I'll Have the Hamburger Please...

The problem with being confined to a rusty old ferry, bouncing it’s way across the English Channel, is the distinct lack of hiding places on board. Not necessarily an issue for your average foot passenger but it is for me. Why? Because strange people love me, they’re drawn to me like toddlers to milk chocolate buttons.

As my new Belgian acquaintance and her toothless beau scrolled through their full mobile photographic catalogue of Toto, the dead dog, I marvelled at how the simple act of getting up and walking down the corridor in search of a restaurant where food was on plates rather than the floor, had resulted in this bizarre over-familiar exchange. An exchange I could see being as long and choppy as our ride to France.

The sound of ripping Velcro refocused my attention from my ‘Cunning Escape Plan’ to the "Look At My Gruesome Arm Injury” show. As she whipped off the plastic cast that concealed an 8” scar on her forearm, I once again found myself speechless, struggling to find the appropriate words in the face of beloved pets departed and disturbing mutilation.

Our unscheduled trip to France had been a flight of whim and fancy on my part, booking it up the day before after negotiating a rate with the French hostess to her husband’s unmuted background screams of, “NON! NON! Bleu bleu bleu… (something in French, I couldn’t understand, but I imagine along the lines of “NO, NO, zat cheeky English madam, she cannot ‘ave ‘zee money off, NO NO, I will zimply not allow zit!) ”. Thankfully, it would seem women are the same the world over as she overruled him, the rate was agreed and we were on our way to meet ‘zee scary ‘usband’.

As we entered France under the cover of darkness, it was only a matter of minutes before we were lost, repeatedly driving past a man balancing one legged on a 2ft wall, arms outstretched as if negotiating a death defying tightrope without the safety of a net. To be fair, when you’re that drunk, it’s quite an achievement. Each time we passed, he bowed theatrically, seemingly pleased that we appreciated his talent so much, we kept driving back for more. The scenery wasn’t as attractive as I’d hoped, the chateaus and vineyards I’d envisioned replaced by giant sardine cans of industry. Sardine cans, it would transpire later, that were home to shops. Big ones!

When we awoke the next morning, the familiar pitter patter of tiny feet and rain, greeted our ears. An intolerable combination that cast a depressing sepia tone over the next five days. Accountant’s sorrowful face as another day of trawling retail outlets lay before him was almost too much to bear. Thankfully, I’m highly skilled in the art of ignoring him, so shopping recommenced with gusto. When Chickie’s face took on a similar droop and I’d tried on enough pairs of trousers to realise that, in France, I was a size bigger and a foot shorter, I knew the gig was up.

A nice lunch would lift our spirits and give us a chance to rethink activities. Ten minutes on and my spirits were certainly lifting. “I think I’ve ordered a hamburger” said Accountant, having panicked under the waiter’s impatient stare and ordered in haste. One circular portion or raw mince with a raw egg garnish later and Accountant realised a hamburger, it most definitely was not. “What am I going to do?” he whispered, leaning in, keeping lip movement to a minimum so as not to attract attention from the adjoining French table. Discretion being my middle name, I zoomed in with my camera to capture the moment, the flash bulb of my camera, coupled with my laughter, focused two more pairs of neighbouring eyes onto Accountant’s confused little face.

Now under intense scrutiny and needing to act, Accountant moved his hand slowly towards his fork. One lump of raw mince made it’s approach and in it went. Whilst I appreciate that ‘Steak Tartare’ is a delicacy to the cultured, to the e-coli / listeria / cjd / salmonella (delete as applicable) fearing Great British general public, it holds little appeal.

At this point, the French ladies intervened, helpfully pointing out that the egg (raw) and accompanying green stuff needed to be mixed into the mince (raw) before consumption. Personally, I’d have recommended 30 minutes at 190°c before consumption, but who was I to interfere. Thanking them for their input and encouragement, Accountant knew he now had no choice but to eat it all and, bless his heart, he did. The French ladies were very proud of their protégé, assuring him he was now “a big brave man”. The rest of the day was spent monitoring big, brave man’s vital signs to ensure his bacteria cocktail didn’t require treatment with antibiotics.

On our final day, the sun shone, the bucket and spade were removed from their netting and we went to ‘La Plage’. Chickie had a wonderful time throwing sand at mummy and daddy. Mummy had a rotten time removing every grain of sand from absolutely everything. Daddy dug a big hole with a specially purchased ‘big’ spade. Daddy repeatedly told Chickie off for throwing sand back into his special big hole and made a request that pesky, anti-hole Chickie be kept away whilst digging was in progress.

That night, as I went to bed, sand grating my legs despite my shower, I realised that family holidays were going to take a lot more thought in future. Impromptu jaunts, whilst a lovely idea, weren’t going to work anymore. Sproglets and husbands need sand, spades and holes to keep them happy. Mummies need big shopping cans, cappuccinos and sproglets/husbands who love to watch them shop and sip chocolate sprinkled beverages. A problem, you might agree.

The only solution, as pitched to Accountant, is clearly a biannual all expenses paid girlie shopping trip abroad to ensure all ‘family’ holidays focus solely on digging and whatever other means of entertainment two boys and a spade can conjure.