F’s mum (G) says that she is not a good cook. She says this, as she draws from the oven a large clear dish, shallow and oval and filled to the brim with potatoes, courgettes, tomatoes and artichoke hearts, each item whole and stuffed with a mixture of forcemeat, herbs de Provence, egg, fresh basil and breadcrumbs. She cooks old fashioned things, she says, things her mother cooked, traditional things, quick things to make, not complicated. She cannot, she says as she sets the dish on the tiled kitchen table, think of what to make. She has, she says, as she tips fresh bread into a wicker basket, unwraps the cheeses on their blue glass plate, sets down two bottles of misty chilled water, unfurls napkins and moves the salt, lost the envy to cook.

We’ve been here nineteen days now. Take off seven days for the time we spent at N’s, discount breakfast and snacks. Count two meals a day, three courses each meal without cheese or dessert. That’s twelve times two times three, some seventy-two meals if my arithmetic is right, and not once have we eaten the same thing twice.

Soft haricot verts clad in mustard sauce. Palm hearts pale and sweet. Eggs mimosa, their hollowed whites filled with crumbed yolk and home made mayonnaise. Steak hache; icy pink inside, with soft poached eggs. Courgette gratin (the smallest are the best says G), buried under crispy cheese which pulls in strands when the knife goes in. Pan fried salmon; coral pink, unmussed by seasoning or oil. Aioli with each measured drop, painstaking ground with garlic and with salt. Spaghetti sauce, with olives (green) and chunks of veal, rosemary flecked, or a bolognaise of ground up beef, all lush with herbs and sweet tomato sauce. Goat’s cheese, warmed, over summer leaves. Rough chopped tomatoes mixed with equal parts of mozzarella, sun and basil leaves, drenched in oil and left to soak Broccoli pureed with more crème fraiche. Asparagus spears, white and fine as grass, with vinaigrette. Tabboleh mixed with melon, anchovies and ham. Egg custards baked with caramelised apples and fresh figs, marron glaces, chocolate coffee creams … the list goes on.

F’s favourite; which I have absolutely no idea at all how to spell, is a particularly finicky thing to put together. Thin steaks of veal are laid out flat, a thick slice of ham is placed on the top of each one and then a mozzarella placed on top of that. It’s then rolled up, sewn together so that it doesn’t fall apart and baked in a thick tomato sauce with gruyere cheese liberally grated over the top. For me; my stay would not be the same without this piled up dish of Farcie, the making of which G has kept a deadly secret, the kitchen door shut tight for the hour it takes to prepare.

Toulon has changed and yet remains the same. One thing I love about this town is its resolute refusal to become candy cote d’azured into a pale copy of Cannes or Nice. Despite the hanging baskets perilously strung between the lurching streets, the jasmine perfume poured into the narrow tunnels of Napoleons wall, or cloud white yachts tethered by thick ropes of cash, it remains a place where people live, not a town where people stay. Destroyers berth like exploded airfix kits in the walled off port, or hover on the horizon ice grey against the hot blue sky, their scale reduced to something we can understand.

The air raid sirens sing in the first Wednesday of every month, falling on the Arab quarters shuttered shops. From the balcony where I stand, burning my tongue on star anise, I can see the seven skyscrapers which hide the sea, the twinkling lights of speeding cars disappear into tunnels whisking traffic through the town. I’ve been through once. They are too long to play the game of hold your breath until you reappear, you dive and dive and bend and then, just at that point when you know you will never reascend, you see the light. Sun sleepy in the orange glare, I did not need my dreams disturbed by this mirrored concrete metaphor.

The port of the Mourillon still holds its faded boats of blue and grey, bobbing against the gentle waves just as they did in Dantes day. Though faded fifties flats crowd the narrow space between sea and land, a standing testament to the paper bags of bribes which caused their build, this place would not be strange to him today. Inside the port; weathered men throw silver boules across the yard, swap shouted spells to cause the fish to catch, leave the scattered runes of engines trailed across the ground, tell stories each one taller than the last, or sit in faded cafes with Tarot cards clutched tight beside their glass of little yellow.

* A little yellow= un petit jaune = 1 Pernod.

In the south of France…busy swimming and sunning and sleeping and eating (because everything here revolves around food) and thinking. Will write more later if I can bear to drag myself away from the beach, the bed and the dinner table.

it’s just to say I’m done. Yes. DONE. Finished.

Finally.

I never thought it would take this long.

Three weeks I reckoned. Three weeks.

It was all supposed to be so simple…and none of it was.

But now I’m done.

So I’m back.

