Cars.

France.  Don’t you just love it. Rhetorical Question.

My old van blew up five weeks ago.  Oh My God, my son needs transport to get to work.  More to point  I need transport for him to get to work.  Can’t have him sitting around pleading No Transport.  So I agreed to hire a car while the garage sorted the new second hand car I had agreed to purchase.  My son’s mother knows her son better than he thinks she does

Five weeks later I am having a nervous breakdown at the thought of the cost.  Until I discovered that the hired car came gratuit.  What?  Okay, lovely, merci beaucoup.  Phew.

But what to do with the blown up old van?  That’s going to cost a few bob to get rid of.   It’s a pile of  clapped out old rubbish, albeit good stuff in it’s day.  But, Oh really. No chance.  The garage owner came and uplifted it on to a loader this evening.  For Free.  “C’est normal, Madame”.  Now this is real honour.  Something that Brits don’t know too much about these days.  Even I after all these years thought that I would have to pay.

Mind you, I won’t stray far from this fold in future, but then I haven’t for quite a while.  Maybe this had something to do with it.,

The owner of the garage thinks that I am quite mad.  I can tell by the way in which he looks at me.  But he is much too polite to say so.  I might have fancied him if I was thirty years younger