You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.

I was sitting outside at a French café, sampling a local beer and observing the world around me. I pride myself on my observation skills. An astute people-watcher, I like to think I can know volumes about someone the second I see them. A bit of a Sherlock Holmes, I like to think. Remember when Holmes meets Watson for the first time and immediately comes out with "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." I'm just like that, I like to think.

The two men walked up to the café and stopped to look at the menu. I could immediately tell they were gay, the evidence speaks for itself. Both were tall, clean-shaven, well-dressed, extremely fashionable. Too fashionable. Both in matching jeans, brown leather belts, pointy leather shoes, open-collar shirts. The shirts were finely pressed, perfect fit, identical cut, one wore blue, the other pink. I looked down at my ripped jeans and baby-stained t-shirt in shame.

They sat down at a table and crossed their legs in total synchronisation (right over left). In two swift actions they placed their leather wallets side by side on the table, then placed their mobile phones on top of the wallets. Not that there is anything wrong with this, by the way, it was simply fascinating. Gay, fashionable, synchronised to an extreme and totally comfortable.

And then their girlfriends showed up, one with a baby. I must have been having an off day.

A Remarkable Exhibition of Slightly-wined Brainwork

Our first night on holiday and I was woken from my deep, Côtes du Rhône-fuelled sleep with a start. Bubba was screaming and my wife was shaking me. "Wake up," she hissed, "help me turn on a light." The room was completely dark, I couldn't see a thing, not the bed posts, not the dark outline of the wardrobe, not even my own hand. Bubba had probably lost her dummy (soother), woken to find she couldn't see anything and totally freaked out. I understand. I'd hate to lose my dummy on a dark night.

My wife was trying to turn on her bedside lamp and (apparently) failing miserably. I reached to find mine, sending books and cash to the floor and narrowly avoiding knocking over a glass of water. I took a sip to restore my equanimity and then focused my attention on the light. Damn that Côtes du Rhône, I thought, as my keys crashed down the back of the table.

A man of settled habits, this kind of nighttime scenario stresses me out no end. I ran my hand down the wire, fumbling in vain for the light switch. Must be one of those "slide-block" switches, I thought, finding the bulb and sliding my hand downwards. Nothing. Damn those modern light-makers.

My wife had given up and was now trying to calm Bubba down from across the room. I still couldn't see anything. A thought came to me, if only I could retrieve my phone from our bag it would provide enough light to find the light switch.

In a remarkable exhibition of slightly-wined brainwork I planned the operation. Walk slowly forward until reaching the door (main light switch not an option as it would further wake the baby). Shuffle to the left until reaching the wardrobe. Inch round the wardrobe until positioned directly in front of its centre. Take a few steps back until reaching our bags.

I was just in the process of inching round the wardrobe when the light came on. My wife had resumed her search and found the light switch.

"Thanks for helping," she snapped^*, as I stood by the wardrobe stark-naked and blinking like a rabbit in headlights. I said nothing, rescued my keys and got back into bed. A man always knows when his efforts are unappreciated. Ultimately the problem with rural France is that there is no light pollution. On the upside, there is Côtes du Rhône.

^{* When I mentioned this in the morning after she didn't remember snapping at me. But if you read about the time she effectively accused me of wearing slippers in bed this will not surprise you!}

Sauerkrauts Make The World Go Round (alternative title: Langoustine in a Beret)

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.}

The restaurant was in Saumer