Move over darling...

Yesterday was a very long day for this old bird.

Miss R and I had decided to do a Thelma and Louise (without Brad Pitt unfortunately) and hire a car to take us to Le Lavandou, a small town where most of our childhood holidays were spent.  There was no fancy hotel for us back then, just a static caravan, the inside of which could melt a pair of PVC shorts in seven seconds (it was the 1970's before you start worrying about the clothes I wore back then).  

Miss R had hired a Mini convertible, mainly for the reason that it was a car she and I both have experience of, so finding the petrol release wouldn't be difficult (unlike a Triumph Dolomite she used to have) and the roof folded back, perfect for the beautiful weather.  Climbing into the car at 7.45 yesterday morning, I relaxed in my passenger seat, comfortable in the knowledge that Miss R was a competent, safe driver.

This lasted for about fourteen minutes till we got onto the motorway.  She was going so fast that I gave up on wearing the very cheap hat I'd bought, as I was fed up of gripping on to it.  It spent the rest of the journey in the rear passenger footwell, ending its final days in a bin just outside Cannes.

  

But after an hour or so, we decided to hit the coast road, and take in the views around Cannes and St Maxime.  Driving along the windy coastal roads, Miss R seemed to rather like the right side of the road slightly more than necessary.  After several close calls with wing mirrors, kerbs, a furniture lorry and a man carrying a crate of watermelons, I mustered up the courage to suggest that she pull over to the left a little.  

This was said in such a gentle way, and certainly didn't warrant the, 'You should try driving on the right hand side with all these kn*bheads coming towards you.  It's bloody terrifying.  I felt a lot safer on the motorway'.

Unfortunately, my response was out of my mouth before I had a chance to put the oral brakes on...

'I felt a lot safer back at the hotel'...

But we finally made it there.  And having spent the morning wandering around the old campsite, taking photos of the concrete drive our dad laid like a couple of dodgy estate agents, we hit the beach for some more sunbathing.  There were several noisy children next to us who may not have made it to their next birthday had their parents not seen the way Miss R was staring at them, but other than that, the rest of the day passed without any dramas.

Coming back, the use of the word 'kn*bhead' seems to be used more frequently, with Miss R adopting a most passable Gallic two fingered accompanying salute on several occasions.  My previously gentle reminders of moving over to the left slightly had been elevated to frantic screaming of 'Move over!' and 'We're all going to die!'

Limping back to the car rental drop off, Miss R said to me that when we got back, she was going to the bar for a stiff drink before bed.

Just the one?  

The state of my nerves,  several Aperols, two gins and a bottle of Kalms wouldn't have been enough...