The Sloth in France: Scorched Earth

From April to September the rainfall over the Limousin is very sporadic. Day after day of cloudless skies and bright, relentless sunshine bring mixed blessings. It’s wonderful for the sun-worshippers but disastrous for the farmers, the gardeners and the wild life. The carefully tended gardens of the residents of Rochechouart, packed with colourful flowers and blossom laden fruit trees, testament to their love of gardening, were wilting in the unseasonal heat.

In June temperatures soared and the green fields became yellow and parched. Even the birds seemed to be suffering from heat exhaustion and sat, silent and unmoving on the shady branches of the ancient oak trees.
The Limousin cattle stood in groups under the chestnut trees, flies swarming over their eyes. They switched their tails and shook their heads irritably, trying to dislodge their tormentors. Waves of heat shimmered over the hills. Leaflets from the Mairie were pushed through the letterbox stating that there was now an official water shortage and outlining the conditions of a hose-pipe ban. Ours arrived one morning during breakfast. The Sloth read it carefully, moving his buttery finger under the sentences and mouthing the words soundlessly.
‘Oh well! That’s my giant marrows and tomatoes gone for a Burton’ he growled. ’It says here anyone disobeying the ban will be fined a thousand euros. The Swines!!’.
‘That’s a real shame!’ I ventured.
‘You do realise what this means, don’t you?’ Sloth spread his hands palms up, theatrically.
‘Er…in what sense exactly?’
‘Well, in the sense that if I can’t go on watering our vegetables they’ll just wither and die and what about the competition?’
‘Mmm! Yes. What indeed?’
‘There’s no need to be flippant!’
‘I’m not, honestly! I know what your veggies mean to you. I’ve seen the work you’ve put in.’
‘Yes! I should think so! It’s been a labour of love up until now but if we can’t water and feed our plants there’ll be no vegetables to show. This is an absolute disaster! All that work for nothing!’ he fumed.
I had to admit that it was hard. Poor old Sloth! He had recently discovered the joys of husbandry (and I don’t mean the marital kind), and had lovingly tended his tomatoes and marrows, watering them diligently night and morning. The tomatoes were now enormous and beginning to ripen. Glistening like jewels in the morning sun they peeked out of the glossy foliage. Green and yellow striped marrows lay swelling quietly on their beds of rotting manure. So he was quite justifiably proud. Of course, as all you gardeners know, marrows and tomatoes need plenty of water to encourage growth. So news of a hose-pipe ban was about as welcome as a wet dog in the living room.

Some of the expats in the surrounding villages had got together and organised a little agricultural show complete with horses for show jumping, fine Limousin cattle, a best flower garden and a best fruit and vegetables competition. The local French farmers, who had named the show, ‘La fete de la Courgette’, were already showing a keen interest. Entries for the best marrows and tomatoes were up too. Sloth crumpled the notice into a ball and threw it into the bin and pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration.
‘Well that’s it!! War has been declared! My marrows are at a very critical stage now and I have no intention of kowtowing to some faceless bureaucrat in the Mairie’s office.’
‘Yes, I can see that but we don’t want to antagonise anyone - we don’t want be fined do we?’
‘You don’t have to worry on that score. ‘I’ve got a plan.’
‘Oh right! So…..’
‘ So pass me the cafetiere, lovekin?’ He poured half a cup of black coffee into a large blue bowl, and filled it up with hot milk.
‘Well! What’s this amazing plan then?’
‘It’s simple! I just water the plants in the early hours!’
‘The early hours?’, I repeated stupidly.
‘Exactement! Pendant la nuit! That way the nosy voisins will be in bed snoring off their cognac and oblivious to my clandestine activities.’ To emphasise this point he took a loud slurp of his coffee and licked at the milk moustache on his upper lip.
‘I suppose that could work.’
‘Have faith, mon petit choux. It will work a treat. I’ll start tonight. Anyway, is that this morning’s journal?’
* * * *

July arrived with a fiery flourish of hot, sunny days and warm breezes. There had already been several small but fierce fires in the surrounding countryside. Blackened patches of burnt grass and charred, disfigured trees scarred the hillsides and the sound of the pompier’s alarm was becoming a regular feature in our otherwise hum-drum lives.

The marrows and tomatoes had tripled in size. Their luxuriant, dark green foliage was in stark contrast with the wilting flowers and bushes and the yellowing lawns in the rest of the garden. Tiny lizards darted across the meteorite stone wall safe in the knowledge that there would be no rain. The Limousin remained in the grip of a terrible drought. This morning, when I came into the living room it was filled with blinding light. Dust motes danced crazily in the beams of the sun’s rays and an itinerant blue bottle buzzed furiously against the windows. I flicked the light switch and the ceiling fan began whirling round. Then I went to the French windows and pressed the button to activate the green and white striped awning. It began its slow descent until it covered a large part of the terrace and gave it some much needed shade. I opened the French windows and stepped onto the terrace. I was immediately enveloped in what felt like an electric blanket on its highest setting! Ignoring the prickling of perspiration gathering at the base of my neck I bent down among the dry, crackling plants. Some had given up the ghost and just died, while others were hanging on hoping for a miracle. What with the tyranny of the water meter and the hose pipe ban most of the garden had been left to its own devices for its very survival. As I reached out to pull up a dead plant I suddenly felt as though someone was watching me. I turned and straightened up just in time to see the bedroom shutters next door being quietly closed. For a moment I squinted against the sun and stared up at the shuttered windows but there was no more movement. The house stood blind and silent in the heat. Then a tousled head appeared in our window. ‘What’s for breakfast, lovekin?’, called the Sloth, yawning hugely.
‘How do scrambled eggs on toast sound?’
‘It sounds very British ma Cherie, but it’s welcome just the same. I’ll be right down.’
The head popped out again. ‘Have I got any clean boxers?’
‘Have you tried your undies drawer?’
‘Er………right!
Pondering on the unfathomable mystery of men’s inability to look for anything successfully, I headed back to the kitchen.


The Sloth was seated at the kitchen table wearing a pair of beige shorts (not Bermuda, Grace a Dieu) and engrossed in reading a philosophy tome. For some reason his long shapely legs and finely turned ankles, clearly inherited from his mother, never seemed to get tanned. No matter how much exposure they got, they remained pale milk white. His face, however, was tanned an interesting pinky brown and his sun bleached hair flopped untidily down over his forehead. (He is very proud of his comb-over.) He began tucking into his scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with great gusto whilst continuing to read the book propped up against the salt and pepper cellars.
The doorbell rang. I opened the door and was greeted by the French Parcel Force man wearing a wide grin and a pair of very short shorts. He was clutching a large parcel containing my art materials. With a cheery ‘Bonjour Madame’ he proffered the clipboard for my signature, standing so close to me we were almost touching and I could smell his aftershave. I scribbled my name and then with a wave and an ‘Au revoir, Madame’ he leapt into his van and drove off.
Sloth looked up briefly from his book, ‘Hmm! I can see someone’s going to be busy’
‘Yes! I’m arranging an exhibition in the Hotel de Venezia. They’ve agreed to let me hang 20 paintings in the foyer.’
‘Well felicitations, mon petit choux. I suppose you want me to hang them for you.’
‘You usually do!’
‘ Exactement! So when is it then?’
‘ I thought sometime towards the end of August. I should be ready by then.’
‘Was that the door bell again?’
‘I didn’t hear anything; anyway, it’s your turn to answer it!’
The Sloth lumbered off down the hall and came back with Clothilde and Francois, our good friends who lived down the hill. They greeted us warmly with four kisses, a tradition of this area of the Limousin particularly appreciated by the Sloth when it came to the jolies Mademoiselles.
As usual they came bearing gifts. Francois bought some glass cloches for the Sloth’s tender veggies to protect them from famished field mice and hungry slugs. Clothilde pressed a little parcel of something wrapped in tissue paper into my hand. Two small pieces of beautifully painted Limoges ceramics nestled there. This merited another round of kissing much to the Sloth’s delight. They made themselves comfortable round the kitchen table. Francois was dressed for the heat in navy blue Bermuda shorts and a white string vest. He wore a small grubby white hat crushed down on his grizzled curls. His bare feet were encased in sweaty trainers. After some ice cold, homemade lemonade and a slice of my carrot cake we went into the garden to admire Sloth’s labours. When Clothilde saw the marrows she was duly impressed.
‘Mais ils sont enormes!’ gasped, Clothilde clapping her hands. Her newly high lighted hair set off her tan and her round blue eyes blinked rapidly behind her large spectacles.
‘Merci, Clothilde’, murmured the Sloth shyly. ‘Tu es tres gentille.’
‘Oui! Absolument mon ami. Felicitations!’ said Francois, clearly impressed with the array of healthy vegetables.
‘I think you will ‘ave much success with theez legumes, you can win with this, no?’
Sloth blushed prettily. ‘Do you really think so? You’re not just saying that?’
‘Mais oui, mon ami, I am saying that. I too ‘ave grow the Courge, er… ‘ow you say, the marrow, no?’ His coal black eyes twinkled and he smiled, showing his yellow, crooked teeth.
‘It ees very beeg’, enthused Clothilde and extended her hands to demonstrate the length.
‘Would you like to hold it Clothilde?’ the Sloth said helpfully.
‘Bah oui, bien sur,’
He lifted it very carefully it into her hands. She hefted it gently, ‘eets very ‘eavy’, she whispered.
‘If only you were going to be the judge at the competition, Clothilde’ said the Sloth longingly.
‘Bah oui! I would give you ze first prize. Voila!’
‘You are very kind. I think I’d better put it back in its bed’. He took it from her and placed it gently on the ground. He looked round for Francois and he saw him standing on the raised terrace. He was peering curiously over the wall at Antoine’s poly-tunnel. The flap was closed but tomato plants could be seen pressing their leaves against the plastic. At the side of the poly tunnel laid out in neat rows were some huge marrows basking in the heat of the morning sun. Francois craned his neck further.
‘ Mon Dieu! Regardez! You ‘ave seen thees?’
‘Seen what, Francois?’
‘Thees erm, ‘ow you say, monstres!!’
‘ Monsters! Where?’
Francois took Sloth’s hand and pointed his finger in the direction of the marrows.
‘Good Lord!! They’re as big as mine.’
‘They are for ze competition’ said Francois simply.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Antoine ‘e ‘as told me.’
This seemed rather a lot for the Sloth to take in.
‘Let me get this right Francois. You’re saying that Antoine is entering the competition for the biggest marrow?’
‘Bah oui, mon ami! Bien sur!!”
‘I’ve never seen him watering them. I wonder how he does it’.
‘At night peut-etre?’
‘Well I’ve started watering my marrows at night. Usually around 2am and I’ve never seen Antoine out there!’
‘He’s right!’ I said. ‘Our bedroom window looks out onto his garden, and yes, we have heard some strange noises but not the sound of water showering out of a hosepipe.’

