Where Martin is torn between Switzerland and France

Martin is in Switzerland. Or, perhaps, in France. I (Wendy) am cozily ensconced in a corner of the sofa in our sitting room in Eastbourne, overlooking the marina, watching the boats entering and leaving the harbour, having just had what could quite arguably be one of the most ridiculously bizarre phone calls ever.

It went like this:

Hello? (That was Martin)

Yep? (That was me)

I was just wondering....should I have a beer in Switzerland, or in France?

I could hear he was walking - and he gave a running commentary of his whereabouts as well.

Now I'm passing the Swiss side of the bar....now I'm passing under the arch...aha...now I am in France...

....Perhaps I should have something to eat before I fly? Let's see...what's a poo-lay foomay croo-dee-tay? Smoked chicken and veggies?

Yes.

It looks a bit manky. (He sounded rather dubious)

Like chopped vomit, huh! (I know only too well those awful French attempts at sandwiches - nothing like M&S).

Maybe I should have "zshaamboh and emaantul"?

And so on...

The thing that strikes me as impossibly weird is that Basle airport was, for about 4 years, MY stamping ground. I spent hours and hours there, waiting for flights, en route to the UK to see friends and boyfriends, including Martin.

And now, there he is himself, waiting to board a flight back home after safely delivering MY children back to their father.

How crazy that he then popped into Auchan, MY old supermarket, the one he first read about on my blog, more than 18 months ago...and wandered the aisles on his own, as I sat here in England and chatted to him on the phone as he shopped.

And soon it will be I who drives to Gatwick to pick him up. Not the other way round.

How peculiar is life!

And how naughty to hijack a blog in the owner's absence.