A BRIT + A BROAD

As the leaves began to turn and the back-to-school rituals successfully negotiated, we decided to dump the kids on gorgeous grandparents and spend a week away becoming a couple again. More precisely, I accompanied Husband on his business trip to Ringuard-sur-Mer in a nasty part of France. But it wasn’t about the location, it was about being together. The plan was to share much spontaneous laughter and lashings of rich food away from the routines and responsibilities of home.

As anticipated, there had been hand holding through cobble-stoned cutie pie villages nesting in clay hills beyond the grotesque seaside resort. There had been the gentle wafting of lavender and the heavy pendulousness of harvest time grapes. Oh, how the cicadas had deafeningly rubbed their cicada bits.

One afternoon we managed to duck Husband’s clients and hide out by our hotel pool. I was well into a book while he contemplated a swim. Into this atmosphere of easy bonhomie entered the thought (his) that it might be time for a cup of tea.

It was at this point that I shouldda skulked back to the room claiming the acute onset of female trouble of some kind.

For I knew what was to follow. In the depths of my being, I knew because I have been to this dark side of my Husband before. No sooner had he ordered a pot of tea than a subtle change came over the aura of the entire hotel complex.

It wasn’t the spotty waitress’ fault that her approach laden with a faux silver tray was regarded with scepticism and flaring of nostril. As she moved towards us I could feel Husband transform into a pith helmet, riding crop wielding Colonial Governor. I glanced over to see his fine pair of legs encased in a pair of those khaki distended hipped jodhpurs. His normally smooth upper lip suddenly sported a splendid moustache below which could be heard the first grumblings “humphlrrrr…grk…Damn your eyes, Woman.”

Zit-girl placed a teapot before him. He glared through his monocle barking at her “do you REEEEEAAALLY expect me to taste the poor excuse for ants piss?” “And what are these?” pointing to the cane sugar lump,”abattoir scrapings”??? I am exaggerating the Colonial Governor thing to make a point but the next bit is true…He sniffily raised the cover of the teapot revealing a single flaccid teabag marked “TISANE DRAINAGE FEMININ” at which point he almost choked before raising himself to his full height and marching directly to the kitchen.

Our courtship had been punctuated with these scenes and I should have been inured to the drama unfolding. I continued to read while Husband returned from the kitchen, vexed at the unsatisfactory collection of tea on offer. Spotty girl returned, this time with a stale mothball eaten sac floating in tepid water. Briefly raising my eyes from my uninspiring novel, I once again suggested that when not in a tea-drinking culture, perhaps an espresso would suffice.

Enraged to the extreme, he barked “this f-ing country and its f-ing people can all go to hell”, grabbed his keys and screeched out of the gravel parking lot to find tea from a local shop. Approximately 7 minutes later, he returned swinging our rent-a-car into the rosebush of the circular driveway and yelled down the hall to the spotty waitress, “boiling water, dammit woman”.

The crisis passed shortly after he’d had his pot of tea fix. Mamzelle Acne was terrified for months after and felt not at all compensated by Husband’s largess having offered her the entire packet of tea for her troubles. To this day, if you order tea by the pool, she immediately retreats to the kitchen where she rolls herself into the foetal position to regroup. Husband still adores France but I refuse to accompany him there unless he brings own travel kettle and stash of Tetley along.