I take the kids to England for a week and am struck by the light pollution; an eerie orange glow hovers across the land. I’m also struck by the amount of shopping that’s going on. But a year in the wilds of Provence hasn’t knocked the high street out of me and soon I am scorching the plastic from Whistles to Top Shop. After a bit I feel queasy and wonder if it’s the orange glow.
While in England, the film version of Peter Mayle’s A Good Year is released. It’s set in the Luberon and covers all our local haunts. I call Husband with the reviews. The Guardian’s is my favourite, describing it as a “humourless cinematic slice of tourist gastro-porn”. Still, all admit the Luberon looks gorgeous, it’s put our favourite plonk on the map and it becomes a pleasingly lazy shortcut for describing where we live to people who ask, but clearly aren’t that interested.
On our last night I ask the kids if they’re looking forward to going back to France. Child A declares that he doesn’t like France and wants to stay in England. Good progress there. Child B doesn’t have an opinion, but seems to think that Daddy has been waiting at the airport for the past week, in the spot where we hugged him goodbye, making fireworks.
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