Musings

Hospital
I had to return to the hospital in Carpentras on Tuesday to have a check-up following my operation for bowel cancer last summer. There's no sign of more cancer so that is a relief. They did, however, find a condition in the colon called “diverticulose sigmoïdienne”; I had to look that one up. It is apparently a common condition in someone my age, common as arse-holes you might say, small hernias that are not serious unless they perforate. When I looked up what it meant I found that the most common cause is a poor diet, lacking in fibre. Which is strange because I eat a fairly high fibre diet, not because I study diet but because the foods I prefer, notably lots of fruit and salads, tend to be the healthy choices.

The nurse who delivered the anesthetic was at pains to say that she was the person who would be “putting me to sleep” and to see that I was comfortable with that. I asked if she could give me a nice dream at the same time ( like Chelsea winning the league next season, to avoid any louche innuendos) and she simply smiled sweetly. I dream, or rather am aware of dreams, very rarely and when I am aware of having dreamt it is usually a nightmare of facing university final exams. When I look back it doesn't seem like a traumatic time but somewhere in my psyche it must have registered as such.

Anyway, I'm glad the business is over for another year. I find taking the purge necessary before the examination a daunting experience because of the sheer amount of foul liquid which has to be drunk to clear the colon beforehand. To add insult to injury, the purge powder is officially not deemed to be a necessary medicine and so is not reimbursable by the State or medical insurance systems. Though why anyone would take a purge if it wasn't absolutely necessary defeats me.

Shopping
I did a big shop today having not shopped for a while and stood wondering at the richness of colour in the supermarket fruit and vegetable section. It all looked much more voluptuous and enticing than the equivalent sections in English supermarkets and i wondered why, since the produce on sale is essentially the same in both cases. The only difference I could identify was that the section in all the supermarkets around here is laid out in flat displays, as in the open markets. You take it all in at a glance, rather than having the total display subdivided by high shelves as in most English supermarkets. That, and the general lack of packaging seems to account for the effect and it certainly makes you want to buy more. That led me to wonder whether the marketing guys here have got one over their English counterparts. It could be but, if so, the marketing people responsible won't be from Provence.

Confirmation Of Boules Success
My cleaning lady came in today and was full of how successful the boules “rencontre” had been. Her friends had all commented to her on what a good time was had by all and she asked if we were going to repeat it. I said I thought we would next year but she was thinking of August. She made the point that I have commented on before, that July is packed with celebrations of one sort or another but August is barren (grandchildren time). (I could have phrased that better.) Anyway, I'll ask the others how they feel but I suspect that once a year will be enough for them.

One reason that Patricia, my cleaning lady, stated for the success was that no-one felt pressured to win; they were just there to enjoy themselves. Daniel, with whom I play a lot, had said when we planned the event that that would be a critical factor. He hates pressure to succeed and, though a very good player, won't take part in regional/national tournaments for that reason. Funnily enough, although the success of the “rencontre” was very important to me, I don't feel that kind of pressure when playing. I worry a little about how I play, and get frustrated if I am not playing well, but don't worry much about the eventual result. Competitiveness is a funny thing.

Chelsea
While I was playing boules today a family came to watch who were chattering away in English. They got all excited watching me play and took a number of photos of me playing. At first I couldn't understand why (despite the obvious brilliance of my shots!!!). Then I realised that it must be because I was wearing a Chelsea shirt. I didn't let on that I was English; fortunately I quickly realised that the photos were going to be the subject of stories about how the family had found an old Frenchman in a little village in the middle of nowhere who was a Chelsea supporter. I didn't want to spoil the story.