No, it didn't happen at the Admiral Benbow. I was at Mougins for the 'simulation', or trial run for the radiotherapy. Lots of time in a machine, with strange whirrings only a centimetre from my skull and an absolutely irresistible urge to move (streng verboten). Afterwards, I was half-extricated, by remote control, from the tunnel of wonders and left on my own for what seemed a very long time. It was probably only a couple of minutes, but time plays tricks in such environments.
Then the 'manipulateur' came back from behind the radiation shields and announced he was going to mark me. Out with a marker pen, on with the laser to get the crosshairs lined up. But after the felt-tip came the tattoo. Nothing worse than a horsefly bite, he said. But I was too trussed up to either compare or object. What was surprising was that the bits I was apprehensive about were relatively insensitive, whereas other areas, for which I had no fear, were quite high on the 'ouch' scale.
Showering temporarily forbidden whilst the ink gets absorbed into my system.
I now have strange dots in even stranger (and certainly unmentionable) places. They will allow the ballistics experts to fire their broadsides of radiation into the corners and folds where the nasties may be lurking. The fuses are lit, and it all lights up on February 14th, at 11.30.
mercredi 25 janvier 2012
mercredi 18 janvier 2012
My Way
About a week ago, loud, virile singing wafted up from the Club des Pétanquiers in the ramparts. Not an unusual occurrence, as there are some Spanish speakers, probably dustbin-men or street cleaners, who during their break for breakfast clap artfully and sing flamenco style with glottal verve. Most of the time it is traditional, if long, laments of lost love, with ululations and piercing, gonad-wrung ejaculations of suffering.
This time, the complex clapping was the same, the melismata, too, were equally Moorish, but there was something about the prosody and, albeit almost completely hidden, about the melody that was familiar. I listened to the words, catching on nearly at the end of the outpouring:
Puedo llegar
hasta el final
A mi manera
Got it: it was the Antibes refuse department's rousing Spanish language version of "I'll do it my way". I think Ole Blue Eyes would have approved.
This time, the complex clapping was the same, the melismata, too, were equally Moorish, but there was something about the prosody and, albeit almost completely hidden, about the melody that was familiar. I listened to the words, catching on nearly at the end of the outpouring:
Puedo llegar
hasta el final
A mi manera
Got it: it was the Antibes refuse department's rousing Spanish language version of "I'll do it my way". I think Ole Blue Eyes would have approved.
jeudi 12 janvier 2012
Baie des milliardaires
Yesterday the Copains des Pointus d'Antibes were doing one of the things they were set up for, namely providing boating experience for kids who are having trouble fitting in. It was a trial run, with one social worker and just one delinquent. Both the social worker and the delinquent were good company, and the only way to tell them apart (both were wearing shades and leather jackets) was that the youngster was wearing a hoodie... with attitude.
After an initial problem with the boat's batteries, we fuelled up at the marine service station and headed for the Anse de l'argent faux, otherwise known as the Baie des milliardaires. The weather was really nice, with sunshine on the cactus-covered cliffs and a nice sparkle in the barely ruffled sea. We anchored close in, giving a quick pulse of reverse to get the anchor to bite. Not a good idea, as the inflatable was on a long line, and the painter caught around the propeller.
Who was going to brave the water to go down and unwrap the propeller? Nobody sounded keen, not even the delinquent. For once I had an almost good idea. I spotted some snorkel divers hunting for fish off the rocks. They were hailed and did the business with aplomb, using the kind of diving knives which inspire respect. Luckily, they had put the safety catches on their lethal-looking harpoon guns.
Once this local bother had been solved, we set to enjoying a picnic of chicken, baguette, crisps and (this being the Copains after all) no trace of either salad or fruit.
The journey back, with the sun behind us and the greenery of the Cap d'Antibes lit up by the scarlet pokers of agave flowers, was a treat for millionaires. The youngster couldn't wait to get back to his pals, however, as there were probably more interesting things to smoke than the regular cigarettes he had lit up on the boat (and had been polite enough to offer around). None of our business, and certainly not part of the programme of the Copains des Pointus. Still, he was adroit and helpful when mooring the boat back at the quay.
Some more of his ilk are going to come, next month, to help scrape barnacles off the hull and repaint it. It should be an agreeable learning experience all round.
After an initial problem with the boat's batteries, we fuelled up at the marine service station and headed for the Anse de l'argent faux, otherwise known as the Baie des milliardaires. The weather was really nice, with sunshine on the cactus-covered cliffs and a nice sparkle in the barely ruffled sea. We anchored close in, giving a quick pulse of reverse to get the anchor to bite. Not a good idea, as the inflatable was on a long line, and the painter caught around the propeller.
Who was going to brave the water to go down and unwrap the propeller? Nobody sounded keen, not even the delinquent. For once I had an almost good idea. I spotted some snorkel divers hunting for fish off the rocks. They were hailed and did the business with aplomb, using the kind of diving knives which inspire respect. Luckily, they had put the safety catches on their lethal-looking harpoon guns.
Once this local bother had been solved, we set to enjoying a picnic of chicken, baguette, crisps and (this being the Copains after all) no trace of either salad or fruit.
The journey back, with the sun behind us and the greenery of the Cap d'Antibes lit up by the scarlet pokers of agave flowers, was a treat for millionaires. The youngster couldn't wait to get back to his pals, however, as there were probably more interesting things to smoke than the regular cigarettes he had lit up on the boat (and had been polite enough to offer around). None of our business, and certainly not part of the programme of the Copains des Pointus. Still, he was adroit and helpful when mooring the boat back at the quay.
Some more of his ilk are going to come, next month, to help scrape barnacles off the hull and repaint it. It should be an agreeable learning experience all round.
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