Confessions

“Don’t Panic.”

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

On Saturday evening I attended a piano concert in aid of charity with my Hubby and my dear parents-in-law.

It was a chilly evening.

Mid way through the second half of the concert my bottom was becoming numb and my mind began to wonder. I do love Chopin, but the plastic seat was getting the better of me. I was pleased to stand and clap after an encore of Chopin’s – Fantaisie Impromptu – you all know it, it’s beautiful.

I’m afraid that’s where the très chic part of my evening ended.

On the way home I did something completely bizarre, which has replayed in my head since, and which my parents-in-law now call the “Parting of the Red Sea”.

Scarves tightly wound round nippy necks, we proceeded to the Piccadilly Line to return à la maison. As the train doors opened an elderly man appeared on my right. As he stepped into the carriage he did one almighty, wet sneeze into his hands. Without processing a single thought I turned and headed straight to the next carriage. Hubby did the same. Les beaux-parents, and a few others followed. I only realised what I’d done when I was safely inside said carriage, door closing. Several witnesses had by this stage caught my eye and giggled nervously.

I’m not a nervous person. I’m not in a panic about Covid-19. It’s not a pandemic. And yet …

At our post office corner shop this morning, I met a woman whose sole purchase was an arm-full of alcohol hand sanitiser mini-bottles. “They’re sold out at Tesco,” she informed me.

It reminded me of the London 7/7 bombing, when it took all my thought energy to not move away from a fellow train passenger with a beard and head gear and carrying a dusty back pack.

The media hype really doesn’t help anyone to ‘keep calm and carry on’.

Praying for our world today.

SMALL PRINT:
P.s. Hubby and I went to Bordeaux 10 days ago and pretty much lived on pain au chocolat, wine and cheese. It is near impossible to find a healthy breakfast in France. We combatted our poor (but delicious) eating, by walking some 30km over the whole weekend (as per my Fitbit step counter).
P.p.s. “When in France, try the cuisses de grenouilles (frogs legs)!” thought I. Big mistake. Big. Mistake. (Quoting Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman (1990)). They tasted like deep fried pond. Hubby made me eat the whole bowl (8 rather large legs with webbed ‘feet’ still attached #crunchyfeet.
P.p.p.s. I lost my passport and nearly had to spend another day eating processed carbs.  Thankfully British Airways had my passport all weekend. I’d left it in the ladies loo (not IN the loo) in the arrivals / baggage hall. Thankfully I experienced only 30 minutes of panic because I only noticed it was missing on the way back to the airport at the end of the weekend. PHEW!!! Panic-ed prayers answered super quickly! I am still living off the rush of relief I felt on reacquainting myself with that little red book.
P.p.p.p.s. I love France. I love speaking French when I can. This is not a France-bashing post script.