After all the excess of yesterday, this weekend was a much quieter affair. No market, just a drink at the bar after two machines of washing and a bit of cleaning up. Yes, the family have moved on to their next holiday stop in Savoire. The day had been announced as "rouge" but in the end with 800km of traffic jams it was reclassified as "noir". Is it any wonder that we prefer to stay at home in the summer?
We couldn't even be bothered to put in an appearance at the "moules-frites" evening which was enlivened by a very loud disco that could be plainly heard from our terrace. Took me ages to get to sleep so got stuck into a book that Diana had lent me. "To the Island" by Meaghan Delahunt which is about a dancer teacher and lone mother who sets out from Australia to Greece to track down the biological father that she never knew and who had been arrested and tortured during the period when the Junta took power. According to a Guardian review "the novel is strongest in evoking Lena's struggle to feel at home on the island, out of season but ...... fails to think at all about her son's lack of connection to his own father, a friend with whom she had a one-night stand. I'll reserve judgement until I get to the end.
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