It was a strange morning, and maybe the effects of the cuisine we were liberally ingesting were taking their toll on our digestive systems.
Tom went wandering the previous night to find a pharmacy, and brought back a box, which he ripped open and poured the contents down his throat, then read the instructions, which were obviously in French.
“You’ve got your stomach full of some of the most expensive food in the world, which you are trying to ablaut away as fast as possible,” I said automatically as the absurdity struck me.
I also realised, as I repacked my case, that this was like being 'on the run', only with stomach problems thrown in.
“Oh God - this is supposed to be made into pottage or something?” He was talking into the open, and now empty, box.
“Well, I’m sure Monsignor Troisgros wouldn’t mind whipping up a quick dish of laxatives,” I was at the bathroom mirror and talking into it.
“Or failing that, now drink a large glass of water, and jump up and down.” I thought that was quite funny-he didn't.
We dragged the cases back to the car park, threw them into the back, picked up a map that now was full of tears, and drove back down the gravel drive.
“Have you notice there is never a porter when you leave and need one?” I asked. Tom never answered, he looked green, and we didn’t speak another word for hours.