‘Oui mon ami! I’m agree, it is one big mystere,’ nodded Francois sagely.
‘Or is it?’ said the Sloth, his face lighting up. ‘Maybe he’s got irrigation.’ Francois frowned for a moment. ‘Comment?’
‘You know, a pipe system running across the ground that waters the plants continuously’.
Francois looked puzzled, his agile brain grappling with the translation. Then his puckered forehead cleared and he grinned.
‘Bien sur! That ees it!’ He flashed a smile at me and nodded knowingly tapping his finger against the side of his nose.
‘It ees the little secret of Antoine, no?’
The Sloth shook his head slowly.
‘Well, well, well! The old Devil. You’ve got to hand it to him. Who’d have thought it?’
‘Comment?’ asked Francois
Sloth smiled down at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Never take anything for granted’ muttered Sloth almost to himself.
Francois looked at the Sloth blankly.
‘Er……oui’
Clothilde tugged shyly at her husband’s arm. ‘ We must go now Cherie or Maman will be cross if we are late.’
‘You have reason, ma petite!’ said Francois. The Sloth saw them out and after much kissing and waving they drove off in their little silver car.

* * * * *

The days passed in a shimmering haze of suffocating heat and with no sign of rain. The sky remained a relentlessly, brassy blue. The nights were the worst. As everyone knows, heat rises so the bedrooms became as hot as a baker’s oven. We opted for sleeping on the sofas downstairs with the ceiling fan revolving slowly, the blades cleaving through the thick, stuffy atmosphere.
The Sloth continued to perform his midnight manoeuvres and went out into the garden to water his marrows and tomatoes in the moonlight. One night however, unable to sleep for the heat, I looked up from my book to see him stamping up the little path scattering gravel everywhere. Clearly all was not well.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘You may well ask!’
‘I am asking. You look as though you’ve lost a pound and found a penny!’
‘Found what?’
‘Oh nothing! What’s the matter?’
’The rose has gone missing from the hose pipe. I’ve looked everywhere for it’.
‘It’s probably fallen under the sink in the shed.’
‘I’m telling you I’ve looked everywhere. It’s gone! It was there this morning because I coiled it up and put it back on its nail and it isn’t there now.’
‘It could have dropped off though couldn’t it? Anyway, you might as well come in now and I’ll make us a drink. We’ll have a good look in the morning.’

Next morning, we searched everywhere but to no avail. It seemed that the hose spray had disappeared into one of life’s black holes never to be seen again. It remains to this day one of life’s little mysteries. Nothing daunted, the Sloth went off to the garden centre in Biennac and came back with a brand new, mega-expensive, rose spray. The nocturnal watering resumed and everyone was happy. Everyone that is, except our enigmatic neighbour, Antoine.

The marrows gloried in the hot sunshine and showed their appreciation by putting on even more weight. The Sloth was ecstatic.
‘Will you just look at those little beauties?’ he said fondly. Sounding, for all the world like a proud parent.
‘Yes, they’re doing really well.’
‘All thanks to my nightly administrations’
‘Was that the bell?’ I asked
Mmm! It’ll probably be Francois. He’s bringing me some fertiliser’
Francois bustled in carrying a bulging Hessian sack over his shoulder. He sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
‘Il fait chaud!!!! C’est trop! C’est impossible!’
I poured cold lemonade over some cracked ice and handed it to him. He drained the glass in three grateful gulps then disappeared into the garden with Sloth to inspect the marrows. I followed them and busied myself dead-heading the roses clinging to the garden wall. I heard a click behind me and glanced instinctively up at Antoine’s bedroom window. His stern little wife stood on the balcony gazing down at us. I smiled up at her but her expression remained blank and inscrutable. Then she turned and was instantly swallowed up by the black shadows behind her.
That night was the hottest night we had yet to endure. We left the fans on and lay on the bed only covered by a sheet. A series of sleepless nights weighed heavily on our eyelids and pressed us into a deep dreamless sleep from which nothing could wake us.

We had closed the shutters so we both overslept next morning. The bedroom was dimly lit but the sun was trying to poke its fiery fingers through the cracks. I looked at the clock balanced on a pile of books on my bed side table. It was 8am. Leaving the Sloth to slumber on I showered, dressed and went downstairs. The air felt a little cooler in spite of the sun shining outside. I opened the French doors and stepped on to the terrace and startled two large doves taking their morning shower in the bird bath. A few tiny lizards scuttled about on the wall. I looked round the garden taking in the tomatoes fruiting heavily on their trusses. Then my eyes rested on the marrows. There was something different about them but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I moved in closer and bent down for a better look. Then I saw that some of them had huge holes in their sides. At first I thought some animal had been making free with the Sloth’s prize marrows but then I noticed some tiny metal fragments next to them. It looked like gunshot pellets. Surely not! I couldn’t believe that someone could take pot shots at some harmless vegetable (and no, I don’t mean the Sloth!!) Who on earth would do such a thing? More to the point, why?
Suddenly I sensed rather than heard something behind me. I looked up at the closed shutters next door. The house and garden were deserted. In that moment, crouching down among the wrecked vegetables, with the sun beating down on my bare shoulders, I realised that someone was desperate to win the veggie competition. It didn’t take Inspector Clouseau to work it out. Antoine!!! The Sloth would have to be told!
Poor old Sloth!! How was I going to break the bad news?

As I had feared, the Sloth was devastated when he saw his prize marrows lying wounded on their bed of straw. He let out a low whistle between his teeth. We agreed that this must have been the work of Antoine. He had used a pellet gun to cause the maximum amount of damage.
‘The rotten so and so’ said Sloth. ‘ He must have done this in the early hours. I never heard a thing!’
‘They say that 4am is the time when we’re in our deepest sleep. ‘
‘Well he’s a cunning old fox and that’s for sure’ Sloth stood up slowly, shaking his head. ‘Well there’s only one thing for it!’
‘What’s that?’ I asked
‘You’ll have to help me harvest the undamaged ones and we’ll store them indoors.’
So we painstakingly picked the best of the marrows and wrapped them up carefully and placed them in the warmth of the airing cupboard.

That night the temperature dropped to a more bearable level. The sky cleared and the stars came out to play once more. Exhausted by the heat and trauma of the day the Sloth fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, but I felt more restless and lay there turning the events of the day over in my mind. Eventually, I began to drift off but then just before I fell off the precipice of consciousness into a welcome sleep I heard a stone being scraped in the garden. I looked at the Sloth who was lying on his back, mouth open and snoring loud enough to wake the dead. I picked up the flashlight from beside the bed and crept to the window. By the light of the moon I saw Antoine creeping up to Sloth’s prize tomato plants with a large kitchen knife in his hand. I turned the flash light full on his face. He froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights. His upraised hand which held the knife was still in the air poised to strike the hapless tomatoes. I yelled at him angrily. Seeing the game was up he dropped the knife and scrambled over the garden wall leaving behind a gift of one of his dirty trainers. An unlikely Cinderella!!


September surprised us all with its warm golden days but chilly, starlit nights. The day of the show dawned bright and clear and mercifully, without the suffocating heat that had bedevilled the town recently. The Sloth had risen early. He packed his remaining treasured marrows and tomatoes carefully and stowed them neatly away in the boot of the car. Le festival de la Courgette was being held in a field loaned by a friendly farmer. All the stalls were laden with glistening fruit and vegetables. The scent of flowers wafted in the air. There were two large yellow striped marquees. One was to dispense wine and beer to those with a burgeoning thirst and the other was for the judging of the various categories. The Sloth’s marrows and tomatoes had been laid out on the trestle tables inside the judging tents alongside the entries of the other competitors. We walked around admiring the various produce. The prize marrows took centre stage and lay together, basking in the public admiration. The Sloth was perspiring nervously. The French ladies, led by Clothilde, fluttered round the gleaming entrants in their brightly coloured dresses and shawls, chattering like magpies and pointing excitedly at the giant marrows. They pouted seductively at the Sloth. Their attention put a smile on his face.
Francois arrived cradling a huge orange pumpkin. It was perfectly round and perfectly smooth. It had an unearthly, almost extraterrestrial glow about it. I instinctively reached out and stroked its polished surface.
‘Goodness Francois, what a beauty’.
Francois purred, ‘Bien sur, you think I can win with theese?’
‘ Most definitely ‘ I nodded vigorously.
Clasping it firmly to his chest like a newborn baby he turned and strode purposefully in the direction of the judge’s tent.

Later on , excitement and the warmth of the sun had given the Sloth and Francois a thirst, so off we all went to the ‘refreshment ‘ tent for a much needed beer or Poire liqueur. Everyone else seemed to have the same idea and the bar was quite busy with crowds of people pressing against the makeshift bar. Family groups had commandeered the flimsy tables and chairs. The women sat sipping pear liqueur listlessly whilst their men leaned forward, legs apart and hands on knees, talking loudly at each other. Taking advantage of their hot and harassed parents, the children raced around shrieking at the tops of their voices. The elderly sat nodding and smiling benignly.

