Sunday, 2 August 2009
Mum, Dad, and L arrived yesterday evening. I was happy to see them – I’ve missed them a lot in the last two weeks – but the enthusiastic honk of the foreign, silver Merc (Mum is ridiculously excited to be driving a Mercedes) which E and I walked down to meet, brought a loud and abrupt end to our two fairytale days.
There wasn’t a lot of time to think before The Relatives left. I think that the sudden surprise of it, of being the only two left in the country, was part of the initial thrill. Just me and him, alone in a hilltop village in the South of France for two days. Privacy, for the first time in two weeks. A house for ourselves. Space to be Us and grown up. Freedom.
In our minds, the Mediterranean heat drew a kind of shimmering haze in the distance, and my parents’ imminent arrival seemed far in the future. So, for 36 hours, we drank wine and wandered in the hills and read books together and made meals and put the washing on the line. We gorged ourselves on chocolate, and talked pseudo-intellectually about literature and life, and then fell into bed together.
I was thinking about it last night while L, always precocious in her reading choice, cross-referenced “Harry Potter à l’école des sorciers” with her English version. I was writing this post and thinking about fiction and reality, and whether true-life fairytales are forced, expected, exist at all. Sometimes, yes, and only if you’re incredibly lucky – I think.
The past few days have whet my appetite. E and I, and our time alone here; an apéritif. A soupçon. A taste of what is to come?