When we were in Orbec, we stayed at the Manoir de l’Engagiste, a wonderful property that Aude’s mother recommended. It’s recently been transformed into a guesthouse by a lovely couple who we assume were Parisians escaping from the city. The property itself is in two halves – one dating from the fifteenth century and the other dating from the seventeenth century.

Manoir de l’Engagiste

Manoir de l’Engagiste

Guest room at the Manoir de l’Engagiste

Guest room at the Manoir de l’Engagiste

Guest room at the Manoir de l’Engagiste

The proprietor came to greet us in the morning. Detecting my accent, he told us a wonderful story about some previous American guests:

Some years ago, there was an important society wedding in Orbec. Guests from around the world had been invited, including a family from Houston. The Texan had called ahead to the Manoir and reserved rooms for himself, his wife and his two daughters. Several weeks later, they arrived in France and got in a cab, asking to be taken to the Manoir in Orbec.

There was a problem, of course. The taxi driver wasn’t familiar with Orbec and dropped them off at the only Manoir he knew – which happened to be the City Museum! You can imagine the surprise of the custodian when he was presented with four travel-weary Texans on one of the hottest days of the summer, laden with luggage in the way that only Americans can manage, demanding his room.

When it finally transpired what had happened, the Texans were pointed towards the right Manoir. There were no taxis to be found, so the family had no choice but to make the trek up the hill to the right Manoir. Dripping with sweat in the hot summer sun, they were greeted by our host and offered their rooms. Not speaking much English, he said to them “J’ai un ami avec une piscine” and made the universal “swimming” gesture.

The things that get lost in translation…

Ten minutes later, the entire family appeared in the lobby dressed in their bathing suits, sunglasses and towels underarm, ready for their swim. They’d misunderstood – the proprietor meant that he had a friend across town who had a pool where they could cool off – but the Texans assumed that the pool was at the Manoir itself.

When life gives you lemons… The proprietor decided to make the best of a bad situation. He got out the hose and spent twenty minutes hosing down the Texans in the courtyard!

Well, the weather didn’t cooperate, but otherwise we had a lovely weekend in Normandy visiting Aude’s grandfather.

Having narrowly avoided the Friday evening proposal-writing session at the office, I ended up spending several hours talking to my mother on the phone on Friday evening – and subsequently didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight. Which, with my early starts most mornings, qualifies as “late” these days.

We set off early on Saturday morning (too early, actually – I prefer my weekends to start after 6am!) and caught the 8am Eurotunnel to Calais. From Calais, we drove down to Montreuil sur Mer where the Wine Society has their European shop, and restocked our wine cellar. On the recommendation of the shopkeeper, we decided to try a local restaurant for lunch but changed our minds when we were put off by the proprietor.

She was the stereotypical arrogant, rude French person that every English-speaker fears – the stuff of whom legend is made. And Aude was right there beside me to witness it all – and agreed with my assessment. It’s people like this that are giving the French a bad name.

It was all our fault, you understand. We’d entered the restaurant at 11:50am. Aude had politely asked, in French, whether they were serving lunch yet or whether we were too early. “You’re too early,” came the reply. “Come back when we’re open!”

We asked what time they opened. “12 o’clock!” she said.

We should have recognised her displeasure at having arrived ten minutes before the designated serving time and left then and there. But since there wasn’t a full menu posted in the window, we asked if perhaps we couldn’t have a quick look at the menu. I’ve never seen such a roll of the eyes or heard such a sharp intake of breath. Who were these two idiots in her restaurant, so mal élevé?

We left the restaurant, wishing her a future of bankruptcy and food poisoning. We had a steak around the corner instead.

Lunch behind us, and with a boot full of booze, we headed down to Normandy to meet Aude’s grandfather. Luckily, we had a much warmer reception when we got to the Manoir where we were staying (more about that with photos to come later). We were greeted like long lost friends. The hotel and room were beautiful, with a warm log fire to greet us.

We spent the afternoon visiting with Aude’s grandfather and looking through some old family photographs. Jerome, if you’re reading this, I’ve seen the photographs of you in the pyjamas with bunny ears. God help you if you should ever decide to go into politics.

We had a lovely meal yesterday evening with Aude’s grandfather at a restaurant in the centre of town, then went back to his place this morning with a charcuterie and had lunch with him. We hit the road around 2pm with the best intentions of seeing some of the Norman coast, but it wasn’t to be. It poured with rain all afternoon.

Our plans thwarted, we headed straight for the tunnel and caught an early train home. Short of my mother calling, I should be in bed by 10pm tonight, ready for another week!

Aude picks an apple, the fruit that made Normandy famous…

Aude in front of the Manoir

Tired of having only one boyfriend, Aude chats up some of the alternative Frenchman. Her first effort isn’t terribly successful, landing her a boyfriend a lot like most of her ex’s.