The Sloth and Francois waded through the sea of heaving bodies at the bar and came back with the drinks and some interesting news. Sloth was grinning in his usual lopsided fashion.
‘What are you grinning at?’
He pulled hard on his beer bottle. ‘Wait till you hear this!’ spluttered Sloth.
‘Oui’ smiled Francois, ‘C’est tres drole.’
‘Haven’t you noticed that there’s no sign of our friendly neighbour or his prize vegetables?’
I looked round again at the milling crowds and sure enough, there didn’t appear to be any sign of Antoine or his wife.
‘So…’ I began.
‘So, Antoine gave his veggies their usual feed, but after three days they turned yellow and died.’
‘What!’
‘Yep! He lost all of his prize marrows!’
‘But how? When?’ I stuttered.
‘It was ze poison’ murmured Francois, a smile curling his lip.
‘What poison?’ I echoed.
‘Well, someone had slipped some weed killer into the water barrel that he kept filled in the barn. He used it to feed his vegetables apparently.’
‘Well, I never!’
‘You see, the beauty of it was the old codger thought he was stealing a march on us by sabotaging our marrows and feeding his own to triple in size and carry away the first prize.’
‘But someone else had other ideas.’
‘Precisement, ma Cherie’
‘Oui’, said Francois sagely, ‘e ad the coming uppance.’
‘Did they ever find out who it was?
‘Nobody as ze smallest idea. E as much enemies.’

Suddenly the loudspeaker crackled and spat out a distorted voice.
‘They ‘ave judge the legumes’ explained Francois.
‘Right oh’ said Sloth, ‘We’d better get over there.’
Inside the judging tent a group of small, rotund men, perspiring in their ill fitting clothes, were gathered around a gleaming marrow. One of them placed a rosette next to it.
‘Ah! It eez the premiere’ breathed Francois and peered at the name on the entry. ‘and it is you, mon ami! Regardez-vous! You ‘ave won the premiere prize for Le Courge!!’
I stepped up to the table and looked at the card next to the marrow. Sure enough, there was the Sloth’s name with a large frilly rosette next to it.
‘He’s right! Look! You’ve won first prize.’
Sloth gazed lovingly at his marrow but said nothing. A slow beatific smile spread slowly over his handsome face.



The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

If you like reading The Sloth Diaries look out for his next adventures in Paris!!


Copyright Rusty Gladdish 2010

The Sloth Diaries: Les Traces dans la niege.
(Footprints in the Snow)

25th December 2008


Somewhere in the early hours of Christmas morning my sleep pattern took a dive and dipped down to zero. I awoke to the sound of a howling, banshee of a blizzard screaming its fury from the Russian Steppes. The wind wailed round the house like a lost soul demanding entrance but the Sloth, under the influence of the copious amounts of Pisse-Dru consumed the night before, remained impervious and simply burrowed deeper under the duvet.

I got out of bed and crept to the window. The glass was cold and completely covered with snow making visibility impossible. I turned the radiator up and got back into bed. As I settled back into a doze I became aware of a rustling and thumping sound from above. I turned over and buried my nose in the Sloth’s warm back. If the rats had come out to play in the attic that was fine by me as long as they stayed there.

Christmas day dawned in monochrome. The black trees stood stiffly against a slate grey sky almost absorbed by the dull white landscape. In my attempts to be organised for once, I had started cooking Le Dinde quite early on and now it sat on its oval platter, gleaming with honey and marinating in its own juices inside the oven. The Sloth had lit the wood burner and the flames roared up the chimney. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of the roasting turkey and the shining copper pots hanging above, glittered with the reflections from the fire. I glanced out of the French windows at the silver birch trees. Mistletoe clung to the highest branches. For some reason we hadn’t got round to getting any mistletoe this time. Then, as I looked at the trees I noticed a large bunch of mistletoe hanging down at what seemed a reachable level. Perhaps the Sloth could reach it. I could steady the ladder of course. It couldn’t be simpler. I smiled over at him.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.
‘Oh, nothing really’
‘You’ve got that funny look on your face. In my experience, my little turtle dove, when I see that smile, I know you’re up to no good.’
‘We..ll’ I began hesitantly, ‘Actually, there is something.’

‘I knew it!’ Sloth said triumphantly
‘Well, I’ve just realised we haven’t got any mistletoe. It doesn’t seem the same without it somehow,’ I sighed.
‘We’ve got the holly though, I mean not having mistletoe is hardly a life or death situation is it?’ said Sloth, nothing daunted.
‘Well of course it isn’t but I just noticed a huge sprig of mistletoe hanging down from that tree over there. Look!’
He followed the direction of my pointing finger.
‘ Where? Oh yes! I can see it. It does look quite low down doesn’t it. I bet I could reach that. We’d have to get the ladder to it, mind.’

The wind had whipped the snow up into deep drifts and peaks. The silver birches looked like lollipops bedded in a fluffy white meringue. A couple of crows sitting on a branch, hunched up against the bitterly cold east wind, looked down interestedly as the Sloth placed the ladder against the tree.
‘Steady as she goes!’ he called out cheerily as he clambered unsteadily up the ladder. In no time at all he had grasped the branch firmly ‘See, what did I tell you? There’s nothing to it!’ Then just as he was breaking off the mistletoe there was an ominous crack. The branch snapped off, the Sloth’s feet slipped from the rungs and he slithered down the ladder in a hurried and undignified manner. He landed on his back in the snow, clutching the mistletoe to his chest. He lay there like a landed pike, his mouth opening and closing, gasping for breath and unable to speak. Poor old Sloth! The two crows, sensing disaster, had fled to another tree and from there they cawed their amusement from a safe distance. After a few moments he got his breath back and we staggered around in the snow as I tried to help him to his feet.
‘How do you feel?’ I enquired, trying not to sound anxious. The Sloth was never one to make a fuss.
‘I’ll live. Come on, let’s get inside. It’s bloody freezing out here’. We struggled through the snow and down the steps to the back door.

‘Hey! Look at that! Do you see what I see?’
‘See what’
‘Those footprints in the snow.’
‘Where?’
‘Over there, leading towards the garage. You can’t miss them, they’re huge.’
‘Oh yes! They must be yours from when you were putting out the poubelle’, I said.
He bent down to examine them more closely.
‘No way, lambkin! I take size 9s. They’re a lot bigger than that. Look!’ He placed his feet into the prints and there was room to spare. We stared at each other in silence until the trill of the phone ringing from inside the house sent us indoors.

The Sloth answered the phone. It was Mathilde. I went into the kitchen and began peeling the potatoes for the roasting tin. It had started snowing again and the trees at the bottom of the garden had disappeared behind a veil of mist.
I put the turkey, now surrounded with potatoes, back into the oven and lit the gas under the vegetables. I went into the living room and poured two glasses of St Emilion. The Sloth took his glass and had a grateful gulp.
‘That was Mathilde.’
‘I gathered.’
‘She was angling for an invite. Her niece has the flu and they’re not doing anything for Christmas. She doesn’t want Mathilde to get infected’
‘Seems sensible. You invited her round here I assume’
‘Well yes, of course. I thought you’d be pleased ‘
‘You thought right’ I said and poured out a tiny glass of sherry in Mathilde’s favourite glass.
Sloth pulled on his boots and his sheepskin jacket. ‘I’ll go and get her’

I put the drinks and a dish of stuffed olives and Feta cheese on the low table in front of the fire. The logs snapped and crackled in the burner and the scent of the pine cones I’d thrown on the fire earlier permeated the room. My eye fell on the Christmas tree, the red and gold baubles gleaming in the firelight and the little pile of presents sat waiting underneath. I’d bought a couple of gifts for Mathilde. Some English lavender toilet water and soap, and a box of English chocolates. We’d also got her a beautifully illustrated book about the Royal family. She was an avid fan of ‘Elizabeth’ La Reine d’ Angleterre. I stretched lazily and yawned. The fire was making me sleepy. Suddenly, my reverie was interrupted by a loud thump and a dragging sound that came from above which made me jump. I leapt up from the sofa and stood listening, my heart thudding against my ribs. I held my breath, waiting for the next sound but none came. Instead the back door flew open bringing Mathilde and the Sloth in a flurry of snowflakes. They stamped their boots on the step before stumbling into the kitchen. Mathilde hung her jacket over the radiator then smiled over at me, but her expression changed and she immediately registered that something was wrong. ‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’ She asked. I didn’t answer, but pointed my finger upwards toward the ceiling. The Sloth looked up and was about to speak when the noise began again, louder this time. We all three stood there looking up as if we were expecting the Second Coming any minute. The Sloth was the first to speak.
‘ That’s it! I’m going up in the loft. We’re going to settle this once and for all. I think the entrance to the loft is through the garage.’ I made towards the door. ‘No, don’t come outside with me. You two wait here’

Mathilde and I moved over to the Sofa in front of the fire and sat down. We didn’t have long to wait before we heard the definite sound of footsteps walking across the loft. The thumping and scraping began again. This time it sounded as though there was a scuffle going on and angry muffled voices could be heard. Then it went quiet. Mathilde and I strained our ears but could hear nothing. Then, without warning the door crashed open and two male figures almost fell into the kitchen. One of them was clearly the Sloth but the other was a tall, dark figure. He was hardly more than a boy. Both men were breathing heavily from their exertions in the loft. Poor old Sloth! He’s very unfit. Mathilde and I stared at the boy who stood before us. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. He stared brazenly at us but his large dark eyes were full of fear and resignation as he stood there trembling.

The Sloth spoke quietly, ‘How long have you been hiding up there in the loft?’ The boy looked straight at the Sloth and spoke rapidly in flawless French.

‘I have been in hiding here for 7 months. I survived by working on the land for the local farmers. They paid me in cash, no questions asked. I earned enough money to buy food. This house is often empty for months. The owners only spend short periods of time here. I think they have another home far from here. They must be very rich to have two houses. I don’t even have one home ’

‘You mean they were living here while you were hiding in the loft and they didn’t know you were there?’ Sloth shook his head incredulously.

