I left France in disgrace.
I felt that I was going to be asked to stand in the corner after I had shoved a profiterole down the cleavage of my friend, who was sitting next to me. She had started the food fight by smearing my nose with cream, before placing a profiterole in my top pocket.
I reacted. Judging by the look of horror on a French wife sitting opposite and the hurried rush of the hostess with a damp cloth in hand to attend to the elegant carpet - I overreacted. The French men seemed to collapse in laughter and I imaging they got a telling off from their spouses later that night.
Yet it could have been worse. There was no chocolate sauce.
The next day some Belgians came for lunch. They were tres sympatique and had lived in the area for a number of years, running gites and obviously fending off the cascade of French Belgian jokes, which are little different from the English Irish ones.
They had just bade farewell to some demanding English tourists who had rudely asked for 'Mild Blue Cheese'. Their kind hosts searched the region high and low for fromage meeeld bleu without success. But for goodness sake. What were they thinking of? This is the land of proper cheese, not some factory made mulch which tastes like window putty.
I despair about my English side sometimes. For the rest of the day I promoted my Scottish blood. But this was just a romantic whim because the Scots would probably have asked for meeld bleu too, but fried.
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