Her second effort was more successful. She caught this good-looking fellow, but eventually rejected him because she found him a little two-dimensional.

Suddenly, every Frenchman in town heard that there was a young single girl on the market. Aude had no choice but to hide for cover.

Aude and her grandfather outside his house.

Matthew and Aude’s grandfather. For the record, he doesn’t hate me (despite the body language here). It’s just that Aude and auto-focus have an uneasy relationship, and this was the only shot that was even remotely in focus!!!

Aude and her grandfather in front of his house in Orbec.

Matthew and Aude’s grandfather. I haven’t farted. Honestly. Please see my previous comment about Aude’s auto-focus ability.

Aude’s grandfather as we had lunch together.

Aude’s grandfather paints, so I thought I’d post some of his paintings here.

I’m not sure whether we’ve got a case of détente or mutually-assured destruction, but neither Ms Squeaky nor the man who confronted her have shown their face on my train again. Which suits me fine – I get to ride into work in peace and quiet each morning, safe in the knowledge that the most stressful part of my journey is working out the Sudoku puzzle in the Times.

So another week’s over at last. Got one bid out the door and was enjoying the brief lull in activity when I got dragged into another one this afternoon. Words that are never music to a consultant’s ears on a Friday afternoon: “Do you have some time free to help us get an urgent proposal for a priority client out the door?”

To a novice consultant, this means “would you like to get involved in an interesting piece of work with one of our most important clients, which we’ll surely win and for which you’ll receive praise and glory?”

To a jaded cynic like myself, however, this means “would you like to give up your weekend to do a rush-job for partners who will criticize you for not doing a perfect job (despite no direction, limited input, and impossible deadlines) for a deal that we’re probably not going to win anyhow, and piss off a ton of other partners as you try to do a credential-gathering exercise when most of them are relaxing at their weekend houses?” Uh, no thanks. (Jerome, I suspect quite a lot of this scenario looks familiar to you!)

Luckily I’m off to France tomorrow morning. I might have bent the truth just a little bit and implied that I was leaving this evening – so I promised that I would be happy to roll up my sleeves and help, but only until 5pm. Result: I seem like a good corporate citizen, I don’t have to put up with an irrational partner, and I don’t have to give up my weekend. Survival of the fittest, baby…

We’re off to visit Aude’s grandfather in Calvados this weekend, although no trip to France would be complete without a stop at the Wine Society to stock up – so we’re going to do the entire tour with a boot full of wine (they’re closed on Sunday, so we’ve got to buy everything on the way out rather than on the way back). I’ll take the camera along, so check back on Monday for the piccies.

Reaffirming my belief in the Catholic faith — a priest who prays not to talk absolute shite when he’s sozzled:

Prayer for drunk teens

A new Catholic prayer book aimed at teenagers includes a prayer for God’s help to avoid talking rubbish when drunk.

“Lord, if in an unsober state, and under the influence of those around me, I say something stupid, please give me strength to retract my words. Protect me against senseless bravado and pride,” reads the prayer.

The book, released in Poland by Dominican monk Wojciech Jedrzejewski, has angered the Polish Catholic community as well as national media.

But Father Jedrzejewski stands by his work. He said: “This book will make it easier for young people to meet with God.””

Just after I got off the train with Ms Squeaky this morning I watched a bicycle courier get hit by a taxi outside my office. I double-checked my calendar to see if perhaps I was actually out of synch and today was Friday the 13th.

Got into work today to find that someone had stolen “my” desk (okay, we all work on hotdesks and they’re technically first-come-first-serve, but there’s a sort of unspoken rule that you don’t nick someone else’s desk if they generally sit there day-in, day-out). So not a good start.

Needed to have a client presentation ready for this afternoon, but my new secretary is still learning the ropes. Handed over the presentation for printing and binding — but didn’t realise that I needed to give her more explicit instructions than that. Fast-forward to an hour before the presentation: total pile of crap comes back from our graphics department (honestly, how hard can it be to print and bind ten copies of a presentation?). Sent a junior consultant off in a frenzy to put right what a secretary couldn’t. Kaizen, my ass. This was just-in-time production at it’s finest.

It was all alright on the night, though. The client came in, rolled over and let us scratch his belly. We gave him exactly what he wanted to hear and it looks highly likely that we’ll get the piece of work that we were bidding for. We saw his back leg jiggling — you know, the way it does when you scratch…just…the..right…spot!

So, for me, it was a pretty good day. Despite the fact that it was clearly a shit day for everyone around me.

And it ended where it started. Jumping on the 18:34 train to Dover Priory, I took my seat and started checking my e-mail. Mr. Self-Important-Banker (*not his real name, I suspect) got onto the train boasting a Bluetooth headset and an attitude. About three minutes into his “Buy! Buy! Sell! Sell!” call, he got the same mobile phone treatment as Ms Squeaky this morning.

Morale of this story: hell hath no wrath like a commuter annoyed.