Daily bread

The market is a fifteen minute walk away along the seafront and through the park. It’s where one of my aunts lives, a working class neighbourhood I’ve been coming to for years. Can’t manage her six flights of stairs  anymore, hence the hotel.

The market is delightful and I find myself wishing for the hundredth time I had the same at home.  Small, local producers with exquisite fruit and veg, not expensive. You go to the stalls wih the longer queues, run by wizened farmers who’ve been up since dawn, picking this wonderful produce.

It’s lovely to be quietly on my own, I’ll see relatives most days, but my aunt in particular is what Mum calls a word windmill. She never stops talking, often rehashing old arguments with other relatives.

She also reminds me that uncalled for advice on serious illness is not just an English province. The French version has a different twist. When I tell her there are lots of things I can no longer eat, she suggests I wash my hands more and chew my food thoroughly. Genius! I know it comes from a kind place and is partly the inability to deal with serious illness, the desire to fix it, find a magic solution. So I heroically manage not to roll my eyes.



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