French Without Tears

“Tanya, stop staring at strange men,” Mum says. We’re sitting at a table in the posh restaurant in the ferry on the way to actual Abroad: a normal family going on a summer holiday. We haven’t been out of the country for two years: since well before I started my cancer journey. Sailing the choppy shark-infested oceans of cancer and manic depression is the only travelling I’ve done in recent memory.
“Don’t you think he looks nice though?” I say. He’s sitting at the window table with his Dad and is clad in motorbike leathers. Big arm muscles and a wide Viking sort of face: huge blue eyes, beard, dirty blond hair. 6 Foot 4 or so and broad shoulders and…
“Don’t look at strange men,” Mum hisses at me.
“Why not?” I say, throwing him a dazzling insane smile.
“It might be misconstrued,” Mum says. “Men have urges. If you don’t behave yourself I’m putting you straight on the next boat back home and…”
“You just want to keep me helpless, in bed, an invalid,” I say. “You’re basically Mr Barrett. If Robert Browning was writing me poems and wanted to marry me and…”
“If it was Robert Browning writing poems to you, and not you salivating over some revolting biker that would be completely different,” Mum says, sipping the tasteless, coffee-less coffee.
“You say that now, with hindsight but…”
“You two do know that you must never ever use your Caxton cards to get sterling out,” Dad says, returning to the table.
“Yes,” I say.

So, I’m going to France for a week. Blogging may be intermittent: time for you to catch up on any posts you’ve missed. Time for me to meet some real men in the Wild…

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