Glourious Basterd

The last troops arrived on Monday and we've been frantic with activity since. What with lazing on the grass, sipping wine, playing table football and table tennis in the play barn, taking strolls in the countryside and dips in the pool, eating delicious food and drinking cider, there has hardly been a minute to just relax.

We have managed to make it as far as the nearby town, Falaise, birthplace of William the Bastard (AKA the Conqueror, but the first one is much more fun to say, especially in front of polite company). He became King of England after shooting King Harold in the eye at the Battle of Hastings. Here he is all conqueringy:

There has been a lot to adjust to in Normandy; the slow pace of life, the presence of nature. One of the biggest shocks for me, coming from a country with a very low birthrate, has been the presence of the ickle bickle kiddy winkles. They are very cute but also incredibly breakable. They seem to have some sort of inbuilt navigation device that leads them straight to the nearest sharp rock, scolding hot drink, or height they can fall from. Their appetite for jewelry and expensive electronics is also alarming.

Tyson must have seen something hard to smack his gorgeous noggin off.

In contrast, it's strange how OLD the rest of us have gotten. All my generation are married or settled down, and some are even creating the strange little beings described above.

This is how we used to look:

This is how we look now:

In reality though, it seems deep inside we are all just teens still; giggling over card games, hiding our bad language from the parents (by that I mean words such as 'dang', and 'drat'), or just swirling around in a floaty skirt because it makes you feel like a princess.