Can't speak French...

Well, we made it.  Despite Miss R and I having to negotiate son number two's whiplash inducing drive to the airport, a flight delay, daylight robbery in the restaurant in Terminal 5, throwing boiling water over another passenger on the plane (don't ask) and turbulence (Miss R nearly stopped all circulation in my right hand for ten minutes) we finally made it to our hotel on Wednesday night on the wrong side of midnight.

We had been expecting a pretty amazing room, and weren't disappointed, except for two things.  Firstly, there were only five hangers in the wardrobe.  Normally, I bring my own hangers, as does Miss R, but after one of our many pre-holiday packing conversations, we decided that the suitcase space would be better spent on yet another pair of shoes, and as we agreed, 'it's a posh hotel, they'll be loads of hangers'.

So having hung up all of our many outfits (enough to last till September without switching the washing machine on), thoughts then turned to where we were to put our underwear.

There were no drawers drawers...  Miss R and I toyed with the idea of finding the French equivalent of Ikea and buying a flat pack chest of drawers, but being incredibly creative, we hunted round for an alternative.

As I write, they are all precariously balanced on a sliding shelf which previously housed the iron and hairdryer, so there will be an element of ferreting down the back of the wardrobe when we leave, in case any have made a bid for freedom over the week. Meanwhile, the ironing board, iron and hair dryer are currently ensconced on our balcony, along with the suitcases.  Anyone looking up to the fifth floor would think we we were a right couple of ne'er do wells...

Our first day went in the usual fashion.  Food, sunbed, swim, sunbed, alcohol, walk, food, alcohol, alcohol, walk, sunbed, alcohol.  Each alcohol stop allowed for just one drink each, with this afternoon's drink by the pool reaching a giddy height of 16 euros for a glass of fizzy stuff.  Never, in the history of mankind, have I known Miss R to eke a drink out so long.  I had to speed her up a little, as the rate she was going it was a race between her drinking it and evaporation taking its natural course.

Later in the week, Miss R, who has a mad, uncontrollable urge to get on two wheels as often as possible, has booked us in for a four hour (yes, you read that right) bike ride around Nice.  Notwithstanding that, it hasn't stopped her from lingering at every Benoit Bicyclette (French for Boris Bike) which line the promenade at 100m intervals, and she's been calculating how much it would cost us to hire them for a few hours each day.

Wonder if my Amazon Prime account would deliver a pair of padded shorts here before Saturday...

I was hoping to go back with a tan after a week on the Cote d'Azur, and not chafing...