It does have to be said, however, that the week was severely stylishly challenged. As you know, I refuse the "if you can't beat them, join them" philosophy, especially when it's just for one week, so made a point of NOT EVEN PACKING my jeans (tho' had to borrow my friend's after said Bassett slobbered all over white linen skirt), but I do empathise with her cries for help on the style front. Okay, she lives in the (smart) country, definitely NOT urban, but all I saw were sweat shorts, sweat shirts, sweat T-s (and lots of sweat with all that jogging and power walking), and you do begin very quickly to feel like you've just landed from outer space. We (her husband, two lovely daughters, she and I) completely dressed up for dinner on The Day, and went to a smart and chic restaurant, but were surrounded by people who looked like they'd just left the gym. Such a shame. Is style only reserved for the city? But we made all heads turn and looked FAB and felt even better.
So, back in sunny southern France, still bolt awake at 2am from jet lag, my break already seems weeks ago. Piles of pancakes for breakfast, tear-inducing giggling fits, non-French wine (oh bliss), all that will have to be put on hold for my next visit.
PS. Did I rant about being a tall person in economy class? €50 to get an exit seat? I DON'T THINK SO. I was lucky on this trip and managed to charm the ground staff, but really. It's an outrage.