Hello…

The Arrival

The airport hasn’t been built yet. There’s a spindled sleepiness to its shape, the plane parked haphazard between half-filled bags of concrete, grey insides welded together. Shovels spill like spears from leviathan masses - as if Captain Abe said oh sod it boys, give it your best shot and let’s get back onshore - looming in the bright orange light. I like it. Like the fact it is not built, I’m used to that, grew up amongst cement bags and plaster dust, it gives the place a homey feel, an unreal feel, as if I am slipping back into my past, as if we are the first to tread on some far off planet with unfriendly air. Breathe out, breathe in, feel the water touch my tongue. Noses are no good here. All the while we swim through the steam. It falls; drip drip dripping through my clothes, slithers between shoulder blades, trails in a squirming trickle to mid thigh, wraps round an ankle with snakish shudder. We clamber over piles of brick and bags of tumbled citrine stones, stumble across uneven ground, follow the cardboard arrows to the arrivals lounge, blink ourselves sober in the fluorescent light.

Uneven concrete floor with coir mats designates where we’re meant to stand, cathedral height white walls, steel beams supporting the whole. A tiny white clock some twenty foot above us points to dreamtime. On the other side of a narrow black tape I can see bags being pulled off the conveyor by white clad porters who fling them into a jumbled heap. No black suitcase with a splash of purple paint on the side yet though…

…we’ve been in the queue at customs for nearly an hour now. It’s not a long queue. Only our plane to see to but there’s only one desk open and a lot of forms to check. Luckily the door to the ladies is nearby; I’ve drunk nearly a litre of water between getting off the plane and now. God I’d sell my soul for a cigarette. F seems quite happy chewing the nicotine gum I’d packed for the flight but that stuff’s not for me, I tried it 50 minutes out of Gatwick, it tasted like I’d poured boiling water on a packet of Marlboro and then sucked the juice out of the stubs. Since then, whenever it’s got too bad I’ve slugged back some whiskey and held it in my mouth till it burnt the want away but now I crave real smoke.

On either side of us, people are complaining loudly about how long it takes “them” to process a passport. I wish they’d shut their gobs. “Them are probably as tired as we are, it’s late at night or early in the morning, either way we should all be asleep. I’d like to see “us” do the same sodding job in an unfamiliar tongue.

The place is swarming with soldiers. Two were waiting at the foot of the stairs when we got off the plane, two at the door to the arrival lounge, two by the baggage pick-up, more grouped around the exit sign at the faraway end of the hall. They’ve all got guns. Big guns. Really big guns. The ones at the exit are carrying what look like machine guns. It’s making me feel guilty and I haven’t even done anything yet. Although strictly speaking, my passport isn’t really in my name. Well it is, but it’s my birth certificate name and the rest of my ID (bank cards) is in my everyday name. What if they ask me for more ID to process the embarkation card? F wouldn’t be much help. In order to prove that I really am who I say I am and not a terrorist then he’d have to provide ID and not only does he hold a French passport (which doesn’t count) but his passport’s in a different name from his real name too. Maybe we should just become terrorists – I’ve heard that getting the false passport is the trickiest bit and as a career choice it would definitely be taken more seriously than admitting that I’m a graphic designer.

Buggerit mum was right. She told me to sort this out and I didn’t. I was going to when passport ran out next August, but truth to tell, I like my birth certificate name more than I like my real name. It flows better with my forenames and even though I don’t sign it often my signature is better when I use it. Of course I can’t change everything back to my birth certificate name because then I’ll have a different name to mum, dad and herebe and I wouldn’t want that; but vanity aside, I like having this link to my past – like having the same name as Grandpa T, it’s an acknowledgement of his existence. Anglicising it makes him less then he was. Names, proper names, are important. They have power. They strip us down. Bare us to the bone (and the scorn) make us who we are, who we’ve been, what we will become. But right now, with a distinctly un-English name on my passport, in an airport on a Foreign Office high alert – I’m scared. Midnight Express is running through my brain, in shades of blue and grey. “Call the British Consul” on the tip of my tongue (though fat lot of good they do, I’ve read their site. One visit a month and that’s about it). I can see the phrase fly over my shoulder towards F’s disbelieving face as I’m carted off between these beige clad officials with their shiny brass buttons and scarily big guns, anticipate the terror, feel the white gloves on my skin.

We’re almost at the front of the queue. They stop you, at a yellow line and gesture you forward one at a time to stand in the narrow passage formed by two white concrete desks. You can’t see the people behind them, the counters are so high. There are soldiers here too. Two at each side. Watching closely as the passports are stamped, gun barrels peering out over their shoulders.

Though no-one else has done so, even those I knew were travelling together, when the time comes, I’m walking up with F. I grab his hand and squeeze it tight. I’m tired that’s all. We’ve been travelling now for 24 hours straight. The fact that dad was thrown into a cell at gunpoint when he worked in Bombay has nothing whatsoever to do with it. They told him that life here was worth 400 rupees. I wish we’d cashed those travellers’ cheques.

