Well hello. I’m writing to you during a game of rugby. England is getting absolutely routed by France. I’m in this pub in Néré.

It is playing on a little screen above the bar. The terrifying thing is that most of the people here are English.

“This is the poorest region of France,” says my sister in law. And despite the gastronomy, I see it. Many of the houses round here are ruins, just as it was for my brother Jamie when they moved in. Had Parkinson’s not taken him, who knows what he might have achieved. He did so much. The house is clean and shipshape, but there are parts of it that are not complete. Incredible work though… and actually I know from my harebrained rush down when I heard he was dying that you can get here within a day from London.

On the table next to us, a very young mother is sitting with her son. They are evidently extremely close. He wears an Adidas matching tracksuit and trousers. She has fake furs and leggings. There’s only about sixteen years between them. They are doing scratchcards. Every time there’s a small win, she goes and gets more. There’s a connection between them, but it is sad to watch just because of the need. I really want them to win big.

Everybody else in this pub is British. I’m trying to get this written stealthily but I’ve been rumbled for being on my phone.

And now it’s the morning. I totally failed to get back to this. “I write this daily blog and the last few days have been rushed or drunk so I wanted to give it some time this evening.” “Oh really? Why do you do that? etc etc etc” The blog conversation. As tedious as my scribblings. And means you’re getting this late folks.

England got absolutely shafted in the rugger. Good to be in France.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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