We had a fine picnic in the park for my dear friend's birthday. Picnic doesn't really do justice to the spread she had laid on with trestle tables and chairs and proper cutlery and all. Loads of people I hadn't seen for years turned up, the sun came out and the birthday girl said she not only loved her present but also loved - and had laughed at - this blog; what you might call a result all round. La Fille started the afternoon all shy and hanging off the back of my dress, then went around boasting she spoke: "English and Français". For a finalé she began uprooting clods of grass to throw at the special guests who had come all the way from Manchester. Thankfully they saw the funny side, which was more than I did when a chunk of mud plopped into my glass of chilled rosé. I did what I always do on the now rare occasions I am surrounded by a lot of people speaking English: I didn't let anyone get word in sideways.
Now, call me a hypochondriac, but I am convinced there is something wrong with my right leg, on which La Fille lay during out marathon flight looping across a large part of the northern hemisphere on Friday. My calf is aching like mad.
I told the Frenchman I didn't feel well and might be suffering from Deep Vein Thrombosis. He said: "What's that?", then suggested I had been standing at the kitchen counter (where I plugged in the laptop) for too long. Later, out shopping, I said: "If I die suddenly, remember I said I had DVT and sue the pants off the airline."
He replied: "Where do you want to be buried, England or France?"
I said: "Thanks for the sympathy."
He said: "Never mind, I'll leave the arrangements to your mother."
"Fine," I said. "Just make sure she puts 'I told him I was ill' on the stone."