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Re: Salmonesca Returns !!!


Gardian
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This is the start of Pt3 of the long-running saga - please feel free to add your contribution.

 

Salmonesca adjusted her garb on returning from the airport café at Luton.

 

She felt that the tight leopard skin trousers with a matching tiger-stripe top, was sufficiently eye-catching for the men around and about. She joined her husband ‘Bazzer’, who was slumped in the chair in his light blue shell suit with orange piping, carressing a plastic glass of lager.

 

The return flight to Brive la Gaillarde was delayed: something to do with the French air traffic controllers. Surely she wouldn’t have to spend any more time in this awful country?

 

Life for Sal had been hard over the last few years. The dramas of the past regularly came back to haunt her and whilst Bazzer wouldn’t have been her ideal choice of a husband (nor most people’s), he did at least have a few euros to rub together. Their visit to the UK had been for his friend’s 3rd marriage ceremony. Salmonesca felt that she had put on a good show for everybody, despite the unfortunate incident when she had had to rake her fingernails down the face of one of the bridesmaids over an inappropriate comment she had made.

 

At last the flight was called and Sal and Baz leapt to their feet and elbowed their way to as near to the front of the queue as they could. Onboard at last!  En route, Baz tucked in to his Croque Monsieur which Sal felt was disgusting fayre: if only Air Albania operated that route and she could enjoy some decent food!

 

Arrival at Brive was imminent and the return to country life in France. But first, Salmonesca had to get past the dammed French immigration officials!        

 

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Jean-Luc Dumas coughed briefly as he took a final drag on his cigarette - time to return to the terminal building for the late arrival of the flight.

It was such a pain to have to trek over to Brive from Bergerac once or twice a week for the infrequent Roganair flights from Angleterre. Tuesdays and Saturdays and that was it. They came from Londres Luton, but where on earth that was defied belief. Almost all of the passengers were Anglais, with the occasional mad Frenchman or woman who (on departure) clearly didn't know what they were letting themselves in for.

J-L D felt that opting for a career as a Douanier would have opened up a life of international interest: instead it involved the charade of grunting grimly at a succession of passports and an often late drive back home.

The aircraft was quickly parked and the baggage was loaded on the cart as carelessly as possible by Philippe the handler. Another five minutes and this lot will be passing through and I can get on my way, he mused.

The passengers began to pass through. Mostly dodgy photographs in the passports, often bearing little resemblance to the old folk in front of you, but "Tant pis". 

And then Jean-Luc's moment arrived. Something 'pas normale'. A woman appeared in front of him who had been furtling around in her apparel and who presented a passport that was completely foreign to him. Well, most passports were foreign, but this one was really foreign. "Attendez la Madame" he said, whilst he dealt with the remaining trickle of passengers. A strangely dressed man who seemed to be with her, started mumbling in Anglais but he would have to wait.

This whole situation needed further investigation.  Pas normale.      

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Bazzer was becoming more and more impatient, waiting around for the frogs or anyone else to do their job was not his thing. He wanted to get back to the massive property he'd recently bought in the country.

Baz had the boys arriving next week from U.K. to start the building work and turn the property  into a thriving B&B  / gite complexe. He hoped that Sal would try and fit in and settle down to making beds, providing breakfasts (English and continental) and doing the housework

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"Attendez-la madame" Sal's heart jumped ... no this could not be happening. Why, when she was so close to her dream, was she being stopped? Would she be thwarted once again? Her goal was so close ... but yet so far. She had to get past this wretched customs official who was looking down his nose at her with sharp, intelligent eyes. Did he know? Could he tell, just by looking at her, what her plans were? Quick ... think ! Think hard!

She composed her face in a firm smile and looked him straight in the eyes while, at the same time, pulling the front of her blouse down ... just slightly, under the pretext of twiddling with her tiger-eye necklace. A hint of bronzed cleavage, combined with the musty perfume that now rose from her heated body ... a trick she'd used so many times before, that had helped her to evade detection. She breathed deeply several times, her chest rising with each husky breath ... please don't let this customs official be gay, like the last one.

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The immigration officer looked at Salmonesca, and then gasped. He looked at her again. "Eet is not you, is eet?" He gasped in accented English. "You are Roxanna Vixen. Eet is an honour to meet you. I am your beeggest fan." He waved her through.

She smiled condescendingly at him and walked quickly on.

