An Accountant A Hypochondriac and A Boy Called Chickie

Our unscheduled trip to France had been a flight of whim and fancy on my part.

As we entered Pas-de-Calais 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 3ft 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, 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!

We awoke the next morning to the familiar pitter patter of tiny feet and rain. An intolerable combination. 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.


“I think I’ve ordered a hamburger” said Accountant, having panicked under the waiter’s glare, ordering 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 table. Discretion being my middle name, I zoomed in with my camera to capture the moment. As the flash went off, two more pairs of eyes watched the show. Now under intense scrutiny and needing to act, he moved his hand slowly towards his fork. One lump of raw mince made its 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 British Accountant, it holds little appeal. At this point, our French neighbours 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 and, bless him, he did. The French ladies were very proud of their ‘big, brave man’ as they liked to call him.

The rest of the trip was spent monitoring big, brave man’s vital signs to ensure his bacteria burger didn’t require treatment with antibiotics.