Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Our last night in Paris. ''This looks like fun " says ' the font ' pointing to a theatre poster , a queue, and an open door. Before he can come up with a suitable response ( ' it looks like an opium den ' would have been a good choice ) Angus finds himself on the front row of a darkened theatre. The audience are both younger and more casually dressed than Angus. In fact before the lights dim it's clear that they're much younger and much, much more casually dressed . They also seem to be in a mood to enjoy themselves.
'' Is there anyone here tonight who's English ? " asks the comedian . One hundred and fifty heads turn as one to look at Angus . What follows next is a nightmare. Suffice it to say it involves a middle aged Celt trying to catch tennis balls in a waste paper basket while simultaneously answering questions about life in England. '' You were wonderful " says 'the font' using exactly the same faux-reassuring tone of voice that you'd use to an eight year old cost centre who's just atonaly scratched through his first violin solo at a school concert.
' The font ' heads back to London to have the temporary crown replaced. Yours truly turns left for the low cost, unassigned seat flight to Toulouse. No rugby scrum is as frightening as the melee involved with getting an unassigned seat on a French domestic flight. Back in the village the workmen have started to lay the new power line to the salle des fetes. At four the power goes off and stays off overnight. Life in the Rickety Old Farmhouse is conducted by candlelight. ' The font ' phones to find out how Angus is getting on . '' Better than in Paris " he replies huffily. ' The font ' chuckles.