It had been several years since the strange man had walked into her uncle's kebab shop in Huddersfield where she had been for only three weeks since arriving in England. He had handed her a card bearing his name and mobile number and the words Talent Scout. "I'm at the Premier Inn. Come and see me. The camera will love you"

That was where it started. She was told she had a great future as an actress. With her wavy hair, sultry looks and pneumatic figure she had a lot going for her. He gave her fare for the bus to London and told her to report to the studio in two days time.

She could not believe her good fortune. Here she was, a country girl from the Balkans, in England for less than a month and on her way to being a film star.

The film studio was not quite what she expected. It was a large room over a row of lock-up garages in the back streets near Kings Cross. The talent scout had told her that the studio specialised in films of an instructional nature. She was still somewhat puzzled when a fat, middle-aged man with what she later learned was a Brummie accent, introduced her to a small, skinny black man. "This is Errol, you're working with him today."

And here she was, in France again with Bazzer. Although she was now retired, her reputation as Europe's most celebrated porn "actress" ensured, on a rare occasion, the benefits of celebrity.

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Salmonesca and Bazzer made their way to the Brive la Gaillarde International Airport secure parking. Well maybe not terribly secure, since the barrier had been wiped out weeks ago by an over enthusiastic user. Free parking as usual !!  Their UK-registered 1985 Volvo 740 Estate was still there, probably because no self-respecting thief wanted it nor could fathom out how to start it.

The drive to their property would take nearly an hour and since Baz had imbibed a couple of VAT's en route, Sal volunteered to take the wheel. This was unusual, since she was used to LH drive vehicles, but 'Needs must'.

As they set off, Sal opened up to Baz over something that had been troubling her for a while. "Do you really feel that your 'signature dish' of sausage, egg, chips and beans will really take off in our new venture as well as you expect?"

"Course it will, Sal."  "No reason to suppose that the Frenchies or the tourists will like it any less than they did on the Costas when I was there a few years ago."  Hardly reassured, Salmonesca settled back to driving and flicked away one of the many flying objects that had infested the car through the partly open window during its time in the International Car Park.  

Halfway home and in the dingiest of country lanes, Sal saw a torchlight ahead of her seemingly waving her down. Gendarmerie!  What next?  

   

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Her heart quickened and she checked to make sure nothing incriminating was in her bag. If the said items were found, she could always blame the fact that the car had been left so long unattended at the airport.

"Act natural" hissed Baz as he pulled the seat cover down. Thank goodness, thought Sal, he's found a hiding place for those illegal items.

The torchlight was up and down and she saw its carrier was a fierce looking gendarme, and just beyond a big police wagon with several burly men armed with machine guns. No, surely not, surely she and Baz hadn't come this far just to be thwarted at the final hurdle?

She took a few deep breaths and brought the car to a standstill. Her heart was pounding as the gendarme gestured for her to get out of the car. As she opened the car, the other police jumped out of the van.

The gendarme walked over and looked her up and down then his face burst into a big grin. He called back to the others "yes 'tiz 'er, Roxanne Vixen, alright. My mate at zee airport customs rang me and said she was coming back. You all owe me ten euros".

Then, to Roxanne, he said "Madame, I am your greatest fan. I 'ave seen every one of your artistic films. I would recognise you anywhere ... and from any angle, of course" He sniggered unpleasantly then continued "but of course it eez a great honour that the star of Roxanne's Rumpy Pumpy Adventures should return, and so please accept a police escort to your 'ome".

Sal managed a smile. She'd preferred not to have been reminded about her porn film past, which she preferred to call "erotic art", but of course the plebs thought it was all nudity and bonking. No, it was culture in its barest form which elevated man beyond the beasts and showed glimpses of heaven. At least that's what the casting agent of Roxanne's RumpyPumpy Adventures had sold it to her as.
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S & B arrived back at their soon-to-be gites 'complex'. Even after just a few days away at the wedding in the UK, the spiders had been busy and the place was a mess. It could all wait till the morning.

Dawn broke and Bazzer started to unload the illegal cargo of baked beans (catering size) and bacon.  The other iffy items he left for the time being (for someone to come up with an idea as to what they might be!) 

Sal took a look at the pool, which she felt might need some attention. "It's not very blue", she said to Baz.

"Maybe on the green side of blue" he said, "But the boys won't bother when they get down here".

