First bad point of
the day – Bad Manners near the Croissants.
I gave a bit of a
snort and a sniff. It would never happen in Paris. You wouldn’t get a one like
her, as by those types, small-petite- feigning helpless- blouse and short skirt
variety, standing in front of you – in actual fact between you and your croissant.
You just wouldn’t get it. It would not be on.
I was just about to
use the mechanical contraption akin to a pair of large blunt scissors – to choose
my favourite croissant, when she had stood right in front of me and had begun
rummaging around the doughnuts area.
To make matters
worse she didn’t even offer up a feeble – excuse me. No carried on hovering her
hand the odd time over a perhaps chosen item, then shaking her head and moving
on, and then listfully gazed to the man on my right and asked how did you cut
the loaf of bread.
And he took her loaf
as if it was a baby in a blanket and gingerly placed it into the crumb filled
cutting machine and both of them gazed in awe as it sliced the life out of the
dough, in thick chunky segments.
I must have had the scissor
yoke aloft menacingly in my hand because my dear daughter appeared to the left
and told me we’d better get on. It was not like her to tell me anything like
that, especially around the confectionary area.
And then all feeling
went out of my face when I looked at her and realised her speech was slurred
and her eyes rolling a bit too jolly in her head. Panic for a moment as I gazed
over her shoulder and watched the man tidy up the little loaf and with his
other hand run air into a plastic bag, flapping it like it was a flag. Until it
billowed out and he shoved the loaf through it like it was a train going
through a plastic tunnel. Reminding me of the George Pompidu Centre.
The daughter tapped
me on the shoulder, she was not in any peril thankfully, just had popped a bit
of croissant into her mouth and had been chewing it for a brief while.
Second bad point of
the day – the Croissants Were Chewy.
So I dutifully
picked the milk from the furthest end of the store as they always place them
(left corner, furthest back) ruminating with the unusual yoghurts no on usually
goes for.
I headed back up to
the conveyor belt with murderous intent to cause alarm if anyone stepped in my
way. With images of spilt milk and adjectives like that coming into my head.
Thundering on, swinging the milk with my daughter darting out at tangents to
look at bicycle pumps and tent equipment, I thought, save me from all
unnecessary evil and plaster a smile on my face today.
SO I did, and the
guy at the check-out was so jovial and full of the joys that when he said –
it’s warm out this morning – I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was 50
degrees, I was contemplating wearing a thermal vest and in Paris, right now I
would be consuming three authentic croissants and an espresso – sur a canvas
with the side of the Arc de Triomphe to my left and the weight of the world off
my rounded shoulders. But I didn’t and just got on with the business of bagging
the croissants and taking a bite out of one, as we passed through the exit
doors and I saw petite miss turning the last aisle towards the cashier.
But at that stage I
was too busy chewing on my croissant to really care and looked forward to
driving past the only plaqued connection to the City of Romance, the birthplace
of the man who had helped to build the Pompidu Centre. Any Parisian connections and crumbs were very welcome. Forgive me for my grumpiness, it will - my husband has told me - run itself out by the weekend.
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