By the salle de fetes on the pavement opposite sits a bench. During the day it’s in the shade and is usually occupied by the neighbour’s dogs ready to bark at any car that comes up the street. After dark one sits there, smokes and chews the fat with the locals. I was told yesterday that I had been very wise to choose to live in a village rather than out in the countryside like so many expats. There they have nobody to talk to and become isolated drunks and often go mad. Which, I suppose, is worse than being a socialising drunk and going mad just the same.
The matriarch rolled up her skirts to show me her knee, swathed in a lurex bandage. She had been in her garden and was bitten and the knee swelled up. Was it her husband who bit her? I asked, and was given a Dick Emery-style buffet.
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