Maison Saint Pierre Breakfast Blues.
Almost a bad end to a wonderful experience: a hornet landed on my ankle. I didn't know what it was at first. It tickled and I thought it was a big fly. When I tried to shake it off I saw how large it was. It wasn't dislodged when I shook it. It was a little lethargic so it must've been sleeping before I sat near where it was - maybe it's too warm for flying bricks. Now it has left the room, out the window, and I am not damaged. What would the effect have been of the barb in its tail? Time for breakfast with the Sisters and repetition of the same emphasis over and over. Then I realise that I am being unnecessarily impatient with a woman who hasn't probably left this room, walls, cloister in a decade. And speaking to anyone male, let alone British (by birth), must bring all her forgotten skills from the corridors of her mind: a forgotten room so overgrown with brambles, dog roses and briary. She must've reminded me seven times between 7am and a half that another ...