Miniature Christmas tree, pepper mill, lighted candle. They sat on the table like three wise men or a scene from one of those unutterably dire “incredible journey” movies. An elderly couple arrived and sat at the neighbouring table. She was dressed like a confused goddess, draped in coats, shawls, scarves and things. He was clad almost entirely in black. Jacket, shirt, trousers, shoes, all were black. “Two G&T’s,” he ordered, “Bombay if you have it.”

But the tie, his tie was hideous. Capable of inflicting moral and intellectual damage upon any diner that saw it. Bright red with arty black shapes scattered in wild abandon. I could make out some stars, a couple of squares, numerous squiggles, various giraffe segments and possibly Che Guevara’s head. It probably wasn’t, he was too posh and too Tory for ol’ Che, but it was definitely a head.

His face reminded me of Sam, an old school friend who was affectionately known as “Bam”. A pointless detail, you wouldn’t know him. Her face rabbitesque, her hair phenomenal, a fluffy mushroom-like bouffant precarious on her head. She looked like a rabbit wearing a World War I helmet. I could just about hear their conversation.

“Your top looks nice,” he was saying, “much better than I thought it would.” Talk about digging a hole. Restaurant murder: Wife strangles husband with hideous neck-tie.

I never heard Rabbit’s response. A party of eight clattered in, eight extravagant well-to-do ladies. Flowing dresses, monstrous rings, necklaced to the hilt, designer glasses, massive hair-dos. One of them in a sequined jacket, I thought those things were illegal. The largest of the eight was licking her fingers. I kid you not, it must have been anticipation – no food had been served.

On the way out we had to navigate past two black bears that were fighting in the doorway. Turns out they were old ladies, not bears and they weren’t fighting either, they were grappling with the zips on their giant black fur coats. Easy mistake to make.

I hope you’ve missed me. Come on, flatter my ego and tell me you did. I know that Braja, Pseudo, Hit40, Rubbish and G have been beside themselves. Two weeks away from the Blogosphere and I bet I only get a couple of comments, the rest of you will have moved on…

The restaurant was as French as a langoustine in a beret. The chatter, the spotty-backed wooden chairs, the carafes and the fact that every damn diner was smoking like a chimney. The waitress swanned up to our table in a whirlwind of glamour, the perfect picture of French urbanity. She cooed at the baby and then took my wife’s order.

“Je voudrais que le moulles marinair, les ailes de raie et une carafe de la Saumer Blanc,” said my wife with all the comfort of a girl who paid attention in her French lessons.^*

“Perfect!” exclaimed the waitress, flashing a smile and cooing at the baby. Then she turned to me. Now I don’t want to overstate the case – heaven forbid – but nothing bothers the French more than a holidaying sauerkraut who has made no attempt whatsoever to learn their language.

“Hello,” I said, and in unfaltering English “I would like the pâté, the steak (medium-rare) and a beer”. I never paid attention at school but I felt my English was beyond criticism.

She definitely flinched. After the dizzying heights of my wife’s French it is hardly surprising. For a moment I felt like a Victorian schoolboy braced for the paddle. There was no flashing smile and no cooing at the baby.

“And would you like a large or small beer?” she asked in crisp, Frenchified English. Her accent reminded me of the French aristocrats in Blackadder.^** For a brief, sombre moment everything stopped. All you could hear was the flapping of parasols, a couple of Frenchies lighting up and the gentle frumpling sound of me chewing on my lip.

“Large,” I replied, “a pint would be perfect.”

^{* My own rendition of her French with the help of Google Translater probably does not do it justice.
** If for some godforsaken reason you have not watched Blackadder then you should be shot must do so immediately.}