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Migration


trumpet

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The annual migration seems to have two phases. George and Mabel come first, about now, who are retired and have a list of 3000 items whose prices they check in the supermarket with a view to saving dosh. They have smallish cars, park properly and eat out at lunchtimes on the drivers' menus. They go through the till with a polite smile and maybe one or two words of French. They also go to exhibitions.

Then the schools break up. I won't mention them, except for the 4x4s, the beer guts in the wine section, shouting across the crowd and a total inability to muster a single word of French. They avoid exhibitions but rent large gites where they cause damage and moan, occasionally want to eat 'peasant food' (a quote) and end up in the restaurant that serves English spoken (whatever that is).

Time to hide I think.

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And you can tell migration time has arrived because the ferry fares escalate overnight.

Then on arrival at Portsmouth you are either marooned in a line of caravans whose owners want an in-depth conflab about chemical toilets, or behind a line of small cars all with their hazards flashing despite the fact you are in a queue that will sit there for another hour before loading.  And you can guarantee someone will get out of the car and proceed to do a keep-fit regime (usually the socks 'n sandals brigade), making all the kids in the coaches snigger at the wally who reckons himself.

Get off at Caen and end up trapped behind George & Mildred pootling along at 20mph as if glued to the centre line, only to have them veer off alarmingly when they spot that Champion is open.   Arghhhhhhhh!

Ah those crazy hazy days of summer.   Where are they???? 

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I thought they always waited for me - either direction - so they can pull out in front at full pelt then slap it back down into second, all the while admiring the scenery as they wrestle with a map.   You don't suppose there are more than two of 'em do you.........?

Have you had a close encounter with French White Van Man yet?   I met him when he tailgated me for miles on a long, straight, wide road that he could have easily passed me on at any time, yet he chose to hang on my bumper instead with his headlights blazing.   Maybe he thought I was an English builder as I was driving our 4x4 pickup truck, but I wasn't dawdling along by any means.   Perhaps they get a kick out of it like English White Van Man does?   

However, when I drive my modified Clio out there I collect hoardes of spotty teenagers admiring the wheels and exhaust on her, nor do they believe that she is MINE cos I am not an aforementioned "spotty teenager"!     Our neighbour thought it as my son's car as well.   One thing is for sure - the day I feel the urge to buy a Rover will be the day I know I am old [kiss]

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They were in Super U today, talking loudly to themselves and when I listened they were saying Ou est les kitchen petit pains? I think

And passing him the baby while she does the shopping, he then hands it back to her when she has finished and pushes the trolley. She wanders off alone.

All the French hubbies are in the bar.

Gotta love them really. Without which there would be no Brit white vans. By the way, is it a rule that white vans always have three in the front, woman in the middle and the other passenger with 6 days growth on his/her chops

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