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I’m writing this from France. I’m sitting at the kitchen table at Gautier’s mum’s house with a cup of coffee, looking out of the beautiful big window watching two pigeons kiss each other at the top of the weeping willow tree in their garden. Gautier and I have just returned from a little walk, and on our way past the garden noticed a half-built bird’s nest in the tree at the front of the house. I wanted to help build the nest, I said.
‘How?’ asked Gautier, his eyebrows raised.
‘I can collect some twigs and put them at the bottom of the tree for him,’ I offered.
He pointed at the grass that was covered in twigs and said, ‘Er, I think he can manage, monkey.’
‘Maybe, but it’s cold and I could just help a bit,’ I whined.
‘You are already not well!’ he scolded. ‘You don’t need to be outside in the freezing cold picking up twigs!’
He was probably right, but still. Later that night Gautier went outside for a cigarette (ugh, I know) and announced that said nest had a dove atop it. A dove! How lovely is that? I haven’t seen any boring birds here; just magpies and blue tits and now this lovely dove.
That was today. Yesterday was just as exciting, and I’m not even being sarcastic. Monique (Gautier’s mum) drove us to the giant fruit and vegetable market thing which houses leeks the size of hockey sticks and oranges as big as a baby’s head. They also had a pick ‘n’ mix counter, so Gautier and I snuck off to that. I then ate some sweets in the back of the car on the way to the next stop (I am 42 years-old). Here are our sweets, and one of them was a rainbow-coloured iguana!
After the fruit and veg and sweets, we headed for the health food shop so I could get some gluten-free stuff; I’m not 100% GF, more like 80%. If I want a treat (which in France is constantly), then I have it, but day-to-day I have GF pasta, GF oats and GF bread, and bake with ground almonds and/or GF flour. I was surprised at the amount of GF food available; I had always thought that the French would scoff at any idea of intolerance to ‘du pain’ in the same way that they think vegetarianism is a terrible affliction rather than a lifestyle choice. We went out for lunch on Saturday and the menu was chock-a-block with foie gras (despicable; I’ve managed to stop Gautier from eating it, finally), pork, veal and other animals. There were fish options, thank God, so I chose scallops followed by the lobster ravioli. There wasn’t one vegetarian option on the menu. I guess the number of vegetarians in a small town like this can be counted on one hand, if at all, so there’s really not much call for it. If I was vegetarian AND watching what I ate for digestive purposes I’d starve to death. Here’s my plate; it’s not for the faint of heart:
I look fine on the outside but I feel like my entire insides have been replaced with those of a very old person’s, so food is of great comfort to me as I’m often quite saddened by stuff. I’m always on the loo, I can’t digest my food, can’t stand up straight, can’t walk far, I’m always freezing cold, I take tonnes of medication, I’m always tired… the list goes on. Basically, I’m trapped in the body of a 90-year-old, so ageing is not something I relish one bit. I’ve got numerous hospital appointments coming up which will determine whether or not I need to consider switching biologics. I’m also presenting with symptoms for Crohn’s or colitis (again? With no colon? Yeah, I know). I have ulceration in my J-pouch but I’m getting pain and bloating every time I eat at the moment, and I’ve never had that. What amazing timing.
Gautier’s mum and stepdad recently converted the ground floor of their massive house into a self-contained apartment which overlooks the garden, so when we stay we have the equivalent of a one-bedroom flat to ourselves and I have a sneaky space upstairs in which to write. The house is four storeys; the entire top floor is a cinema room. Yes, a cinema room. Bonkers or what? I should also mention at this point that Gautier’s stepdad is brilliant, and the crazy shizz here is that he’s like, six years older than me. How funny is that? So when people say ‘Ugh, holidaying with your in-laws, what a nightmare!’ I’m like, ‘Dude, you have no idea.’ They’re so far removed from stereotypical in-laws it’s untrue; it’s more like being around friends, although Gautier’s mum never stops cooking and still buys his socks and stuff I don’t have any friends who do that for him. Here’s the house, it’ll do:
We visited the charcuterie the other day. Check out the hideous stuff these people eat. I managed to make the butcher laugh, which must mean I know some French. I told him that it was like a horror film, all these animal innards everywhere, even BRAINS. We came away with a giant piece of beef, and a pig’s foot. The latter was ‘a treat’ for Monique and Gautier. Bleuch!