Same old, same old

Tuesday saw my beloved and I traipse down to the Doctor’s. It was our annual visit for medical certificates to enable us to take part in a multitude of sports, including cycling. We passed the tests with flying colours, despite my cold, and we’re now good to go. Of course, the Doctor couldn’t pass by an opportunity to prescribe me a homeopathic cure for my cold. I didn’t like to say that I’m sure the hot toddies will eventually work their magic.

The pharmacy is next door to the Doctor’s and there’s always a queue. I have never gotten out of there, or any pharmacy in France, in under half an hour. The problem is manifold. Firstly, most of those in the queue are elderly and see a trip to the shops as an opportunity to pass the day and chat to a few people. Clearly, they have nothing else better to do. Secondly, there’s  a fair amount of fiddly paperwork to be processed when collecting prescriptions. In addition, the pharmacists like nothing better than an opportunity to display their encyclopaedic knowledge by giving you a detailed run down of your options. The French, and my beloved, are hypochondriacs. Yes, it has to be said. It’s an unattractive trait which he shares with the outlaw. Finally, a lot of stuff isn’t kept in stock but has to be ordered for next day delivery, necessitating a second trip the following day. The homeopathic remedies tend to fall into this final category. So I had to go back again yesterday.

The potions seem to have worked their magic and the cold is in it’s death throes. Thank goodness, as neither of us has had an undisturbed night’s sleep for a a number of days. Lack of sleep makes us both a little cranky. After spending both Monday and Tuesday recuperating, I was ready to explore the great outdoors on two wheels yesterday and elected to ride with one of my girlfriends. We ride at similar speeds, whatever the terrain, and enjoy riding side by side, having a good chat and putting our worlds to rights.

I’m still looking for the optimal ride route over to where she lives, perched on high, in the next town to mine. I thought I had found it yesterday by cycling up a parallel road and then nipping along a small path to the lower road. My map failed to show that the cut-through was a long, steep and winding set of stairs. Won’t be trying that again. We generally go out after the morning rush hour and ride on roads with which we’re both familiar, keen to profit from the continuing good weather, before returning home and getting down to work.

Yesterday evening saw the resumption of my English classes, made more palatable with a touch of English afternoon tea, in the form of scones with cream and jam. My two youngsters are taking it in turns to present their summer projects and have both done a fair amount of work during their holidays. I’m keen that their progress gathers pace this term and will be looking to bolster their school work. The Barcelona football shirts, given as prizes for their excellent work, were extremely well received and I would imagine that they had their maiden outings today at school.

The departure for Munich this morning at the crack of dawn of my beloved will also aid my recovery. Three days of peace and quiet along with two nights of undisturbed sleep should return me to my former sunny disposition. He rang this evening ostensibly to see how I was faring but actually to discuss with me a nagging problem which he has already agonised over for far too long. I have made my position clear but when do husband’s ever follow their wife’s good advice?