He was referring of course to the imminent arrival of his pals from Angleterre, who were going to knock the place in to shape.  He was certain that the locals would enjoy their presence in the locality and that their new complex would soon be a major attraction.

"What shall we call it Sal?" said Bazzer. "Some of the ideas that had gone through my head were 'Shangri-la' or 'Monn Ripo'. What do you think?"

Salmonesca raised her eyes to heaven and wondered how she had fallen so far. All that Roxanna business had been too much yesterday and she was hoping that things would settle down now that they were back in France. Some hope!        

 

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Jean-Marie, the Maire at the Mairie, was concerned.

Since his election four years ago, he had tried to keep things on an even keel. No fuss, no drama. The monthly Council agenda consisted largely of things like the re-decoration of the Salle des Fetes and the timetable for the coming year's social events. There were very few foreigners in the Commune and most of them just appeared for their hols once or twice a year.

However his intelligence network, which normally confined itself to informing him about illicit bonfires and the like, was telling him that an Anglais couple seemed to be actively improving their property. A visit might be required. 

Meanwhile, Bazzer was finalising the arrangements for his team of pals to come down and transform the wasteland in to a gite complex worthy of a name that they hadn't settled on yet. Kev, the leading man confirmed that the boys would arrive on Sunday and then it would be 'all hands to the pump'. Four weeks should see the job done, with plenty of opportunity to sample the local nightlife while they were there.    

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Salmonesca was insistent.  She and Bazzer should have accommodation which would not only be physically separate from the gîte but have separate access so that they would not have anything other than occasional contact with tenants. Her part of the complex would be private so that she could sunbathe and swim in complete seclusion. Baz could deny her nothing.

 

Baz spent the first afternoon exploring the DIY sheds and builders' merchants. Despite his almost total lack of French he managed to source most of Kev's materials and to agree delivery before the boys' arrival. Kev had told him not to worry about any electrical supplies, Steve could get them cheap and, anyway, had a whole load of twin and earth left over from that factory rewiring job in Gateshead.

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Pondering still over her dream accommodation which would have to be quite separate from the riff-raff staying in the gites of course, Sal thinks "dunrunning" might be a suitable name for their personal abode.

Baz meanwhile is planning where to site the new greenhouse so that he can finally release the cannabis plants from their non descript packaging. He hopes they have survived the flight o.k.

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The following day they were awoken from their slumber by the noise of a hole-ridden exhaust and "Come On Eileen" being played at full blast. Salmonesca didn't mind Dexy's Midnight Runners - in fact, she'd done plenty of midnight runs in her time - but the music was unbearably loud. What could it be.

Pulling open the cobweb strewn curtains she saw, in their drive, a battered old white Renault Traffic van with GB plates. As she watched, the driver's door swung open and several empty cans of Special Brew fell out from the footwell onto her drive, followed by the unshaven and heavily overweight driver, who was attempting to light a dog-end with a lighter that wouldn't work. The other door opened and a lanky pasty-faced youth got out, scratching his crotch whilst surveying her house. The youth then opened the side door and two more unsavoury characters emerged from the van, swigging Red Bull and singing football chants. The smell of sweaty armpits, truckstop chips and cheesy feet his Salmonesca's nose and she gulped to hold down the bile.

Just then Baz emerged behind her. "Look at those dreadful oiks, Baz, can you tell them to bugger off as we're waiting for the builders." Baz said nothing but opened the window wide, took a deep breath and yelled "Welcome, lads, you found us OK then".

There was a cheer from the inebriated foursome followed by a loud fart from the fat driver who muttered "sorry miss, something I ate".

Salmonesca shuddered in horror. Were these the builders to whom she had entrusted her dream?. Would this pissed-up band of ne-er-do-wells be left in charge of creating her magnificent abode? As the lanky youth urinated in her flowerbed, she thought once again of those nights under the stars with the Arab Sheikh as she lay on perfumed cushions, her fingers and ears resplendent with the finest diamonds. Would she ever have such days as those again? Is this now what she was reduced to? Oh, the horror ...

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Jean-Marie the Maire had heard the clapped-out vehicle pass his house that morning.

This, in itself, was not an especially unusual event: most of the transport passing by could have been best described as 'well past its sell-by date'.  This one however was different: too early for Michel, too late for Jean-Jacques and besides, there was a slightly raucous noise coming from the vehicle. He resolved to investigate.

Meanwhile ...................... a certain someone was arriving at his desk at DDE HQ in Brive la Gaillarde.  (You just knew that he was going to turn up, didn't you?) 

