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March 14, 2005

Country life

"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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