Tuesday, 27 September 2011
I started to write about history yesterday, musing about events in Europe during my mother's lifetime having come full circle yesterday, then was distracted. She was born in 1917, so you can imagine that my thoughts were pretty gloomy. However, this morning the clouds have quite literally lifted. Moffat is basking in warm, golden autumn sunshine. Zac is recovering well from his chicken pox. A friend sent me a hilarious account of taking part in a car rally for the over 60's in the south of France. Not so much Dornford Yates as I'm Sorry, I Haven't A Clue. I read Dornford Yates's stories about smart young things racing their open tourers to the south of France (or was it Biarritz) when I was about 12, impressed by their wit and style. A few years ago, I opened a copy hoping to re-kindle that memory but oh dear. Very dated, rather feeble, if not positively nasty. Par contre, my friend's account of her and her husband Teddy's 'rally' was a catalogue of mishaps, from discovering that on the dawn of the event that their open car was covered in the cat's muddy pawprints, failing to read the instructions and finding themselves within half an hour, by following the clues, outside their own front door. A 'go/no go' decision had to be made: to cut their losses and go to the flea market for some new wine glasses, or join the rallyistes for the end of event picnic in a nearby tourist trap. No prizes for guessing which they chose. Cheers, Teddy and Nicola!.