‘Yes, but it was easy to hide from them.’
‘How did you get to France?’
‘My father was killed in front of me and my sisters by the soldiers. They said they would come back for me, so my uncle paid my passage on a boat with hundreds of others. It was terrible. There was very little fresh water and no sanitation. The people on the Italian shore said they could smell the boat coming. We had almost reached the shores of Italy when the boat capsized and we were thrown into the water. Hardly anyone could swim and many drowned. I clung onto a piece of driftwood, a live human being floating among the bloated bodies of the dead. I was picked up by the immigration officers. They took me to a detention centre but I escaped and hid on a lorry bound for Calais. The lorry driver found me and let me out in the countryside and I found this village. There were only a handful of houses. Some of them with the shutters closed and deserted. I chose this one after I found there was an entrance to the attic through the garage. I have been very lucky. No one ever knew I was here.’

Then he suddenly burst out ‘I hope to call this country my home one day. But I am illegal! I only want what you have had all your life. Freedom and security for my family; education, a house and a job. Recently I suffered a loss in my native land. I could not go home to say farewell to them for fear that I would not get back! I am a law-abiding person, I have never been in trouble and want to live here for the rest of my life. I don't exist in my homeland or in this land. I have no voice, and I am living in the shadows! And I don't want to live like this anymore! I am tired of running and hiding.’

The Sloth nodded, ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Patrice Beauregard. I’m from the Ivory Coast’.
The Sloth put out his hand and the boy clasped it.
Mathilde, who had been listening intently to the boy’s story, moved forward and took his hand and led him in silence to the table, groaning with food. She pulled out two chairs and sat down on one of them. Then she leaned over and patted the chair next to hers.
He cast a puzzled glance in our direction. ‘You will get the police?’
Sloth slowly shook his head. ‘No, of course not’
A violent shudder shook his thin body and he sighed with relief. Mathilde repeated her gesture and we all took our places at the table.

Outside the leaden sky was already darkening as
the snow began to fall again. Then, without
warning, a magpie was flushed clattering out
of the silver birch trees and soared upwards,
clearing the tree tops. We all watched in
wonder as it disappeared from view.


This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

The Sloth Diaries.


The Sloth in France: La Tempete!

Carrefour was unusually crowded for a Monday morning. I had to drive round the car park three times before a sleek Peugeot slid out of its place to allow our battered little Nissan Sunny to take its place. The wind had got up since we had left home and discarded plastic bags were blown into the air where they fluttered like ragged flags. Sodden leaflets advertising the opening of the new Lidl next door, blown by the wind, stuck to the car tyres. This morning, the announcer on French radio had excitedly warned of ‘La Tempete’ which had already swept through Brittany with gales of up to 140 kilometres per hour. It was now battling its way up the coast to Calais. Comparisons were already being made with the terrible winter storms that had ravaged France in previous years.

As we trundled our trolley into the crowded aisles, the check-out girl nearest the entrance was uncharacteristically quiet. We were usually greeted with a cheery ‘Bonjour!’ but not this morning. Everyone was strangely preoccupied and focussed on piling their trolleys high with supplies.
‘What’s the matter with everybody this morning?’ I asked the Sloth. A portly, fur coated French femme au foyer with heavily rouged lips, crashed into our trolley and stormed past with a glare. The Sloth smiled weakly and murmured a conciliatory, ‘Bonjour, Madame’ to her furry back. Then, turning to things of a more important nature, he manhandled a box of 6 bottles of medium quality Bordeaux in to the trolley. ‘Yes, I know what you mean. Must be the high winds. Continual high winds have a strange effect on people, you know. When the Mistral blows in Provence, people go quite barmy for a while. They get migraines and undergo personality changes.’

‘Really? Do you think that’s why everyone is acting so oddly this morning? ‘
‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact. When I was teaching at a primary school in Gloucester once, I noticed that if there was a continual wind blowing, the kids would become quite aggressive and crazy in the playground.’
He hefted a second box of red wine
into the trolley then stood back, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
‘Right! I’m offski! Come and find me in the CD aisle when you’re ready for the check out,’ and he disappeared into the thick of the frantic groups clustering round the supermarket shelves.

With the Sloth safely out of the way, I glided round in a dream indulging my French fancies. I began filling my trolley with Pate de Canard, brioche and crusty baguettes still warm from the ovens and soft, creamy Brie from the local dairies to be washed down with a dark, dense fruity wine. Our trolley was almost full so I ambled slowly towards the CDs and Books aisle. I was just in time to see the Sloth on his knees in front of a slim, languid young woman dressed in dusky pink, suede hot pants with matching thigh boots topped with a long silver grey top coat. He seemed to be scrabbling on the floor in an undignified manner for something, whilst she tilted her honey coloured head, her hair falling seductively over one eye, regarding his antics with a certain curious amusement. She appeared completely bemused. They were completely unaware of my arrival. It seemed she had dropped her lipstick and it had rolled under the shelves. And Sloth being a gentleman, was gallantly trying his best to retrieve it. From where I was standing he didn’t seem to be having much luck though he might have been having a lot of fun! By now he was very red in the face and as I approached he grinned foolishly. He looked like a fox that had been caught with a hen in his jaws. A look I had come to know so well down the years. Poor old Sloth!

He stumbled to his feet holding the lipstick triumphantly aloft.
Oh merci! Merci, monsieur! Vous etes très, très, gentille’, she cooed.
He was so pleased with himself that he almost took a bow, then as he murmured something in French she whipped her shiny blonde hair out of her eyes and wandered off, leaving a cloud of Givenchy to remind us of our ordinariness.
With the Sloth now firmly under my supervision he manoeuvred our burgeoning trolley to the check-out. The queues were long and the customers were disgruntled. An air of tacit mutiny hung over the shoppers. Tempers, like the weather, were volatile so we weren’t surprised when a row flared up between two women. One of them had shoulders that Sebastien Chabal would envy while the other was as thin as a whippet and with an incredibly penetrating, high pitched voice which reached down to the back of the line. I noticed that they both had crew cuts and both sported a couple of red streaks running down the sides of their heads. It must be the latest style around these parts. There were a lot of ‘Ohs’ flying around before I realised with my abysmal ignorance of French, that they were actually saying ‘Eau’. One of them had taken the last of the 5 litre bottles of water and harsh words were being exchanged. The check-out girl ignored the fray and continued to put through the items at great speed. The people in the queue however, sensed a drama about to unfold and looked on interestedly in the hope that the row would escalate into something a little more piquant.
Things took a nasty turn when the rugby scrum-half gripped the arm of the skinny woman and began shaking her like a pit bull terrier with a hapless rabbit. The onlookers gasped in unison and the entire queue swayed in anticipation of the next stage of events. It was at this point that the Sloth, being a peaceful sort and an ardent admirer of the fairer sex, politely intervened. He offered one of our bottles of water to the Sebastien Chabal look-a-like murmuring sweet nothings in her direction. For some reason this seemed to placate her. She gave him a coy smile and grabbed the water with one hand and loosened her grip on the little woman who immediately fell to the floor in a faint. A small circle gathered round looking down at her sympathetically but no one actually did anything to revive her. The audience, deprived of their live ‘theatre’, scowled at us as we sneaked through the check-out leaving dissatisfaction and disappointment behind us. C’est la vie!

As we came out of the automatic doors we were almost driven back by the force of a howling wind that pressed us against the plate glass windows of the supermarket. Clinging on to the trolley for dear life we dashed to the car and quickly emptied our supplies into the boot. All around us detritus flew up into the air like larks on a summer’s day but the icy blast felt anything but summery. The towering poplar trees that bordered the car park trembled and shook. The sky had darkened and somewhere in the distance a dull roar could be heard. We dived into the car and I drove like someone possessed to get home before the storm broke over our heads and swept us away. The long, ribbon of road winding through the flat, furrowed fields was devoid of any trace of humanity as we batted along. ‘Good God! I’ve never seen the road so deserted before. Even on a Sunday, and we always get stuck behind a tractor on the way home from Carrefour. Bizarre!’ marvelled Sloth. Our little car swayed and rocked and once or twice came perilously close to occupying the roadside ditch
I gripped the wheel firmly and put my foot down. The gale practically blew us along and we were soon pulling into the home stretch. All the houses in the hamlet had their shutters firmly closed as their occupants cowered indoors. As we drew up to Mathilde’s cottage Sloth took off his safety belt. ‘Look! You go on to the house and get inside; I’m going to check on Mathilde’

‘Yes, OK. She’ll probably be getting a bit nervous.’ I left him at Mathilde’s garden gate and pulled into our drive. The wind had got even stronger now and was much noisier. I got all the supplies out and lugged them into the kitchen and shut the door. I switched on the light, it had become very dark outside and started to put away the food into the cupboards.

I’d just put the last of the duck pate away in the fridge and clicked on the coffee maker when the back door was flung open. The Sloth and Mathilde almost fell into the kitchen. ‘My God! There’s a blasted tornado going on out there!’ he gasped. Mathilde took herself over to the rocking chair and sat by the stove. Her hair was usually in a neat coiffure, but the wind had fanned it in to a wispy halo round her head. She smoothed and patted it back into shape then she leant forward to warm her tiny hands near the flames. ‘Oh Monsieur! Pas bon! Pas bon! Le vent, c’est incroyable!’ It was indeed incredible. I made bowls of milky coffee for us and a tiny cup of tar black liquid with a thimble full of Calvados for Mathilde. She thanked me and sat sipping it delicately.
She told us that this storm reminded her of the one that charged like a bull through a village some 50 miles away, years ago. Three people were killed and houses were torn from their foundations and tossed aside like empty match boxes. ‘Ah oui! Pas bon!’ she murmured. As if on cue a sudden squall of wind snatched at the windows and the whole house trembled and creaked in protest. Sloth and I exchanged glances. I indulged in a little displacement activity and threw a couple more logs into the stove. Then we heard a loud, sickening crash that came from outside. Sloth and I ventured outside holding onto each other tightly, and saw from the gate that Bernadette’s satellite dish had fallen from the roof and was sailing awkwardly down the street. A little further on we could see Monsieur Roche’s shiny new Magane on its side in a ditch pinned down by a telegraph pole. We looked at each other as the enormity of the effects of the storm dawned on us and then we turned and hurried back into the house. We all sat round the fire drinking our coffee with generous splashes of Calvados to gives us some Dutch courage. We spoke in slightly raised voices as we tried to drown out the racket that was going on outside. From time to time objects flew past the windows or were hurled up into the sky. We tried not to react when we heard the rasping sound of metal on concrete. Mathilde tried to distract us by regaling us with tales of the antics of her alcoholic neighbour, Alphonse.

