"To contradict Samuel Johnson", Sam Taylor was tired of London, but "was definitely not tired of life." This is the Islington, champagne socialist dream move to the south of France and I must say I share it. Not to worry. It sours on him in the end. That said, I think he should have run with that novel written from the point of view of a flea.
It was, at first, like being on a holiday that never ended. The simplest things were pleasurable: just being able to drive to one of the four boulangeries in the nearest small town every day and choose between about 50 varieties of fresh bread; discovering the local Madiran red wine, famous for its thick, heavy, tannic flavours, and drinking it in the sun with bloody, barbecued magret (duck breast) and home-grown tomatoes; watching the corn in the fields opposite our house grow from tiny green shoots in late June to triffid-like monsters in late July (and worrying about the kind of chemicals needed to make it grow that fast); going to a nearby farm instead of the supermarket to buy a rabbit for our Sunday dinner and discovering that it was still alive. (Danielle, the farmer, slit its throat and I had to hold its legs while she pulled off the pelt; within seconds, half a dozen chicks appeared at our feet to lick the fresh blood from the ground.)
Posted by Ghost of a flea at March 14, 2005 04:41 AM
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