The ramblings of a retiree who cycles and cooks in France
This week Sandy’s Challenge is markets. I’ll be honest, I love, love French, Spanishd Italian produce markets. There’s nothing nicer than buying direct from the catcher, grower, producer, maker or baker of the products.
I’m much enjoying these weekly challenges hosted on alternate weeks by either Amanda or Sandy because they force me to think about what’s in my photo archives and how I might re-purpose them.
If you’ve enjoyed this post, why not join in the fun?
This week I’m heading back to August 2014 where I had a bit of a whinge about my beloved hubby. Of course, we’ve not had any smilar problems in recent months for the obvious reasons. I am always thankful for small mercies.
My beloved has always spent at least three nights a week away from home. Hence the longevity of our marriage. Just recently that time has been spent in the UK and he typically flies in and out of Gatwick with BA. During the summer months he tends to catch the last flight back on either a Thursday or Friday evening. A flight which is frequently always delayed. He can arrive at any time up to two hours after the due arrival time and well past my usual bedtime.
For the next two weeks, he’s catching an earlier flight back. But as he departed on Tuesday there was some confusion on his part about what time he was due to land back in Nice. I asked him to send me an email to confirm the time. A not unreasonable request as my beloved likes me to be waiting for him as he strides out of Arrivals. That way he wastes no time at all. Bollards have rendered the airport much less car friendly but the advantage of a Smart is that I can hover in places other cars can’t, though less so mid-afternoon.
It’s Friday, my beloved is due back shortly, and he’s failed to convey the required information. So I sent him a chaser asking confirmation of his arrival time. He sent back an email telling me the plane was delayed by 30 minutes. Yes, but which plane? I have an arrival time of 17:25 in my diary but there’s no flight from Gatwick arriving at that time, instead it gets in at 16:25. I’ll have to extrapolate and see if that sheds any light on his probable arrival time.
My beloved is fond of saying we live 10 minutes from Nice airport – as the crow flies. Even early in the morning and late at night, a round trip takes me at least 40 minutes. Mid-morning or afternoon, you can double that thanks to the traffic. In the absence of clear instructions, I shall have to wait until my beloved sends me a message telling me he’s landed before going to fetch him. This does mean that he’s going to have a bit of a wait. He’ll grumble, of course, even though it’s his own fault because once home he’ll either want to go for a ride or a swim while I prepare his dinner. You may well wonder what his last slave died of!
