over for a stay. He admitted that my breakfasts here had converted him from full English to continental - we'll see how long that lasts without the same quality of fresh fruit and someone making him a nice smoothie every morning and the irresistable smell of English bacon sizzling in a pan - but it was a very lovely compliment.

The mention of bacon makes me realise that it is one of the very few things I miss about home. Suddenly I want a bacon sandwich. It's not often that I crave for things from home - but a good, or better still a bad, bacon sandwich is hard to beat, with fresh tomato and salt and pepper, naturally.

I met Patrick this evening. We watched the UEFA Cup Final on a TV in a bar where nobody could have cared less - actually we weren't that bothered either. Patrick needed to let off steam from a frustrating day of trying to get his French bank loans sorted for the bar and the predictable delays caused by the fact that nobody French has done any work for the past fortnight.

I had tried to tell him before but he hadn't believed me - but finally he might have given in to the fact that he needs to operate on Carcassonne time. He's still being a bit Chicago, though - storming into the bank today and demanding stuff in badly spoken French - it isn't going to get him what he wants because they always play their trump card - the shoulder shrug, and they are better at it than we are.

So we shared a bottle of red and tucked into a couple of plates of duck (what else) and had a general moan and a good old gossip - just like a couple of regular French blokes.