‘Ah oui!’ she murmured and sipped greedily at her sweetened coffee heavily laced with Calvados. To keep out the cold ‘Bien sur’!
She placed her tiny feet daintily on the hearth and with her head on one side and her snapping black eyes twinkling , then, looking for all the world like a cheeky robin, she began to tell her story. She sighed. ‘You know, monsieur, what’s really hard to bear is the house he lives in used to belong to my brother Antoine. Oui! C’est vrai! My brother was a good businessman and owned three butcher’s shops. Round these parts people said that they were the best boucheries for miles. They sold only the finest cuts of meat. Ah Oui! Toujours la meilleure viande. Then one day, le desastre!! The big supermarche Carrefour came along and that was the end of his business. One by one his shops closed.’
‘It must have been terrible for Antoine’ I said.
I served her a Madeleine on a porcelain plate which she sucked at gently, brushing the crumbs from her skirt.
Sloth made sympathetic noises and ignoring a particularly loud crash outside, Mathilde took another deep breath and continued ‘
‘Ah oui! Pas bon! Pas bon! That Aplhonse had always envied Antoine and coveted his house. That’s not the only thing he coveted either’. She narrowed her eyes and nodded knowingly. ‘He was always sniffing around Therese. That’s Antoine’s wife. She’s a pretty little thing. Slim and dark like I used to be.’ I noticed the corners of Sloth’s mouth twitching and jabbed my elbow into his ribs.
‘When the boucheries closed down Antoine was finished. It was a terrible blow to him, vous savez. He put his heart and soul into those shops. ‘There was another long pause as she gazed into the fire.
‘So where did Antoine go after he sold the house to Alphonse?’ prompted Sloth.
Mathilde dragged her eyes from the flames.
‘They went to the Alpes. Therese has family near Chamonix. They bought a chalet and now they both work at the ski resort.’
‘Do you visit them, Mathilde?’
There was another long, wounded silence.
Then, ‘I am an old woman. What do I want with the snow and the ice? I visited twice in the summer months. It was a long journey by plane and train. Pas bon!’ She shook her head sadly.
Sloth nodded. ‘It must have been exhausting for you’
I leaned forward and patted her hand. ‘I expect you miss him’
‘Ah oui! Ah oui! But he’s a bad one that Alphonse. He lives alone and just gets drunk every night. His wife and son left him. They live in Lyon now. Last summer it was very hot and I was sitting in the garden. His son came to visit him and was helping him do some digging. Alphonse came out of the house swigging a bottle of wine. Anyone with half a brain could see he was drunk. In his other hand he had a shotgun. No one was more surprised than me though, when he raised the gun and fired a shot at the satellite dish. The poor lad fell down as though he were dead. He thought he’d been shot you see, poor lamb. ‘C’est fou!!’ Ah oui! I’ll never forget the look on that boy’s face.’

The fire in the wood burner had died down and the room had become darker. The Sloth got up and went to the door. The wind had been replaced by a torrential downpour. He sprinted over the yard to the woodshed and dashed back with an armful of logs. While he stoked the fire, I flicked on the lamps and went to make some hot chocolate. When I came back from the kitchen, rattling cups of chocolate on the tray, Mathilde was dozing, her head nodding gently on her chest, and her hands lying loosely in her lap. Sloth raised his finger to his lips. I took my place next to him on the sofa and we sipped our chocolate and watched the flames darting between the logs in the stove. Shadows flickered and danced in the dark corners of the room and the fire sizzled and spat. We watched Mathilde sleeping with all the innocence of a child, and listened to the rain beating against the windows.

* * * *


The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Le Sloth et Le Sapin (The Christmas tree)


The Sloth swept through the door, his face a brilliant crimson from the biting cold, grinning from ear to ear. Stepping out of his muddy boots and rubbing his hands he walked over to the wood burning stove. He held his numbed fingers near the flames shooting up into the chimney behind the glass.
‘I’ve just bought a Christmas tree from the farm shop down the road. A very good deal too, if I do say so myself. Had a bit of a chat with the mademoiselle and she agreed to deliver it toute suite, well in the next hour anyway.’ He slumped down in the chair next to the stove and stretched out his long legs. He wriggled the toe that poked out of the hole in his sock. This was a clear indication of pleasure at his purchase.
‘Ten euros, and that includes delivery. Nice looking little woman, dark hair and a proper figure. None of this size zero nonsense. I could see she was impressed with my French. Has the kettle boiled?’
‘So when are they bringing it over then?’ I asked innocently.

He glanced at his bare wrist. We had taken the decision not to wear our watches. We no longer wanted our lives to be dominated by time, staring us accusingly in the face: measuring our every move, ticking off our list of actions. We wanted to believe that we actually had some control over our lives. ‘They’ll probably bring it round about lunchtime’ he said vaguely, trying to thaw out his fingers on the steaming cup of coffee I thrust into his hands.

I busied myself with preparing the vegetables for our evening meal while the Sloth went outside to chop some firewood. At around 4.30pm.the winter darkness had draped its dripping cloak over the roofs of the houses and obscured the trees. There was still no sign of our Sapin. Sloth however, remained optimistic but being a born cynic I knew deep down that it wasn’t going to arrive that night or indeed any night if it came to that. I stared gloomily at the box of Christmas decorations we’d bought from Carrefour on the previous morning. It sat there on the pine table looking forlorn. I got up and put the lid back on the box. I just couldn’t bear to look at it a moment longer. It’s a strange thing about disappointment. You think that by the time you’ve become an adult you can handle the sinking feeling that follows that plummeting euphoria when something you’ve been looking forward to, doesn’t happen. It just doesn’t work like that though.

The fire had died down and the room had become chilly in spite of the central heating. The Sloth got up wearily and went outside. For a moment the ice laden air entered the room by stealth through the open door. Sloth staggered back into the room hidden behind a pile of logs. He threw a couple of them on the fire and a shower of sparks produced a mini firework display.

I had made one of my Pot-au-Feu things. I throw everything into a large pot with some stock cubes, chicken, leeks, carrots, shallots, parsnips, potatoes, courgettes, lentils and at least three glasses of red wine. A couple of bay leaves and a scattering of herbs then leave it to simmer on the stove until the chicken slides from the bones. The Sloth’s favourite. We ate it with large pieces of bread from the boulangerie in the village.

The Sloth fell on it like a hungry wolf. Sheer blighted hope had taken the edge off my appetite. ‘How do you know they’re going to bring that tree here? Did you get a receipt?’ I said grumpily.
He shook his head, mouth bulging with chicken and dumplings.
‘Did you write the address down for them?’ Again, an emphatic shake of the head.
‘Well how on earth are they going to find it? The husband probably came home late and his wife told him to deliver the tree. He just told her where to get off and went out to the bar for a game of billiards and a brandy!’ The head continued shaking like the proverbial nodding dog.’ Or they probably thought you were another English incomer with more money than sense. We’ll never see that tree you know!’ I was rock bottom by now.
‘Of course we will. Don’t be so negative. I told her the address twice and she said she knew where it was.' Resigned to our first Christmas in France without a Christmas tree I cleared away the dishes. As the night drew on the wind got up and moaned around the house rattling the wooden shutters and sneaking through the gaps under the door. Without a television to mesmerise and hold sway over our senses we bickered some more before finally falling asleep in front of the fire.

* * * *

The bedroom seemed unnaturally bright when I woke up. The ceiling had a newly white-washed look to it. A thick, deafening silence had pulled me into consciousness and I turned to the Sloth only to find an empty, hollow space. The little red clock on the chest of drawers said 8 O’clock. I got out of bed and went to the window. The sky was a greenish grey with a mauve tint to it. The air was thick with snowflakes, whirling crazily around the telephone wires. The little houses were camouflaged under a snowy blanket and the cars slumbered on the drives, cosy under their goose feather quilts. All sounds seemed to have been absorbed by the density of snow. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the metal scraping of a shovel on someone’s drive as they cleared away the snow. I suddenly noticed the cold tiles striking up through the soles of my feet and went to get dressed.

There was no sign of Sloth in the Kitchen but there was a blazing log fire in the wood burner. He couldn’t be far away. Especially when he hadn’t had his breakfast. I put the kettle on the kitchen range and then as I was looking in the fridge for the makings of a cooked breakfast I heard a commotion outside in the yard. I opened the back door and was treated to the sight of the Sloth manhandling an enormous Christmas tree while trying to engage an attractive dark haired girl in conversation. She was standing very close to him. He was leaning down towards her and she was smiling up at him. I could see from where I was standing that he thought his luck had changed. I have to own up to being very territorial and that includes Sloth so I called over to them. Jolie Madame looked up immediately and sensing trouble, shot me a look then jumped into her Land rover and shot off down the road in a flurry of muddy snow and gravel. The Sloth frowned for a few seconds then, seeing the game was up, staggered over to me clutching the tree triumphantly. Snow covered every part of his anatomy. Icicles clung to his eyebrows and lashes. ‘See! I told you didn’t I? What’s it like being married to a genius?’ he grinned.
‘ I don’t know! You tell me’ I grimaced. He dumped the tree and came into the warm kitchen and began melting like the abominable snowman caught in a heat wave. The kitchen floor began to stream with water. Then suddenly he began sneezing…. Poor old Sloth!
‘It was good of her to give you a lift’ I said sniffily.
‘She didn’t,’ he paused to take a breath. I passed her on the way to the shop. She had the tree on the front seat. She stopped and asked me the address again and drove off. I had to walk back. We arrived at the same time because she went past the house.’
‘What! She let you walk back in a snowstorm!!! The heartless cow! You’ll catch your death!’
He smiled his little boy smile that has charmed hundreds of women. I wonder why it hadn't worked on the French femme fatale!!

Rusty Gladdish wishes to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents 1988.

