Last week, my Mum and sister (AKA “gorgeous Aunty Carol”: a nickname – not surprisingly – of her own making!) came to visit.
Aside from the pleasure of spending time with family (something I am sadly deprived of, due to distance and my – um – slightly complex relationship with aeroplanes), another great knock-on effect of this visit was the chance for FH and I to go away for a much-needed “romantic” (read: sleep-filled) weekend together. Leaving BB in the safe-hands of his new babysitters, we set off to Montpellier strangely unburdened by all those “things” a child seems to require. With just a small overnight bag and a bit of emergency chocolate for me, we felt young, free and light-hearted… almost like adventurous backpackers again (backpackers who stay in nice, comfortable, designer hotels, of course).
Anyway, as the photographic evidence below attests, BB had a great time with his Nana and Aunty, and behaved like the “Perfect Child” for the duration. Hum. This is unfortunately not a role he enjoys playing for his parents very often, but it’s always nice to know he can pull it off when need be!!
In the meantime, FH and I wandered the sun-drenched streets of Montpellier hand-in-hand, stopping for a crêpe and a sneaky glass of cider (very low alcohol content, nobody panic) and talking to each other more in the space of 24 hours than in the whole of the past 3 months combined! It’s always reassuring to find that one does actually have more to say to one’s husband than the ubiquitous “Did you remember to buy milk?”, “Are you picking him up from crèche or me?” and “Honey, it’s your turn to change his nappy.” (No, I don’t really call him Honey in real life… not everyday anyway).
Sadly, we forgot the camera, so there are no idyllic scenes of romantic hand-holding to back up this summary. You will just have to use your imaginations…
FH doesn’t want me to tell this story, but it’s too amusing not to.
Bubbly with excitement after purchasing a pair of grey Converse trainers (FH hasn’t bought himself any new clothes or shoes for at least a year), my smiley husband declared “I LOVE my outfit today! I look great, don’t I?”
At this point, we were walking along the street, carefree. I smiled indulgently: FH is prone to this kind of borderline feminine remark from time to time. But unfortunately for him, at the very moment he uttered these words, we were passing in front of a Renault garage, from which the most virile mechanic you can imagine emerged. It was the full monty: grease-stained overalls, thick layer of stubble, droopy cigarette hanging out of mouth. Said mechanic stopped in his tracks and gave FH a look of such disbelief and scorn that my poor husband turned decidedly pink.
We scuttled on.
On the way back however, our paths were destined to cross again. This time, virile mechanic was outside smoking with virile mechanic no. 2, and both laughed heartily and unashamedly as we walked past, eyes to the ground…
Moral of the story? Er… well, perhaps simply that the things one utters in the privacy of one’s own home are not always fit for public ears!
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