So, a few weeks ago it was warm enough to sit outside in Limoux, in the autumn sushine sipping cold rosé wine and eating cod poached in Blanquette and finished with crème fraîche. Followed by a coffee/toffee ice cream in a chocolate/caramel shell.
Zoom forward a few days and I am stuck in a UK hotel hundreds of miles drive from my home base in UK for four days with the day job. It’s a zillion degrees colder here.This hotel is more acceptable than some I’ve booked blind. Stained glass windows, cotton & linen bedding, French prints on the walls, acceptable curtains, solid wood furniture, view of boats, even an illuminated magnifying mirror so the Mad Old Bag can put her slap on with a degree of symmetry. I’m a foot from the fire, mainlining tea and extra shot lattes to keep warm
The point is, I’m torn in two with these wildly separate French and UK lives I am obliged to lead. Just move to France , you say. Now.
And how, pray? The one pays for the other.