La fete des mères

When you get to a ripeish old age you learn to be skeptic about '-days'.  They tend to bring disappointment and crushed feelings  and a sense of not having learnt the lessons of the year before.
Much better to segue into a '-day' as if it wasn't one and be pleasantly surprised.
In any case I had a gite to take care of and it wasn't one I'd done before so I was nervous.

Another misplaced waste of emotional energy.  The place looked like an Ikea show room teleported between the ancient walls of the couverts (which Herr Dr Google translates as the 'knives and forks'). 

I got the inkling that I was being tested.  The bed had been 'slept in', but the shower hadn't been used.  A little blob of toothpaste lay in the sink crying 'what are you going to do about me?!!. I put it to sleep with a turn of the tap,a lug of javel and the smallest amount of elbow grease. 

I turned my attention to a fingerprint on the mirrored glass of the microwave.  It didn't take long.  

I found a crumb on top of the ludicrously trendy egg shaped nest tables and swiped it to the floor with a whoop of abandon, then hoovered it up, with all the other non dust, into the empty belly of the Dyson which hangs on the wall like a potential Turner prize winner. 

I opened all the street-side shutters and windows wide and found, to my joy that I was hanging above the set tables of the Grain de Sel. After a moment of vertigo, I had the terrible desire to spit on the bods who were starting to settle down at the tables.