That French trip!

Andrew Lambert is a name I've just heard Anthony suggest he is a reincarnation of. 56 years. Anthony is 33 and he's a handsome boy. Gave him the only quid I can spare. Is it possible to be the reincarnation of someone still alive? Anthony often talks about the military, but he says a different kind of soldier. Money he is owed by the church. He's definitely entitled to PIP back payment: is it three years since he stepped ashore with Blue (beautiful Weimaraner boy long since deceased) But I think he'd still remain at large outside Costa just prior to its opening times: 8 am on a Sunday.

This is the wrong book! It's in the original tongue, but my comprehension of French doesn't go as deep as this requires: "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, 1" and I stumble at longtemps ... long ago. It's an interesting error. Perhaps I needed to pay more attention to Mr Le Bourdon, in 1MD, before unwittingly climbing on to that Coach to Berck (the cat is on the table seemed quite surreal at 11)? Our first year trip to France, where I was travel sick most of the route: when smoking was actually encouraged aboard public and private transport, was a farce from beginning to end. God it was disgusting.

My father, God save him, placed yellow toilet blocks in the Hillman Avenger (et al), to cover up the awful reek of Golden Virginia and liquorice Rizlas, which only made me gip more regularly. Those are for urinals for a reason, dad!

Everything that could go haywire on the A1, to Boulogne and those two nights in Berck did come apart. They only real enjoyment I had was the ferry back: where the waves lurched, the ship thrust and other mouths up-chucked, but mine didn't! Somewhere on that journey I had a migraine: possibly after consuming too many French fancies in Boulogne marché? And I recall a strange repase, consumed in the waste land by a hyper marché, where flickcombs/knives and fireworks were the order of the day. Although the lunch was exceedingly good, I don't think being beside a busy arterial road was at all advisable? On our final day - the morning I recall - everyone got visibly drenched in La Manche, and I lost a pair of National Health Service spectacles in the receding waves! We were warned by the Channel that our guts would pass our gums before arriving on these northern shores on that Thursday in 1984 (during the European Championships - where all teachers left us in the Gîte d'Etape, to cause a riot, as they disappeared into a Bar/Tabac to drink far too much woeful Perforth while watching France beat Spain? Perhaps they were so angry because they missed the final goal. The final was on a on Wednesday 27th June ... how odd, how amateur, how cool for football not to pander to TV or advertising scheduling?

(This definitely needs more fleshing out?!)