No Chris, not that sort of babes.
On Monday Franck, Valentine and I went out to Acigné to see Jacques, Sophie and Juliette. Juliette, true to the stereotype of her age, spent the time alternately eating and sleeping, with very brief bouts of crying interspersed. The rest of us chatted about charming phenomena such as jet-propelled excrement, and had coffee and cake. In spite of this, the contagious nature of the whole thing was well in evidence, as subtle and spoken "you must be next" references flew across the table between the grinning ladies. Coming on the heels of the poo-jet discussion, this didn't make much sense to me, but hey, what would a single guy know?
After the festivities, Franck & Valentine dropped me off for basketball. I was looking forward to it, having missed a week, and we had a good turnout outside the building. Unfortunately, we all remained outside the building, as the guy who normally opens the door decided not to show, leaving us quite literally in the cold.
To drown our sorrows, Liz, Franck (other Franck) and I went to a bar nearby, which turned to be The Smokiest Bar In History. I noticed a bit inside, but when I got home it was insufferable. I guess that's a measure of how desensitized I have become to smoky bars since I've been in France, but its disgusting nonetheless.
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