Vive Les Vacances

That's all the French you'll be getting from me today, thank you as I've run out of steam after a pre-packing holiday binge at the out-of-town hellhole.  And don't I need a holiday even if it's camping at the bottom of the garden, although it's more likely to be a last minute hop along to the travel agent. Given a choice of venue, most birds head South for the winter but not us perverse Ravens, oh no.  Alphonse would cheerfully pick up his skis, Tog 24 jacket and goggles, and camp out in the Italian Dolomites until it snows or until the Tour de France takes a detour.  Me? As none of these options are appealing due to a nipped-in budget, I've found myself pecking through the girlie mags in W H Smith looking for giveaway treats.  One textured nail varnish duo called Corpse and Grit caught my eye but were snatched away by Alphonse before I made an idiot of myself. Years ago, I had to go cold turkey to break my addiction to fashion glossies with free samples glued to the front after I spend £100 on the damnable things and only gained a fiver back from the leftovers at a car boot sale.

So, where are we going?  I'm not sure I should tell you and I don't think it's a good idea to quiz Alphonse this afternoon as he's lying down, resting his wallet after buying two new shirts.  The one place we won't be heading is the South of France, especially to the Frejus/Saint-Raphael region of Provence.  In the days before www.tripadvisor.co.uk existed to rate your holiday experience before you'd actually left your armchair, I decided to accept a neighbour's offer of a free week in an exclusive chalet not far from Cannes.  My chum Valerian agreed to tag along and as she put it, "rough it a bit on the Cote D'Azur."  Have I mentioned she's psychic?

Having not researched the venue, how could I have known the chalet was on a camp site in the middle of nowhere?  More importantly, this is exactly where the French military machine put "Camp Colonel Le Coq" and hundreds of paratroopers, bronzed and battle hardened from their contribution to the first Gulf War.  They treated us to reveille at 6.00 am, every morning and when all those topless and honed bodies stamped to attention, it was a scramble to see who could get to the binoculars first.  Usually Valerian; she's 5'9".  We'd also decided to travel in September, a time where we were reliably informed that all the local buses had finished for the Summer and we had to get taxis everywhere.  So we signed up for the day trip to Monte Carlo, nipping into the Perfumeries at Aix-on-Provence on the way.  If you get the chance to visit, please do it because your nose will thank you, and your pocket.  For a knockdown price we both bought perfume in a black aluminium bottle, which is how they're stored for longevity; I eeked out the very last of Paloma Picasso about five years ago.  You won't believe this but scent from a glass bottle smells nothing like it does straight from the manufacturer and I've kept the container because the fumes still inspire me to write.

And what can I say about Cannes that you haven't already heard?  That it's beautiful and if you cross the main road too slowly, you will be mown down mercifully by a passing motorist.  And whilst we've done the Costas, the Algarve and the Balearics, my naturally perverse nature still yearns to stay in the Ritz Carlton at 58 La Croisette; majestic, settled on the sea front like a grande dame from a different age of excitement. She shouts "Dior" and "Chanel" and reminds us we once had flat stomachs and the pizzazz to wear a white bikini.  And the private blue and white enclosure for discrete bathing is adorable, and so are the men.  It's not such a great beach but we watched a couple of guys change from suits into Speedos in public, stripping right down to their aspirin-white Hom pants without getting a grain of sand anywhere; and with cigarettes stuck to pouting bottom lips.  Now that's classy.

Oh, there were other days on this holiday when we were cut off by the worst thunderstorm I've ever seen, had to escape to an air-conditioned shopping centre to keep cool and were both rendered speechless by the whiff of a stand-over-the-hole-and-pee toilette.  And yet we're still great friends despite me not mentioning once on the plane to Nice that the 'chalet' was really on a static caravan park with hot and cold running mosquitoes.  I've still got the scars.

And if you don't hear from me for a few weeks, look out for the bug-eyed Raven in cheap sunglasses wearing bubblegum scented flipflops and smelling of fruity shower gel.  My free 'Hot Plum' lippy goes beautifully with a touch of the Body Shop's honey bronzing gel, shimmering around me like an oil slick.  Repels insects though, so I'm happy.  We've staked a claim on a pile of builder's sand somewhere off the Norfolk coast with a picnic basket, while I finish editing my book. I love Summer, don't you?

Tip of the Blog:   The aforementioned Maybelline Hot Plum has got me into trouble with Job 2.1.  Apparently, the nurses have been asked to be more prim and proper, put their hair up and not wear strong perfumes or bright makeup etcetera because it frightens the patients. Where the nurses go, we follow suit and in this heat, I'm sporting full body deodorant.  Plays havoc with your pores but at least there's no white marks.  Bon Vacances.

Raven