It's Me, Sara Louise

According to my laminated itinerary, after collecting my mother at Marseille Airport Saturday morning, we were to head to Aix-en-Provence for a stroll around Cours Mirabeau and lunch at this place that has all you can eat Beef Carpaccio (The Husband can never get enough raw meat).

Unfortunately my mother brought Irish weather with her, actually, it was more like she flew by Bangladesh and picked up a monsoon.
It was a huge downpour. Buckets of rain were being thrown on us, and at one point, the thunder and lighting struck almost simultaneously. It was clear we would not be heading to the car. I suggested we wait it out and have a coffee.
The Husband does not have that kind of patience. He insisted that he make a run for the car and come back to collect us (actually, he may have been trying to ditch us). We all said no, but he went anyway.

For the rest of the day, I had to hear from my Aunt and Uncle, all about how I made The Husband run out into the rain and get soaked. Repeatedly. And naturally, The Husband loved every second of it. Whatever.
(They treat teasing like it’s a sport. I didn’t like it when I was twelve and I don’t like it now).

Skipping Aix and the raw meat, we went straight to Le Petit Village, settled in, and waited for the rain to pass.

And then it did, just in time for the village festival…

After the fireworks, came the dancing and champagne induced shenanigans (Mr Honey was generously supplying it so we drank loads of it).

The new Mrs Cousin was there, and although she wasn’t drinking due to Petit Cousin growing inside her (Petit Cousin is due in December, feel free to do the math) it didn’t stop her from busting out her own shenanigans…

 

I’m going to blame baby hormones. But she does look adorable in The Husband’s jacket.

Even the tourists got into the mix.

This Belgian lady and her friend were flirting with The Husband and The Cousin. The Husband told them that they were married but this nice old man was George Clooney’s father. Looks like she may have believed him…

(For the record, this is not George Clooney’s father. This man lives in Le Petit Village right around the corner from our old house. He is still thanking The Husband).

And of course no champagne induced shenanigans could be complete without me injuring myself in some way…

After The Husband and I delivered my Uncle safely to his bed, we headed back to the festival. We were holding hands and happily skipping along when I tripped, and went airborne until I landed flat smack down into a briar patch.

SPLAT!  


(To help your visual, I basically belly flopped)