No Makeup, No Problem…

I decided not to wear makeup today.

Now to many of you, that might be a shock. But along with the high (something for the weekend sir?) heels

and the lacy whatevers, today was a day for getting down and dirty. So it was to be no makeup, but instead, jeans with a t-shirt combo were de rigueur aujourd’hui.

With Charlotte arriving in French France imminently, I thought it best if I actually literally did some work and pulled some weeds lest she cast her gimlet eye over the proceedings here and demanded my resignation before giving me the sack anyway.

She could just say that the matter is closed and there will be no further action, but knowing her like what I do, that just ain’t gonna happen.

So I’m out on the pull and managing quite nicely. The rockery is stripped bare of weeds as well as the entrance and the area where the cart stands too. All now fit for inspection. 

With that lot completed I need to dispose of the evidence.

Just imagine the looks of my new best friend down la déchetterie had I been wearing some of Charlotte’s wardrobe as I ease myself out of the Discovery and totter to the relevant disposal collection point for green waste! 

As he came over to me, it would be obvious that he was checking me out. Well, who wouldn’t? Like a scene from the Rocky Horror Show!

I’d like to say it would be a flattering look he would give, but I can’t. Shocked more like, as I usually turn up in fatigues, but then he is there to do a job and just because I’d chosen to self-present in this manner today, wouldn’t excuse him from relieving me of my Carte and taking down my details on his electronic gadget.

With that task completed I head for la Intermarché. I have, for the last 199 days, managed successfully with no milk. It is an unnecessary product that, if my school biology lessons were correct, is a substance full of the necessary ingredients to help juvenile growth and wellbeing. 

As I am past the zenith of my existence, the need for such a fluid is unnecessary and is superfluous to my bodily requirements. Nevertheless, Charlotte has instructed me to purchase said item for insertion into her hot beverages and being the one-who-must-be-obeyed, I hastened to the aisle that sported those cartons to acquiesce to her request. 

And here began my problem avec la langue française. Not only the language, but also the colour coding of the screw tops. En Angleterre, it is quite simple to work out that we have blue, green and red tops for full fat, semi skimmed and no fat milk respectively. Here in this supermarket however, there was only blue and red. And the blue was called demi…which I took to be half fat. All good so far. 

Then there was the red top. This had different words on it. Not a problem as I had purposely brought my phone with me which I whipped out and in a flourishing manner, keyed in the words from the red topped carton and pressed my phone for the translation.

It was at this point that the vagaries of internet connectivity proved to be my downfall as there within the very bowels of the supermarket, there was no connection. Not even a flicker.

So it was ‘take a risk time’. At almost 6 euros, I balked slightly, but then Charlotte needed this product, so I’d better get it.

Now back at home with connection to the internet, I am able to inform myself that red top milk in France is not the same as red top milk in the UK. It is in fact, full fat milk. I know this as not only can I translate the blurb on the carton, but I have also tried some in my coffee! Bleurghhh! 

I hope Charlotte likes it. If you fail to hear from me for a while, it might have transpired that the full fat milk hasn’t been well received and I have been force fed 6 litres of the stuff, proving the lactose intolerance of the adult human is not a pretty sight. 

I’d leave that WC for a good ten minutes if I were you…I might have to have a different sort of make-up to get over this little faux pas!

Carry on regardless!

DJ

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