I frequently praise my sister and brother-in-law for having had the excellent taste and foresight to move to the South of France. The perfect pick-me-up after Christmas was a weekend in the Provencal sunshine. Stepping out of Nice airport, putting on my sunglasses (which hadn't been worn for months), the sight of the palm trees just lifted my heart:
We drove inland, George obligingly explain quantum mechanics to me on the way (I have an enquiring mind) and reached chez eux just as after dark. As the small boys ran around reclaiming their stuff and their papa turned on the heating, Ro and I went to the supermarket where she bought groceries and I amused myself by marking, once again, the delights of the French supermarket experience. (Nine kinds of chocolate mousse.)
Next morning, bright but cold, we pushed the boys (one in a pram, one on bicycle) into the centre of the village. I always love seeing the church perched on top of the village.
Why, yes - that is my sister looking very glamorous and sitting outside, OUTSIDE I say, at the beginning of January.