 

 

   

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Jean-Marie decided to stroll casually by Bazzer’s property on his way home for lunch that day. It was a little out of his way, on the outskirts of the village, in an overgrown strip of grass and woodland just off the potholed lane to the disused railway station. 

As he approached he saw Bazzer’s caravan through the trees, the sun reflecting off the TV antenna on its roof, and an old Renault Trafic parked next to the familiar Volvo in front of  the huge old ruin which Bazzer had bought cheaply the previous year. 

The future gite complex had once been the Hotel and Restaurant de la Gare, which before the unfortunate fire many years ago had been the social centre of the village, although the rooms were more often let by the hour than by the day. The fire was rumoured to have started in one of the bedrooms during a particularly rowdy tombola evening, and no-one had been sober enough to call the pompiers before it was too late. 

Jean-Marie had high hopes of the old hotel being restored to its former glory by the no doubt wealthy foreigners. This should bring some much needed work to the village besides attracting wealthy foreign tourists to patronise the local bakery, tabac, hairdressers and Vival store.

 

 

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Jean-Marie wondered if now would be a good time to broach the subject of the new TGV line, which, although using some of the old trackbed of the currently-disused railway line, would be elevated on piers and would veer across the end of the garden of Bazzer's complex. The land requistion process was ongoing, and he had been approached by the state authorities wondering why the new English landowner had not registered any complaint against the derisory low offer that had been made for the land that was to be taken from him.

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As Jean-Marie walked down the weedfilled driveway he saw the lanky youth lounging near the Trafic van. “Merde! C’est vachement rare!” he exclaimed to himself, “eet is Florian, ze young son of Marie ze poule, nezpah?” (He always used a strange mixture of french and bad english when he spoke around foreigners) 

Marie (no relation to Jean-Marie le Maire) was the well-known and (well-loved) young lady from a local family of  travellers who had made it good by marrying a rich holidaymaker from England and returning there with him. She and her husband had returned to the village a couple of times, but had not been seen there for some years. In truth, Marie preferred not to remember her times there, and did not like the leering grins, winks, and whispers which followed her whenever she walked down the street. 

“Bonjour Monsieur le Maire” exclaimed Florian, for it was indeeed he. He walked up to the mayor to shake hands, and they were engaged in rapid conversation when Salmonesca came up to them. “You should be very useful if you can translate for us” she said, “Although I should have known you were French when I saw you pissing on the flower bed”

 

 

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Jean-Marie's eyes lit up as he surveyed the buxom young woman with the sultry eyes and just-got-out-of-bed hair. He knew her face... and that heaving bosom. But from where. He knew it was something sexy ... when she said "bed" he had a fleeting image of her reclining in all her splendour against a cheap purple bri-nylon undersheet. He cast his mind back to the many smoke-filled bars where he had sipped a cognac whilst eyeing up the local fillies. No, she was not one of those.

She looked beyond him at the battered old van. "And one of your tyres is flat, it needs pumping up". At the word "pumping" Jean-Marie's brain was working overtime. Why was this so familiar?

"But if you're stuck, I've got some rubber sealant". Jean-Marie's brain was spinning, "rubber", "pumping" "bed". Where, oh where had he met this woman before?

And then he remembered ... a memory that he had tried to forget, to erase. He was now an important political figure with a respectable past that he had created for himself, and he had erased any trace of his former self. But now he remembered long ago, that day when he was a broke student in London, on an exchange visit. A seedy man had come up to him and offered him £10 to star in an action movie and he had eagerly accepted. Off they went to a tatty hotel, up some creaking stairs and to a room that was carpeted with torn lino, and furnished with an old wicker chair and a double bed with a pink bri-nylon undersheet and there, reclining, was the English woman in front of him. Roxanne!

For both he and she were the stars of 'Roxanne's Rumpy Pumpy Adventures'. And now his dreadful secret would be exposed to the world (as would every other part of him!).
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At DDE HQ in Brive la Gaillarde, Pierre-Yves le Pompodore de Frou-Frou sipped his first cafe court of the day.

For some inexplicable reason, he found himself recalling the events of three years ago, all of which had led him to end up here. Colette, his dear wife and chou had gone off with that Englishman Jon after the fiasco on the Ile de Re. That other ghastly Englishman, Group Capitain Horrocks, having been exposed as a member of the Albanian Secret Service, had been run over by the Gendarmerie in Clermont Ferrand. He was now serving five years in prison in Lille. P-Y had tried to find out what the charge had been, but had failed - it was probably his excruciating French accent.

