Tuesday January 8th - Mother tries her hand at French

Ah, the first entry. This is the crucial moment every blogger faces isn't it? I suppose I should start at the start.

7:30am: sleepy but ready for take-off (metaphorically). Devoured a marvelous bacon sandwich c/o Paul before setting off for the Eurotunnel.

10:20am: loaded like cattle onto a terrifying 'train' much like the ones in far-fetched Bruce Willis movies (the ones that eventually explode).

10:50am: unloaded and whisked into Calais amongst the other clueless British drivers trying to get their head around driving on the right side of the road.  

A little later : mother is almost completely de-stressed having driven for an hour with no road rage (a giant leap for mankind) and we stop at a petrol station. Of course it would be out of character to just fill up - we must sit (kneel) on the side of 'l'air et l'eau' to fit the adhesive European headlight stickers (I am still unsure why these are necessary). Naturally we both behaved ridiculously and fell into fits of laughter. I noticed the  driver next to us hastily drove away. Sticky lights fitted and we were off again.

4:15pm: clever little satnav got us to our first stop with no complications! Almost. It turns out Mrs Garmin (satnav's name... I do hope it's become the norm to christen your satnav and we're not exceeding our levels of absurdity) has trouble when it comes to intricate areas such as industrial estates. I give her credit for attempting the French accent with the road names (dangerously heavy laughter persued) however we drove around the hotel several times, not knowing how to actually get in. Several roundabout-panics later we entered the hotel's small car park. "Oh look, how sweet, we're the only ones staying here!" Mother exclaims as she looks around the desolate car park. Having discovered a small plastic door hidden behind an array of bushes our apprehensions kicked in. Locked. Several moments later we look over a fence to our right to see a much larger building with the name of our hotel illuminated in bright neon lights. Spending the night in a mid-renovated restaurant was a near miss.

7:30pm: tottered to 'Le Petit Atelier' for some authentic French cuisine. Immediately mother flips her hair at the (very) young French waiter and so it begins. Determining the menu was a challenge in itself; "honey brick of goat served with forgotten vegetables" was my personal favourite. Sticking with 'poulet', mother tested her French with the youngest of the male waiters. Unfortunately for all three of us it was neither French, Spanish or English that came out of her mouth. This did not dampen her spirits as she persisted. "le ... umm ... you know ... some l'aqua ... s'il vous gracias ... le chicken por favor plait por moi et uhhh... urmm ... AHH OUI SI LE WINE DE FRANCE PLEASE!"  I think she thought the saving grace was her extraordinarily strong French accent.

Mother's quote of the day: 'French men are the best lovers. You simply can't go through life without one' 

& that was my cue to leave.

Goodnight all, miss you
Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo