Last Monday we finally broke down and admitted that we would have to order a load of logs for the stove for Christmas.
Now the man who supplies our logs is a fairly tough piece of work, as you would expect a professional hewer of wood to be, and gruff, would be a polite way to describe his manner. The sort of man you would imagine would slice off a finger and then sellotape it back on and keep chopping.
Anyway we phoned his wife on Monday and ordered three stares of timber. Madame said that “There is no way you can have that before Christmas” but then she always says that and ten minutes later Monsieur rang and said he would be over in a half hour.
He was.
Then, after he had emptied his lorryfull of wood on the road outside the house, he said “You were lucky, as tonight I have to go to hospital, the heart” (tapping the appropriate area) Ah ! said the voice of experience”An angiogram” ” Yes” said Monsieur paling visibly”They tell me they have to put a tube up here”- pointing again, this time in the direction of his groin and wincing. “Does it hurt much” he then said with some pathos. “Not a bit” says I, “they pump drugs into you while they are at it and you feel great, I sang ” (quite true) Monsieur’s face brightened and cleared. “Is it like alcohol ? he said “Mais Oui” I said raising an imaginary glass. Monsieur smiled with relief, banged his hands together and drove off. Then I noticed that there was an entire line of traffic waiting on our lane. They were patiently watching our strange conversation and mime unable to pass Monsieur’s lorry.
I smiled apologetically as they passed.
They waved in acknowledgement.