LA VIE EN BLEU (RONDO)
In France for a long weekend, an English family on the Vieux Marche think I am French and speak to me in broken English. As usual, the thrill of their mistake sets me in a good mood for the rest of the day. Returning from four days of Normandy food; patisseries, seafood and the nine a.m. smell of fresh-baked bread wafting from the boulangerie’s, we hit a British ferry and instant tat.
LETTER FROM BRITAIN
LA VIE EN BLEU (RONDO)
by Penny Valentine
In France for a long weekend, an English family on the Vieux Marche think I am French and speak to me in broken English. As usual, the thrill of their mistake sets me in a good mood for the rest of the day. Returning from four days of Normandy food; patisseries, seafood and the nine a.m. smell of fresh-baked bread wafting from the boulangerie’s, we hit a British ferry and instant tat. The duty-free has run out of practically everything, the ship is dirty, the crew have a bloody-minded bonhomie which thinks bingo, raffles and silly onboard games to win a car will compensate for limp fish and chips, cardboard coffee, white bread wet ham sandwiches and Space Invaders machines.
England is more seedy than ever before. A kind of dull lethargy greets the unemployment figures announced each week. The night of the living dead turns into months. No wonder songs of high-rise anguish and impotence have disappeared from the airwaves. We are now sp gripped in its perpetual overdrive nobody has the energy to remark upon it anymore.