I am in the grip of a Summer cold. I
have a splitting headache and a very painful throat, but otherwise am much better.
Either the three days of eating super hot curries did the trick, or my
threat of going on a hunger strike if the virus didn’t see sense has had the
desired effect. Either way the end is in
sight, I hope.
The last few days have been disorientating. During the day I am at work, all medicined
up, in the evenings I lie in a darkened room, occasionally cooled by a slight breeze, imagining
myself to be the heroine in a cheap historical novel.
‘Is Madame any better this afternoon?’ asks a solicitous
butler as he hands me a slice of ice cold watermelon on a silver platter. I just roll my eyes and languidly wave him
away. ‘So Madame can’t receive the Prime
Minister?’ asks the subservient one. I
briefly consider throwing the melon at him, but decide against it – it looks
rather delicious, and anyway it isn’t his fault I am indisposed. ‘I assume the same goes for the
Cardinal?’ If I threw the melon at him,
would he bring me another piece?
Probably not; Gaston can get quite truculent when I throw things at him.
The great thing about lying in a darkened room on the edge of nodding off is that it is easy to imagine all sorts of things. So I imagine I am just a short walk away from
the beach, and too exhausted by the heat – that much is true! – to meander down
there. I can practically hear the tide
come in, and the shouts of the children – the shouts are actually real, the ice
cream van is here and his little customers are making a mean racket.
Where was I? Ah yes,
the beach. My parents sometimes took us
to the beach for the day. German beaches
are usually a bit rocky, and bracing rather than sunny, like the beaches in England Normandy
The scarf Charmes des Plages Normandes by Loic Dubigeon
evokes those chilly beaches, except for the colours, of course – they ought to
be blue! But occasionally the weather is
quite hot, like in this scarf, and the atmosphere positively vibrates with heat
– I remember some of those summers, too!
I remember the ice cream, and the grilled chicken with sand, and the
horrible black and yellow blanket we used to sit on. And I remember my Mother carrying me in the
shallow water, and suddenly we both fell like stones, because there are many
holes in the ocean floor and if you aren’t careful you go under! And I remember stepping on a jellyfish, and
being bitten by a crab, and collecting lots of black mussels, which I kept
until they stank to high heaven and I was made to throw them out. Happy days!
I wonder whether my cold would combine well with a
Strawberry Daiquiri? ‘Gaston!'
