Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Slaughtered Italian .
The French air traffic controllers are a bolshie lot. They were having yet another of their impromptu one day strikes . When British Airways finally got to Toulouse the Frontier Police were working to rule . The queue at immigration stretching back to the gate . The line comprised the entire population of Paris with yours truly at the very back . It moved very, very slowly . So close and yet so far .
Wilf and ' the font ' were waiting patiently at the cafe in the arrivals area. ' The font ' had chosen a table right on the concourse. Wilf was underneath it, asleep on his back, emitting snoring sounds from one end and intermittent trumpeting sounds from the other . The delayed effects of a broccoli and beans diet . Angus had liberated two Oat Crunch biscuits from the plane . PON favourites which were gratefully received .
Home to find that the workmen have unexpectedly uncovered septic tanks number 5 and 6 . The gravel in front of the house a mass of trenches and exposed pipes. '' You've got quite a collection . Perhaps you could open a museum ? " says the jovial foreman . The humour of living in a septic tank museum passes Angus by.
Over dinner ' the font ' reads out the menu from the new pizzeria that's opened up in the little market town . The salmon pizza with cream, tomato and cheese proof that only the French know how to really slaughter Italian cuisine. Wilf liked the sound of the chicken pizza with goats cheese and honey .