As for the Piranha from Tirana, he had happily seen sight nor sound of her and never would now (Oh yes you will !!).

All the drama of the previous years were behind him: he had secured a responsible position in quite a nice part of the hexagone. Nothing too demanding and away from Clermont Ferrand and all its tyres and dodgy food. This job enabled him to apply the bureaucracy that came naturally to him.

From time to time, he came across some Anglais in the course of his work. Actually, they weren't all bad (unlike that cretin Horrocks), but irritatingly seemed to have a pretty good grasp of the way things were supposed to be done. Only last week, he had had occasion to make a field visit over a disputed Permis de Construire. The people claimed to be Ecossais and less than happy when he had referred to them as Anglais. Now he knew Ecosse, having visited Lossiemouth some years back and as every Frenchman knows, Ecosse is a departement of Angleterre. All this Grande Bretagne and Royaume-Uni business is just a smokescreen. Anyway, those particular Anglais had their application put en retard for a bit in order to calm them down.

With Colette having done a runner, P-Y's love life was nul. However, there was one situation which held promise. He lunched every day (same table, same time 12.05 sharp) at the 'La Brasserie de Brive' and he felt that La Patronne was beginning to take a liking to him. He particularly liked her Caillettes and often took the opportunity to remark on them - this seemed to go down well.

So .............. all in all, life wasn't too bad given the horrors of the past. 

 

  

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Baz sat on a cement block with a cup of tea in the garden and surveyed the decrepit hovel that was now their home. In a million years he wouldn't have touched this old stone shed, with a large crack down one side and a chimney held on by gravity rather than cement. The roof was leaking, panes of glass were missing from the windows, and the shutters hung on one hinge.

But this was Sal's dream. From the moment she had seen the "ideal little renovation project for the enthusiastic first time buyer, just requires a little vision and paradise will be yours" she had begged him to buy it. He'd studied the photos on the web, seen the structural faults, the rotten floorboards inside were clearly visible in the photos. But Sal was insistent. "Baz" she'd pleaded "this is my dream. Just imagine, we can have a little path lined with lavender going up to the door, which I'll paint pink. I can do fancy stencils on the walls. We'll have an Aga and I can bake cakes" (At this point Baz had to stifle a laugh, Sal couldn't cook at all and considered a microwaved burger to be something she'd 'cooked'), "Oh and I can have little scatter cushions around, and pots of wild flowers.." Baz had looked at her, was the woman deluded?

But she'd insisted and he'd given in, as he always did. Plus of course he couldn't refuse her anything since she had all that dirt on him but she never called it 'blackmail'. "Such a tacky little word" Sal had said, "I prefer to say that I have ways to persuade you".

So he'd asked around for a builder and called up a friend of a friend, who'd recommended Fat Fred and his gang who worked for cash and beer, and who'd now have to work a miracle to turn this crumbling ruin into the magnificent manoir that Sal envisaged.

But he had a more pressing problem. Fat Fred worked for cash ... and Baz and Sal didn't have a bean between them, having spent the last of it on their flight. What excuses could he make to delay payment? He wouldn't be able to keep Fat Fred waiting for his money forever ...
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Work on the new complex began quickly.

Fat Fred / Kev (keep up Nectarine!) drove the team of Anglais artisans like a man possessed. Happily, Baz had opened an account at the local builders merchant and the materials were readily supplied. There was a brief but nonetheless unhappy episode down there when one of l'equipe made advances to the young woman at la caisse, but this was quickly smoothed over.

Within two weeks, things were really taking shape.  Salmonesca had kept a few beans back from her previous theatrical appearances and this was enough to keep the boys in food and beer. 

Then, one fine Tuesday morning, Jean-Marie the Maire from the Mairie dropped by.

"Bonjour Monsieur" he said to FF Kev. "Qu'est ce qu'il passe ici?" "Est ce que vous avez un Permis de Construire?" (knowing full well that they didn't).

This use of the French language in France completely threw FFK since his use of the language only extended to "Un / deux / trois / catre / sank bieres" in the village 'Bar du Soleil'.

"I think that you need to speak to Monsieur Baz or Madame Sal, but they're not here at the moment."  "Who shall I say called?"

