The gîte is beginning to remind me of a Year 11 trip to the Opal Coast. Today I went to open a door, and the handle fell off.
The Opal Coast trip was pretty good. We sampled Northern France at its finest: village markets, chocolateries, the infamous patisserie with its incredible cakes, and even a sea life centre or two. But there was one element which made the holiday unforgettable; and that was l’hôtel.
The night we arrived, I found our bunk beds dismantled(/broken) and the now-single beds jammed into a room not much larger than my wardrobe. A flick of the lightswitch proved a lack of electricity, and showers were postponed until somebody could fix the hot water. The following morning, after our deputy head had recovered from a fit brought on by defunct risk assessments, and after I had discovered a leak in our ceiling, the electricity was restored. Eager as ever, my friend A plugged in her hair straighteners –
and the plug socket promptly fell off the wall.
Ok, so it’s not quite that bad here. The cold water is a bit dodgy, part of the outside wall is crumbling because of the shutters, and now, apparently, we have issues with door handles. But the point is that these things matter very little in the grander context. In fact, they actually provide some light entertainment.
E: “What have you done?”
Me: “I broke the door handle…”
E: “Oh. I thought it was only toiletries you were allowed to steal from these places…”