WEDNESDAY 9TH OCTOBER 2013 – Market Day, Knickers
Wednesday is Market Day here in the town. The pitches are up all along the polished quay by six, stretching east past the bandstand and into the tree-lined badlands of the boules parcs; the white Renault vans deftly lined up on the harbour’s very-most edge. It’s a big affair and is clearly in the guidebooks, for the English voices overheard rise dramatically, and loudly, and yes, of course, we are snobbish about that.
We buy Corsican wild boar sausage, very dry, and I treat myself to a fisherman’s gillet, knowing I’ll regret it if I don’t. (As I write this up now I remember that Alan Partridge is wearing one similar on the cover of I, Partridge, although I think his features webbing.)
At the market I have great intentions, photography-wise, but my efforts at capturing the heaped fruit, lavender, the flowers and the boggle-eyed eels are disappointingly flat and photo-bombed by loping tomato-headed ghouls. Fortunately my alertly, wifely B. saw this little shopper and snapped him.
Just before lunch and coming up the stairs to the apartment I banged my head badly and at speed on the edge of an open window on the stairwell. There is a lump on the top of my head now, and my lengthy, elaborate and action-oriented cursing doubtless still hangs like a stink around the doorway of the flat of the elderly couple who live silently across the landing.
Laundry news: an item of intimate apparel belonging to neither of us was found in the bottom of the washing machine, fortunately after the wash. Another Lady’s Knickers on our Washing Line. We thought this a very good lyric and title for a Country & Western ballad; more likely as not an up-tempo number – and we sang as much after our apéro with Annie and Willi had over the evening developed into this:
And that, readers, was mainly Wednesday.