All characters in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Description*
The Sloth in France:Train journey from Paris

After a somewhat bewildering safari through the jungle of panic stricken passengers and scouring the labrythine halls of Charles De Gaulle airport, the Sloth and I find ourselves seated on the TGV flying towards the ancient city of Arras. Steeped in history and whose soil is soaked with blood of those lost in the many wars. Thanks to the Sloth’s ingenious linguistic abilities and his rather dubious brand of charm with the doe-eyed African princess dispensing the ‘Billets.’ We settled back into our seats and watched the French landscape slip past the window. A flat expanse of arable land dotted with occasional cows and pricked with leafless poplar trees, stretched away to where a sodden earth met the pearl grey sky.

In Britain we have heard a great deal about Le Train a Grande Vitesse in comparison to our own ailing railway system. Great emphasis is placed on speed and comfort and as the countryside flashed by in a blur of greens and browns we had to agree that it was very fast indeed. Sloth’s wandering eye slyly followed the progress of a chic ‘Jolie Madame’ as she squeezed past, exposing a great deal of slender calf. He breathed a sigh of contentment. Soon our reverie was disturbed by the arrival of Le Controleur smartly attired in a grey jacket, snowy white shirt and blood red tie. ’Billets, s’il vous plait’ The Sloth handed over the tickets with a certain Anglo-Saxon nonchalance. Le controleur scrutinised the tickets, his black moustache bristled with importance and disapproval. He fixed us with his snapping brown eyes and said in perfect English, ‘What nationality are you?’ A puzzled Sloth answered, ’British, Monsieur’.
‘Passports!’ he snapped
‘Passports?’ squeaked the Sloth
‘Oui Monsieur, Passports’, he grimaced, showing small, pointed teeth. Clearly, a close relative of the weasel family.
Sloth patted his pockets frantically. A film of sweat gave his face an unhealthy shine. The minutes ticked by, eating into an embarrassed silence as he searched in the many pockets of his leather jacket. Finally he produced the passports and handed them over. They were closely examined then snapped shut and handed back. ‘You did not put your tickets into the machine on the platform. This proves at which station you boarded the train’, he said with an air of triumph.
We both looked mystified at these Gestapo tactics. He leaned down towards us and put his face next to the Sloth’s.
‘I could fine you 30 euros’ he said nastily
‘We didn’t know’, pleaded the Sloth. ‘No one told us!’
For an answer Monsieur Controleur gave a Gallic shrug and turned away. We watched in relief as he shouldered his way up the aisle, bent on terrorising other innocent passengers.

The Sloth and I were on our way to Hesdin in the Pas de Calais region, to look after his brother-in-law’s house while he was in America on business. I was already wondering if we had done the right thing agreeing to it. It was too late now. After waiting on icy, unsheltered platforms and riding on some rather less than luxurious trains, we arrived at Hesdin. The Sloth lugged our heavy trolley bag wearily from the train. It seemed unusually dark or was it just that the Conseil de Hesdin had decided to save on street lighting. A sort of economy and ecology drive combined. A shape loomed up out of the darkness and came forward with an outstretched hand. He smiled up into the Sloth’s face, displaying perfect white teeth. ‘Vous etes Monsieur Simon? Je m’appelle Michel. Votre voisin.’ The Sloth smiled weakly at this unlikely guardian angel. Michel took the trolley bag as if it weighed nothing at all. ‘Suivez moi’. We all piled in to a battered little white Renault that had seen better days. Michel gunned the engine and we roared off into the thick, black night.

After a hair raising drive through winding lanes with only the scared white faces of the cows peering over the hedges to bear witness to our folly, Michel yanked the little car over and we pulled into a large gravel drive. ‘Voila! Nous sommes ici!’, he murmured. The house was large and brightly lit. As we entered we were enveloped in warmth and the smell of something delicious cooking in the oven. The long table near the window was laid with gleaming cutlery and crystal and a chandelier hung down impressively. The Sloth and I looked at Michel. He beamed. The smile reached his shining black eyes. ’Ma soeur’, he said simply, with outstretched hands, palms up, indicating the elegant spread before us.
The ornately carved drinks cabinet in the corner was stacked with bottles of alcohol of every description. Michel took a bottle of Pastis and poured himself a large measure into a glass. He then despatched the entire contents in one swallow. ’C’est bon’ he gasped and wiped his mouth. He ran his long fingered hand through his unruly brown hair. ‘ Voila! Je vais, Simon’. The Sloth came out of his trance, ‘Aren’t you going to eat with us, Michel?’ He took the Sloth’s hand and shook it up and down vigorously, and in his halting English said ’Another day my friend’. Then he was gone out of the door into his little car and disappeared into the unlit lanes of this corner of northern France.

After a hot shower we fell on the Coq au Vin we found in the oven and finished off with a tart aux pommes and fresh cream. We drank copious amounts of the deep burgundy wine until we were both totally incoherent. Then we finally collapsed into bed and sank under the blanket of oblivion.


The Sloth and I slept the sleep of the just and awoke refreshed. He was finishing his coffee when a timid knock came at the door. Through the glass I could see what looked like the shape of a child. When I opened it I was surprised to find a tiny old lady smiling up at me. At that moment a strong gust of wind tugged at a pile of dead leaves in the corner of the drive. It hurled them up into the air where they fluttered like birds before coming down and landing in her wispy, white hair. She seemed totally unfazed by the icy blast that blew through the shawl draped around her thin shoulders. ‘Bonjour Madame, Je suis Mathilde.’ she piped in a reedy voice.
‘Bonjour, Mathilde’ and I held the door open for her to step inside. As she came in she handed me a plate covered with a spotless, red checked cloth. Beneath the cloth nestled a moist tart aux pommes glistening with traces of sugar. She glanced round the house proprietarily and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. We each bent down in turn for our kisses. We pulled out the rocking chair for her and she sat down. Her feet didn’t touch the floor and she looked more than ever like a visiting child.
Mathilde began explaining immediately in clear, well spoken French, that this house once belonged to her brother until he sold it to the Anglais. This was a subject that was dear to her heart and she soon became very animated. She prattled along while the Sloth punctuated her sentences with an occasional ‘oui!’ and ‘non!’ and ‘alors!’, whenever she took a breath, which wasn’t often.
‘The whole village is selling their houses to Les Rosbifs’. She said. ‘ Laurent Martin next door got 190,000 euros. Vous imaginez! Une fortune! Alors! He inherited the house from his mother. He’s never had a proper job in his life because everyone knows he’s a bit simple. Now he’s a rich man and he’s gone to live with his sister in St Pol and he’s banked the money.’ Not a complete idiot, then. ‘As for Virginie Rambert who used to live in the big scruffy old house opposite, well she got a whopping 250,000 euros. Yes! She’s another one! She lived with her mother until she died aged 98. Then two years ago nice a English couple came looking at the houses in the village. They took one look at that dirty old house of Virginie’s with those big rusty gates and all that ivy covering the windows and said ‘How much?’ Margot Rene was standing there and over heard Virginie say, quick as a flash, ‘250,000 euros’. Les Rosbifs shook her hand and cried a bit and then they wrote out the cheque there and then.!!! ’ Mathilde shook her head in disbelief at the utter foolishness of human beings. She gave a little shiver in her chair. The Sloth, ever sensitive to the needs of others, noticed her bright, bird's eyes slyly wander over to the drinks cabinet. He jumped up solicitously and took up a tiny, thimble sized glass. ‘A little Pastis to keep the cold out Mathilde?’
‘Oh Oui! Oui, Monsieur. Tres gentil’ She cried and drank it down in one. Two red spots appeared on each cheek. She leaned forward to continue while Sloth jumped up to get her a refill.

‘Last month two young men came round to ask me if I wanted to sell up. I think they were….well, you know, together’ the words tumbled out in a rush. She leaned even further out of her chair and whispered ‘omosexual’. Lovely boys though. They were very handsome and clean. In fact, if I had been going to sell it I would have let them have it. I know they would have taken care of it, but I couldn’t sell it you know. It was my mother’s house and her mother’s before her. I was born in that house and I will die in it.’ She sighed and sipped at her Pastis reflectively. ‘Jean-Claude the funeral director has put my name and my date of birth on our tombstone. I’ll be buried with Etienne. He’s been gone 10 years now. There’s not a day goes by without I think of him. It’s very beautiful. It’s white marble with my name in gold lettering. It’s already in the cemetery you know. I go and look at it sometimes. I find it such a comfort. Jean Claude has left a space for the date of when Jesus and I will meet for the first time’ The Sloth and I looked at each other. We felt humbled by this brave, fiery little person and her pragmatic attitude to life and death.
‘Another little Pastis Mathilde?’ asked the Sloth.
‘Oh no! Merci Monsieur! I must get back home. The priest is visiting this afternoon. I came to ask if there’s anything I can do for you and all I’ve done is talk about myself. Excusez-moi!’ She got up from her chair and moved towards the door. We exchanged goodbye kisses and watched her little figure being propelled up the road by a buffeting wind.

Rusty Gladdish wishes to be identified as the author of this work as asserted by the Copyright, Designs and Patents 1988.

