It’s always an experience going on holiday with my family.
“How do you fancy ten days in the Dordogne?”asked my sister a few weeks back. “We’ll get a nice house, we’ll buy some wine and we can wander into the town market every day and buy the ingredients for you to cook dinner. It’ll be amazing,” she added before I had a chance to realise I was getting the slightly more taxing part of the deal.
As always the most challenging part of the holiday is the journey there and this year my sister was convinced she’d cracked it. “I’ve got special assistance for The Mother and the housemate,” she said.
“They won’t like that,” I replied doubtfully as the pair of them shocked me by welcoming the news with open arms.
“We’ll get a mini bus right out to the plane,” said the housemate gleefully.
Getting through security was slightly more of a challenge with my sister and I selected for special treatment.
“Goodness knows what they think I’ve got in my bag,” I whispered to my sister as it was taken away for a search. “I’ve only got my books and three pairs of shoes.”
“Why have you got three pairs of shoes…you know you’ll only be wearing flip flops?” She hissed.
“You never know when you might need a smart boot,” I replied. “Why have they stopped you?”
“No idea…but if it’s the salt and pepper grinders the brother-in-law-to-be insisted we had to bring, I’ll kill him!”
“He does realise they have salt and pepper in France,” I pointed out as a security guard approached us wielding the obviously dangerous seasoning in her outstretched arms.
“At least when I was searched last time it was because I genuinely didn’t realise that toothpaste counted as a liquid and not because I like a well seasoned omelette,” I chuckled as a second security guard handed over my high-heels with an eye roll.
Arriving at Bergerac airport after a thankfully uneventful flight we put into action our carefully thought out plan.
“When we get there you and I will get off the plane first and get through passport control and pick up the hire car because we’re the drivers,” said my sister. “The others can pick up the luggage and we can meet them outside and we’ll be sitting around the pool with a glass of wine within the hour.”
The plan worked almost perfectly until we were handed the keys to our ‘large car’.
“Where it is?” asked my sister looking around for an estate car.
“It’s over there,” said the car hire lady in English which was far, far better than our schoolgirl French.
We followed her gaze across the car park seeing nothing which fitted the bill.
“It’s there…the white one with ‘Enterprise ‘ written on it,” she said jabbing her finger across the car park.
“But that’s a transit van,” said my sister!
“I know…that’s what you ordered,” said the lady beginning to lose patience…
“I can’t put my mother in the back of a transit van!” she wailed pointing in the direction of the other three weary travellers emerging hopefully from the airport entrance.
“I see what you mean,” said the sympathetic woman who very obviously had A Mother of her own!
Next week: Chateau Cardboard and mix up with professions