In the name of the Father, the Son and the holy Spirit(s)

There are few things in life that can be described as timeless. A quilted chanel handbag. The Mona Lisa. The Ferrari 250 GT Breadvan. However for most people these are just pipe dreams and the result of many lustful google image searches. So what exactly is the working man's Joconde?

Check out the nostrils on this baby.

I wish I could be profound here and say something like "quality time with the family" or "a brisk country walk," but one look at the title of this entry/my general demeanour can give you a clue as to where I'm heading with this. I'm talking about drinking. More specifically during the day. Even more specifically at the airport. 

Airports, thanks to a wondrous concoction of fluorescent lighting, perky shop assistants and "comedy" stag party t-shirts, are places where time magically stands still. (Except, perversely, when your gate is closing in five minutes.) Many people I know are more excited by the prospect of their first breakfast wine of the holiday than the holiday itself. By many people I mean my family and close friends. I don't know if it is the European lifestyle getting to me (who am I kidding, I've always appreciated a good boozy brunch which eases seamlessly into a drunch), but I am therefore more than a little disappointed that my flight home leaves the airport at 9 o clock in the morning. I will be kicking around the departures lounge at 7:30am which even for me rules out any possibility of a swift verre before take off. Chiefly because I happen to know the one bar in the glorified tent that is Lyon St Exupery will be closed. 

A tray of wine a happy traveler makes.

I have actually resorted to googling whether or not one can consume duty free items onboard. Before any of you get concerned and start bringing up sponsors and debating whether or not to revoke any recent invitations, I do actually have two excuses. 1. I am not a particularly happy flier. Don't even bother explaining the statistics, more people get killed by donkeys blah blah blah. I know, and, like I said, it is always fine after a glass (albeit a large one) of crisp Sauvignon Blanc. 2. Something tells me that crosswords and a three week old copy of Heat aren't going to be enough to keep me chirpy to see me through the SEVEN different types of transport that I need to take to get home. (For the vaguely autistic amongst you, they are bike, bus, metro, tram, plane, train and car.) I don't want to get drunk per se, just to enter in to that beautiful haze where I won't be unduly fazed by being inevitably seated next to an obese Frenchman who insists on eating all of his garlic eclairs at once.

That's me to the right. 'Scuse the beard.

So, despite how arduous it will inevitably be, I am very excited to be heading home. I've spent this afternoon packing, singing along to carols and wondering once again why I was never chosen to do a solo at school. I have been thinking about all the wonderful British things I've missed - the landscape, proper fish and chips, Marmite, queues and the subsequent tutting, microwaves, pubs and OH LORD REAL NORMAL MILK. None of this UHT shit. God it is repellent. 

Jolly good.

But....then I looked out of my window to see a snowy Mont Blanc just peeping over my balcony in the late afternoon sunshine, and started to think about all the wonderful French stuff that I'm going to miss these next few weeks. The Cairngorms vs The Alps. Glenshee vs Val d'Isere. Fish and chips vs Fondue and tartiflette. Marmite vs homemade jam bought from the market down the road. Queues and tutting vs every man for himself and some lively confrontation in the morning. Microwaves vs actually taking time over a meal and taking time out of your day to really enjoy food and the experience of eating. Pubs vs a glass of the new Beaujolais outside a cafe overlooking the river. Real milk vs....yeah, going to leave it at that actually.

Cheese eating surrender monkeys.

I know I'm at risk of becoming that francophile: "Ooh, they don't do that in France. Oh, well in French that sounds much nicer blah blah baguette fromage etc etc." For this I can only apologise, or maybe just shrug nonchalantly and break off another bit of bread. I suppose it is just that I suddenly really, really feel like this, here, Lyon, is home. I look out of my window every morning at the Frenchness of it all and am just really amazingly happy. 

Nothing a few weeks of solid rain and crippling social awkwardness can't sort out though, I'm sure.

Happy Christmas to all of you, my wonderful readerlets.

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