All characters in this story are fictitious and any similarity to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

The Sloth Diaries: Barbarella and Kenton


I get back all sweaty and tired from feeding my friend's cats and walking his dog only to catch the last trills of the telephone as I come down the path. I kick off my shoes in the hall while it sputters into answer phone mode. A high female, child -like voice fills our tiny living room.
'Hello you two! Just a quick call to ask if you’d like to go the beach today. It's such a lovely day, we’ll call in and pick you up in half an hour,' she said breathily. I stare at the phone warily and decide not to interrupt the message. Blast! I know it will be almost impossible to get out of it without offending her. The machine whistles and clicks to signal the end of the message then falls silent, its red eye winking conspiratorially.
She is right though. It’s a fabulous morning. The sun shines on the kitchen windows lighting up the streaks and smears and the thin layer of dust on the bookshelves. Glancing up I can see a skein of cobwebs festooning the ceiling. I don't really feel in the mood for housework. Does anyone?
Don’t get me wrong! Barbarella and Kenton are a lovely couple. They’re so generous and kind and full of fun and have been described by some in the village pub (rather unkindly) as the oldest swingers in town. They make a very handsome couple when out walking together. They are both diminutive, but immaculately dressed. Barbarella in her gold sandals, toenails twinkling with purple pearl nail polish and her long, straight hair dyed a fiery red. However, a lifetime of heavy smoking and soaking up the sun has taken its toll. Tiny lines criss -cross her face, deep creases run from her nose to mouth, so often turned down in repose. The watchful green eyes behind the steel rimmed glasses are rather faded and crow’s feet nestle in the outer corners. Despite her pint sized appearance Barbarella is a feisty lady and has been known to give rein to some pretty spectacular rages if she believes she's been crossed. (Which is pretty much all of the time!!?) Paranoia strikes deep!
Naturally Kenton is very proud of her and doesn’t seem to notice these tiny imperfections. He is fiercely protective whenever there’s an altercation with anyone who doesn’t quite agree with her opinions. (It’s more than his life’s worth!!) Tradesmen, shopkeepers, villagers and friends alike, and there lies the rub. They just don't seem to have any friends. He's got masochistic tendencies and is brutally tactless and she tends towards Sado- hysterical paranoia, 'Nobody in this village likes me! I've never done anything to them!!' Well! A desire to indulge in cunning game playing and absurd, inappropriate flirting with unsuspecting husbands is no pre-requisite to a lasting friendship with female friends. Loyalty and respect has to be earned. Ah well!
Kenton loves sports clothes. Smart navy polo shirts and matching navy tracksuit bottoms are the order of the day. The whole outfit complimented by snow- white trainers. Although, actually taking part in any kind of sport is against everything that he holds dear. All that pounding the pavements in the pouring rain, and getting home soaked stinking of sweat. Collapsing with fatigue and covered in mud. What does it really achieve except make one feel terribly ill! Besides, Kenton doesn’t have to worry about his figure. He’s slim but not muscular. For a man pushing 60 he reckons he looks pretty good with a full head of thick, coarse black hair, courtesy of Grecian 2000 (well who’s to know?) and a heavy moustache on his upper lip as thick as a stork’s nest. Besides, the ladies like a moustache. He thinks it makes him look romantic and macho. You know what I mean, a bit like Charles Bronson! Or Vlad the impaler! Take your pick!
Poor Kenton! He's such a sensitive soul. Living under the cosh of a controlling wife isn't doing him any favours at all. He once confided to the Sloth over a couple of pints of Guinness that when Barbarella's on the warpath he takes to his bed for days, pleading depression. He threatens do a runner one day. That of course, takes a lot of cojones and the Sloth isn't completely confident he could pull it off!'Why don't you stand up to her?' asks the puzzled Sloth. 'It’s not that easy. She's got ways of getting back at me. She'll hide all my booze and fags. I used to talk to this bloke in Birmingham on the internet y'know. He's an electric train freak like me. He came with his wife for a visit last summer. We went to an electric train fayre and we all got on famously. Barbie was charm personified and weSaid that we'd keep in touch by email. Well time went by and I realised I hadn't heard from Billy for a while, in fact there were quite a few cyber friends I hadn't heard from. Barbie said he must be busy. Then the other day Billy appeared on the doorstep. He was on his way back home from a conference in our area so he thought he'd pop over and see us. Very sociable chap is Billy'Kenton Pauses to take a deep draft of his Guinness, taking care to flick the cream off his moustache.'Anyway', he continues, 'Billy wanted to show me a new website on the old computer so we went in to my cubbyhole to check it out. Billy's a bit of a whiz on the computer. Not like me! That's why I call him Billy Whiz!! Geddit!!' He then proceeded to laugh uproariously at is own joke. The Sloth nods encouragingly. 'Anyway, after a bit of fiddling it didn't take old Bill to realise that his address was on the 'block sender' list, along with a few other mates of mine.the list!!The Sloth shakes his head in disbelief and sits staring glumly into the depths of his Guinness 'I don't know how you put up with it. What did she say when you tackled her?'
'Not a lot really. Made some excuse about not wanting people to trouble me and make me anxious'The Sloth gives him an old fashioned look and holds out his hand, 'Gives us your glass mate, it's my round!’
******************************************
I can hear the sound of the front door slamming shut and a clumping of trainers falling onto the floorboards in the hall. The Sloth is back from his morning Jog. Large dark patches stain the back and under arms of his blue T shirt and strands of gingery hair are plastered over his head. Fine droplets of sweat run down his face, pink with exertion. He grins good- humouredly and bends down to kiss the top of my head. I breathe in his scent. Sloth is such a tactile soul! Part of his charm!
'I'm going for a shower' he mumbles into my hair. Then, over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom, 'Did you put the sausages on?'
'Er..... No. I was just going to tell you. It looks like we're going out for lunch with Barbarella and Kenton.'
His face darkens. 'Oh God! Can't you ring her back and say we can't make it?'
'No, it's too late. They're on their way round here. Now go and get in that shower!'
‘But I’ve got plans for this afternoon…I…..’he trails off miserably when he sees my face.
A day out with Barbarella and Kenton is often both eventful and exhausting. This morning, the men sit in the back of Kenton's dusty old Ford, circa 1989, like naughty schoolboys, farting nervously and competing to see who can tell the dirtiest jokes! I sit at the front with the driver who sits on two cushions so that her gold sandals will reach the pedals and so that she can see over the top of the steering wheel. After barking orders sharply to the men in the back seat we set off for the great Welsh seaside adventure.
We arrive at the little seaside town of Mumbles. I always used to wonder why it was called such an odd name and speculated it was because of the sound the waves made as they lapped the shore or the echoes round the bay of the foghorns from the fishing trawlers in the winter. Its name is in fact derived from the French word ‘Mamelles’ which means breasts, well; it had to be didn’t it. It refers to the two islets that rise from the sea and are quite visible from the terrace of our favourite restaurant on the hill. In his lifetime, the famous poet, Dylan Thomas, referred to it with much ironic affection. However, I think this piece of local culture has passed Barbarella by and she is frantic to find a shop that sells her favourite lipstick because she’s left her lippy at home!
The whole town has an aura of the 1950s about it. Low key and still relatively un- spoiled. The beaches are empty and the ice cream seller looks rather forlorn. The children have deserted him and have returned to school. No doubt this will come as a relief to Barbarella. Children are a total anathema to Barbarella. She could never see the point of them let alone understand why women give birth to them. Such a messy and humiliating business. Then there was the sheer drudgery of bringing them up, not to mention the expense.
She has the privilege of being an only child. Spoiled and petted, attention was lavished on her by adoring parents. She has become addicted to it and as an adult continues to crave it. She certainly doesn't want children vying with her for attention. She wants to be the total focus of everyone she meets. Everything must revolve around her. She is after all, unique!
However, all is well with our princess Barbarella at the moment. She's in a good mood as she swings the big unwieldy car round those tight bends. The sun is shining and everything is under control. Her control! She slips a CD into the player and the voice of Elaine Paige fills the car at an earsplitting volume. Barbarella immediately begins a duet, her pitting her thin voice tunelessly against the strong vibrato of Andrew Lloyd Webber's most illustrious musical star. Never mind that Barabarella is tone deaf and is incapable of carrying a tune in her head. The boys applaud timidly from the back seat anxious to keep our very own diva sweet.
We all heave a sigh of relief when the restaurant heaves into view. It’s perched on top of a hill overlooking the sea. The Sunny terraces are facing the glittering ocean and have wonderful views. Our usual seats on the terrace are available so we seat ourselves under the gaily striped parasols. The Sloth clearly has designs on the bar and probably on the little waitress in the revealing top with her bottle blonde hair falling seductively over one eye, gazing quizzically over at our little group. Barbarella is already issuing orders at Kenton who meekly stands to attention.'I need a drink after all that driving! Go and get me fizzy lemonade Kenton, and don't forget the ice and lemon like you usually do’, she snaps. Kenton sighs, shoulders now sloping dejectedly. 'Right away my precious' The Sloth puts a supportive arm round Kenton's now drooping shoulders and gently guides him in the direction of the bar for some much needed alcoholic therapy.
Barbarella and I decide we're definitely feeling peckish and each of us chooses a meal from the menu. In spite of her slender child's frame, Barbarella has the appetite of a Brickie on a building site! She chooses several pasta dishes and a large sticky desert to follow for both herself and Kenton.She leans back in her chair, yawns and stretches luxuriously, sticking out her well padded bosom obviously enhanced with 'chicken fillets'! Kenton, she confides, loves 'breasts’ and she of course is rather deficient in that department. So she enlists the help of one of the latest accessories for the discerning woman and treats herself to some very realistic inserts for her bra!! Now, voila! Instant pneumatic success.
'But you don't have that problem, do you?’ she chirps. I smile enigmatically.
'Mind you, my mother was a big woman like you. She always got so depressed when she couldn't get clothes to fit her'I bare my teeth in what I hope looks like a grin.The men come shuffling over to the table each bearing a wobbling tray, heavily laden with bottles of beer, glasses of Guinness and the soft drinks for the 'ladies'.The men sit down arms akimbo and legs stretched out for any unsuspecting waiters to trip over. I notice that they're are Smirking furtively at each other and divine they're sharing some dirty joke or have been comparing notes about Angelina!!
Barbarella smiles sweetly at the Sloth and keeping her eyes on his face puts her short legs up on the nearby terrace wall and raises her skirts in what she believes to be a seductive manner. She reveals enough cellulite to recoat an orange and varicose veins that stand out like bunches of grapes. The Sloth smiles at her weakly then leans forward in my direction. 'Have you ordered yet?' I ask.
'Well no. I don’t know what you want.'
I'll have the fish''Me too'The Sloth waves the menu vaguely in the air and this is the signal for a tall, gangling boy to come over to our table. He brushes his fair hair out of his eyes and with trembling fingers takes out a little notebook and a stub of pencil.
Yessir! What you like? He blurts.‘We’d like Haddock and chips please’ said the Sloth gently.He scribbles own the order and turns to go. Then suddenly Barbarella takes off her enormous sunglasses and calls over to him.‘I want to change my order. We’ll have the fish too!’The waiter’s youthful brow becomes as furrowed as a ploughed field.‘Yes, Madame’ he murmurs.‘You’re not English are you?’ She drawls‘No Madame, I from Poland’ He stands proudly to attention when he says this.The Sloth looks up and asks him, ‘Where is your town in Poland?’He gives a little bow and says, ‘Krakow sir’‘It’s a beautiful city’, says the Sloth ’Wonderful architecture’‘You can go there sir?’ the boy says excitedly.‘No, but I’ve seen it on TV’‘You spik Polak sir?’‘No, but I speak Russian……’‘I too….’To the waiter’s delight the Sloth then engages in a little Russian conversation. Although the Sloth has extremely long fingernails (the envy of many of our women friends) and hair to match on occasions, he is possessed of a gift for languages. He can converse with ease in Russian, German, French, Spanish and Welsh too, look you!
Barbarella however, is totally unimpressed with the linguistic abilities of the Sloth and sees them as an unnecessary interruption to her lunch. She begins rattling her knife and fork on the table like a couple of swords.‘Are we getting any food today?’ she asks pointedly.‘Very well Madame’ says the waiter and blushing profusely, hurries off to the kitchens.
Barbarella has just reached the punch line of an extremely long winded and confusing joke, when the food arrives. Kenton and the Sloth fall on theirs like a couple of starving wolves. She picks over her food, irritably moving it around with her fork.‘This isn’t what I ordered’ she growls. ‘And it’s stone cold!’ Her eyes sweep around the terrace like a heat seeking missile trying to winkle out the hapless waiter. Her strident voice rents the air as she yells ‘Waiter!’ Some diners glance up from their plates and gaze curiously in our direction.
The waiter comes to the table and bows. ‘There is something wrong Madame?’‘Barbarella wastes no time. ‘This isn’t what I ordered’ she pipes.‘But you ask for the fish Madame’‘Tell me’ she says, ‘How long have you been in this country?’The waiter hangs his head unhappily. ‘Three weeks Madame’‘Three weeks! Don’t they have fish in your country ‘cos this isn’t fish, Oh no! It’s bloody pasta!!! Her voice rises to a high pitched shriek that gets everyone attention. Our table is now the focus of the entire restaurant. Kenton stops, his fork loaded with food halfway to his mouth, clearly struck dumb. The Sloth and I keep our heads down, concentrating on our food as if our lives depended on it. ‘I change Madame, no probs!’ The waiter whisks the plate away and rushes back to the kitchens before Barbarella can say another word. A murmur ripples round the terrace from the other diners who sensing a showdown, no longer see any reason to be discreet and have downed their cutlery. They now sit looking over at our table expectantly. They don’t have long to wait.The waiter returns to the table and with a flourish, places a plate of piping hot food in front of Barbarella. ‘It is good now Madame, yes?’ She bends her head towards the plate and sniffs. ‘This fish is off’‘Off?’‘Yes, Off, O-F-F off!! Smell it for God’s sake’The waiter bends down beside her and tries to sniff the food, he jerks back, somehow bringing the plate with him and depositing the hot food neatly into Barbarella’s lap! She gives out a high pitched shriek as the heat burns through her skirt and scalds her thighs. She leaps to her feet.‘You stupid idiot! Look what you’ve done! This is a designer skirt. It cost me a fortune and now it’s ruined!’‘Oh dear! I so sorry Madame! Plis! I help you!’ the poor, harassed waiter tries to mop her skirt with his cloth. Kenton rushes to her aid with a paper serviette and begins to dab ineffectually at her skirt. The Sloth meanwhile, is making a superhuman effort to remain in control, although I notice that he’s very pink and his shoulders are shaking in silent mirth. I on the other hand try to helpful and throw a glass of mineral water onto the affected part. This at least will cool down the burning sensation. However, Barbarella is incandescent with rage.’ Get the manager. Get me the bloody manager now! I want compensation for this’ she mutters menacingly!The waiter stands by helpless, powerless but philosophical.The commotion has attracted the attention of the owner of the restaurant, a tall figure, who comes rushing to our table all false smiles and useless offers. He listens patiently to her angry explanation. ‘, and I want him sacked. He’s useless! He brought the wrong food, with the wrong sauce and then he tipped it all over my designer skirt!’ she ranted. ‘Why the hell can’t you employ English waiters?’The manager gave her his best and most oleaginous smile. ‘This is an Italian restaurant Madame; most of the waiters are Italian. They speak good English, but we do employ a few Polish waiters. They are so much more respectful and reliable than English waiters.’There is no answer to this. The manager is however, magnanimous and clearly believes the in the old adage, ‘the customer is always right’ ‘Allow me to bring an a la carte menu Madame, and you and your party can choose anything you like with wine. The compliments of the house.’ This seems to pacify Barbarella. This and the sight of the manager taking the poor Polish waiter roughly by the arm for what was obviously going to be a king size bollocking. I expect the poor chap was on the minimum wage too! Life is too cruel sometimes.

