We took Alastair on holiday with us this year. Listened to his version of the Blair years in the car all the way to Biarritz — it was either him or French pop music.
We took Alastair on holiday with us this year. Listened to his version of the Blair years in the car all the way to Biarritz — it was either him or French pop music. And no, unlike the average Travelodge customer, we didn’t leave him in the nearest service station for someone else to enjoy (is it just me, or does he have a crush on Bill Clinton?) Anyway, he was soon forgotten as we cycled 550 miles across France, taking in the Pyrenees and the Canal du Midi, fuelled by copious patisserie and the inevitable confit de canard. Once again, I was struck by the French antipathy towards capitalism. There they are, 8.5 per cent unemployment, growth a paltry 1.3 per cent (compared with our 3 per cent) and still restaurants in seaside towns close throughout August for the annual holidays. And woe betide if you need to buy anything between the hours of 1 p.m. and 3 p.m. or all day Monday or Wednesday afternoon. Dangerously démodé? Or reassuringly old-fashioned? Either way, it often felt like a country resting its loins rather than girding them for reform.
We returned to find the house next door finally being renovated. It’s a double- fronted Victorian place on its last legs. It was bought almost two years ago for a street record (don’t you just love www.nethouseprices.com?) and has been languishing ever since, presumably as the owners were happy to sit back and watch it appreciate. But now it’s all systems go; the media room is being dug in the basement, the back addition is being razed to make way for a glass box and the jungle in the back garden is being hacked into shape.
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