When B & S got back, FFK briefed them. "Somebody called Mary, the Mary from the Mary has been round. I think he wants to see you"

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Jean-Marie (the Maire) slumped in his chair back at the Mairie.

This was the biggest problem he had faced since the assaisinement overflow a year or two back. The resultant spillage had ended up in the local vineyards and the owners claimed that that year's vendange had a certain taste to it. He wasn't surprised, and made sure that he surreptitiously bought his own supplies from a neighbouring Co-op.

Anyway, what to do?  He could have a quiet word with the Anglais owner and suggest a retrospective application, or he could call in the DDE and have them make a decision. Either way, he didn't want to torpedo the works because it was all extra spend in the Commune. Perhaps the 2nd course was the best approach, but he'd talk to the DDE people first and put them right over the ways things should work out. They'd understand.

"Bonjour. Is that DDE HQ in Brive? May I speak to le Directeur?"  

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Jean-Marie replaced the phone with a scowl on his face. This conversation hadn't gone the way he'd wanted. Le Directeur had been abrupt, almost to the point of rudeness. Apparently the DDE was "aware" of the Anglais and their plans but the rules would not apply to them. When Jean-Marie asked why, he was told that there were "special circumstances". "But, M. Le Directeur, rules are rules, are they not?" he had pleaded. But M. Le Directeur was insistent that, in this particular case, the Anglais had a free hand to do what they wanted.

The mayor was confused. Clearly these Anglais had special influence with the powers-that-be. Were they masons? Or perhaps they were members of the confrèrie of the jambon, or another tightly-fierce closed group that had control of most of the political power. Hmm, maybe it was the Confrèrie of the Jambon .... the equivalent of the highly-secretive Bilderberg group in this part of France, who wielded enormous influence at the highest levels.

He must investigate further but clearly he must now tread very carefully!!!
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Pierre-Yves considered his conversation with the stupid Maire from that little Commune.

Clearly an over-excitable individual who panicked at the slightest little crise. Who was he to demand that I drop everything and scoot over there to resolve his little local problem. He wasn't keen on the place anyway, since he'd bought some wine from the local co-op when last in the area and hadn't felt quite right for days.

Anyway, why not get out, find out what was going on and make a day of it?  Not today, not tomorrow, but the day after. No rush - tomorrow was Caillettes au sauce Tomates at the Brasserie de Brive and that wasn't to be missed (nor La Patronne).

At the crack of 11.00, P-Y exited the DDE HQ compound in the little yellow van. Such a comedown from his senior executive days when he was driving a nice big Citroen saloon. In this horrible little vehicle, he was often mistaken for le facteur and had been waved down by the locals to ask if he had any post for them!

It took just half an hour to get to the village and finding the property wasn't hard - you could hear the betonnier for kms around. P-Y parked his van, feeling somehow that it didn't give him the largesse that his position warranted.

One of the men walked up to him and said "Morning squire, what can I do for you?", although P-Y didn't really understand exactly what he said.  After 20 mins or so, there was some degree of comprehension from the Anglais over the importance of his role and his concerns.

"Well" said Bazzer, "May I offer you our Plat du Jour with our compliments, while we chew (!!) the matter over?" "You'll love it - a typically English dish".

P-Y gulped.      

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P-Y surveyed the dish before him. A yellow batter in a shallow dish, bubbling at the edges, with something long and brown in the middle. What on earth was this.

"Toad in the 'ole" said Baz, as he handed P-Y a squeezy bottle of HP sauce. "National dish, puts 'airs on yer chest".

P-Y nodded nervously. In his culture on never refused food nor drink - to do so would be the height of rudeness. But what was this "Toad In The 'Ole'? Baz, seeing his confusion, explain "yeah, toad, like one of yer grenoowillies, nope a crapo really. In an 'ole. What's an 'ole. Oh yeah, a truc. Yeah, translates as crapo dans a truc".

P-Y's eyes boggled. Did the mad English eat toads? They sneered at the French taste for delicious grenouilles but were happy to take the foul crapaud and put it in a hole. What hole? Where? Maybe they drowned it in this yellow batter? Or maybe it was still alive, hiding?

But to refuse would be the height of rudeness, he must eat this dish. P-Y cut a small slice in the corner and noticed that nothing moved in the dish, except for a layer of yellow oil which filled the hole he'd created, and he shut his eyes and brought the fork to his mouth ...

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