It is Better to Travel hopefully..............

Sunday 29th April 2007

Better to Travel Hopefully.....................

Sleeping in an airport is never ideal but Cardiff airport is more comfortable than most. It's small and rather intimate and kept spotlessly clean by enigmatic cleaners who glide up and down obsessively passing their mops back and forth on the already gleaming floors. The last flight of the evening has landed and has disgorged its weary passengers. They stagger down the steps clutching their furry camels and duty free bags, bulging with clinking bottles and cigarette cartons. Once through the formality of customs they scurry out into the darkness blinking like moles in the sodium glare of the streetlights. The blackness swallows them up and they disappear into the anonymous night.

After 11pm silence descends and the airport takes on the feel of a huge, ultra modern cathedral, with its high ceilings and hard, shining floors. Muffled whispers rise upwards from the arrivals hall, and bounce, echoing off the walls of the deserted waiting rooms. The disembodied singing and chattering of the fruit machines interrupts the frequency. Their coloured lights flash invitingly, but there are no takers. In the pub barman wipes the tables, empties the ashtrays and pulls down the security grill. Time to bed down for the night. The Sloth has located an excellent spot in sight of the loos and next to the little cafeteria. We'll be at the front of the queue for coffee in the morning and hopefully for the check in.

We pass a quiet night broken only by tossing and turning on the hard seating and the arrival of a group of bored night workers who begin playing the fruit machines. Perks of the job obviously! At 5am the coffee shop opens and people are stirring on their beds of pain. There's a mass exodus to the loos then we all go down to check in our bags. Sleepy passengers form an orderly queue. We are British after all. Passports are checked and tickets issued with great efficiency. The Sloth smiles his 'little boy lost' smile at the check-in girl and we get two aisle seats together. It's great for my gammy knee which I can stick out into the gangway (there by tripping up the flight attendants) and brilliant for the Sloth's frequent trips to the loo after copious amounts of red wine. Check in completed we surge up the steps to the departure lounge with nothing on our minds but a large mug of frothy Capuccino. At the top of the stairs our path is blocked by a man and woman with fixed smiles frozen on their faces, clutching clipboards. They step forward determinedly and begin to batter us with questions. 'What's your name and address?' 'Post Code? 'How much money do you spend a week?' What a cheek! I brush them aside but the Sloth, ever the 'gentleman', stops to answer the woman's questions. To his great delight she flirts with him shamelessly and he answers all her questions enthusiastically. I try to intervene but he shushes me and I wander over to the coffee shop. Some moments later he appears, rather red faced and puts a completed request for a credit card on the table. Naturally, I fly into a rage. We don't do credit cards and I insist he go back and cancel the thing. He goes back reluctantly and is away some time trying to persuade the woman to cancel the application. Let that be a lesson to him!!!

As the plane touches down in Monastir the passengers look eagerly through the windows for signs of that relentless North African sun beating down on scorching sands. They've come prepared with their high factor sun creams and an assortment of odd -looking hats. But the skies are grey and overcast and there are puddles of water on the runway. A cool wind whips round bare legs reducing the anxious visitors to shivering wrecks! Clutching their flight bags firmly, they board the transfer bus asking each other 'Where's the sun then?' What's happened to the weather?' 'Thought it'd be roasting hot, didn't we mother?' 'Must be that global warming they're always on about!'

For those hapless and exhausted tourists the arrival at Monastir airport can be at best confusing and at worst traumatic! Today it was confusing. The flight staff has omitted to issue the visa cards to be filled in before landing. This means a frantic scramble to grab the cards followed by a furious scribbling. The air is rent by cries of frustration as people discover they haven't got a pen or their pens have dried up or their pencils have broken. Finally, unusually cheerful officials herd them through passport control. 'Oh! You come from Manchester?' asks the Tunisian. His brown face wreathed in smiles 'You know David Beckham yes?' A tall, emaciated girl snatches up her passport. 'Ah'm from Liverpool, me', she says in a sing song voice.

Three planes have landed simultaneously causing gridlock at passport control. A heaving sea of frustrated human beings fills the arrival hall and it becomes warm very quickly. The good -humoured atmosphere begins to disintegrate and voices are raised in protest. The heavily built man in front of me begins to growl. His grey T shirt has dark patches on it. Rivulets of sweat trickle slowly down the tattooed snake on the back of a neck that Mike Tyson wouldn't be ashamed to call his own.

Just when things look as though they're going to take a nasty turn, the sweltering crowd shoot forward in one great peristalsis movement. The harassed officials, dab at their shining faces with moist handkerchiefs, and usher them through the security scanner. Sensitive to our car keys, rings, watches, gold necklaces and gold teeth, the scanner immediately sets up an alarming high pitched whine as we all stumble through its vibrating frame. Feeling a breeze on their faces, the passengers charge through baggage collection and finally fall gratefully into the waiting arms of the Thomas Cook reps. They stand there with cheery smiles, in their pretty blue uniforms and newly peroxided hair, holding up placards with 'Hotel Sofia' or 'Hotel Omar Kayham' They lead their charges away to the transfer buses and pack them on like children on a Sunday outing. Exhausted by their welcome to Tunisia, heads loll back and a gentle snoring fills the coach.

'Anyone for the hotel Phoenicia?'