On the flight home thirty or so seven year old boys scurry onto the plane at the last minute. A school group en route to language weekends with unsuspecting French families. Three very harassed looking teachers in accompaniment. I heard one stewardess say to the other as they filed to the back of the plane " Oh, aren't they sweet!". Hmmm, I thought , naivete personified. Give it ten minutes and you'll be looking for the valium and toying with the idea of throwing them out of the door at the back. As predicted , within a minute of the seat belt sign being switched off pandemonium broke loose. Having got bored with clambering over the seats and playing cricket in the aisles a stream of young hopefuls were soon marching to the front of the cabin asking the nonplussed crew for a beer. 'But we drink it at home!'. Some rites of passage never change. As the little charmers careered up and down the aisle I knew that come the end of the weekend there would be another thirty or so host French families that were of the opinion that the English come from another,incomprehensible, universe.
Wilf is in fine form. Last night he was waiting patiently at the airport for my arrival. The new terminal at Toulouse has frosted glass sliding doors that glide backwards and forwards with an alluring 'whoosh', followed by a long, deeply satisfying 'shhhhh' as they close. Our family fellow was so engrossed in these sights and sounds that he was completely oblivious to me standing above him. When he looked up to see who was tickling his head he did a double take and then rolled on his back in delight. A great welcome home.