They checked F’s passport first, barely glanced at it before they hand it back. I guess they like the French more than the English and from the way the rest of the queue has behaved I can’t say I blame them. I’ll be searching for a new nationality when I get back.

Then it was my turn. There are 2 men sitting below the counter. I say below because they sit so low that you can only see the top of their heads. One of them was quite young, the other an old man in vivid white. They peered at me and then at my picture, keyed in some details in the machine, read slowly through the embarkation card, looked at me again, flicked slowly through the pages of my passport- and then they stamped.

I couldn’t help it, as soon as the stamp went down; I laugh out loud “I’ve had my passport stamped!” In viridian ink. Bright green ink with swirls and whirls and dates and the scrolls of a strange alphabet. I don’t want a new passport now. Ten years come August I’ve had this one and this is my first stamp. Bugger the EU and their open borders that take all the fun out of travel.

My smile has hit each ear and threatens to meet round the back of my head. “Thank you” I say as they hand the passport back. They both look up, surprised. “You’re welcome” said the old man with a smile.

Another hour spent waiting at baggage reclaim. This is not a busy airport but I suspect, from the wait between one load of luggage and the next, that there is only one trolley to carry the bags from the plane. Whatever the reason, there aren’t many of us left standing here. The cabin crew long since wandered off with a sardonic “good luck”, the bastards. Finally there it is. The very last bag to come through that tattered curtain. Our old black case, with the purple paint splash from when we used it as a ladder to paint the bedroom for mum’s visit all those years ago.

“Cigarette” says F and drags me off towards the exit…

I know. This is the second post about India and we aren’t out of the airport yet. It won’t all be in quite so much detail. But the first few days were so strange, so much of a culture shock that I did write quite a bit about it. Think yourselves lucky - you’re getting the abridged version.

Sorry. Past eleven days have absolutely flown past. Just to get you up to speed.

23rd of January - Typed up a bit of stuff written in India.

24th of January – Out of bed around 8ish. Sat in front of computer at 9ish and began sorting out images for portfolio for website. Day somehow vanishes.

25th of January - Out of bed around 8ish. Sat in front of computer and continued working on portfolio.

26th of January – Mums birthday. Realised that I didn’t really need to take 3 skirts, 2 pairs of jeans, 3 jumpers, 4 t-shirts 2 cardigans 3 pairs of shoes and assorted underwear as I was; A. only going to be there for the weekend and B. Was going to have to carry my own bag since F not going. Whittled contents down to 2 skirts, 1 pair of jeans, 2 t-shirts, 2 cardigans and 2 pairs of shoes (obviously kept all the assorted underwear)

Sat for too long reading at kitchen table meaning I had to run for bus and then sprint along Princes Street. Well not really sprint, I don’t do running on account of the fact that practically every other member of my bloody family does. But I did walk really fast (for Edinburgh – it would have had people tutting at my meandering gait should I have walked at that speed on Oxford Street) Got to Waverley Station with 10 minutes to spare. Bloody Fast Ticket machine broke down and threatened to eat my card but backed down and spat it back out after I cursed and kicked it (much to the merriment of a bunch of Italian tourists standing nearby) Joined queue at ticket desk.

Made it to platform 2 and got on train with three minutes to spare. Left bags on seat; stood on train step and had 3 drags on a cigarette before being told by guard that smoking was now utterly forbidden in any platform of a Scottish Station even if said platform was outdoors. Realised it was the first time I’d been anywhere in this town since the smoking ban came in force – last year. On the bright side, this was the one occasion is where being able to say “I’m really terribly sorry” in an English accent came in useful in Scotland – as he let me off the 30 quid fine.

Sat on train for an hour and three quarters. Drank tea.

Pitched up in Newcastle. Went to catch bus. Bus fare has gone up £1.15 since the last time I got a bus from town to mums (ten years). Only had £1.85 in purse, driver let me off the last ten pence as they don’t take bank cards. Got to the Gill. Got off bus, went to Tesco’s to get stuff for mums birthday cake (800gms ground almonds, 800gms of Green and Blacks plain chocolate, 8 eggs, butter = bloody expensive birthday cake). Called in at florists to arrange flowers for mums birthday (tulips, lots of), sweet talked them into delivering them as I had to walk up to J and M’s to pick up key to mums (I’ve never had a key for home since she took it off me for being late for my 21st birthday party). Forgot that the walk up from Gill to J and M’s is a nightmare to speed walk especially when wearing high-heeled boots and carrying 3 bags of shopping, a handbag and an overnight bag. Made it to J and M’s eventually. Had cup of tea. Picked up key. J gave me a lift up rest of bank. Got home.

Stove not on. Lit stove. Shoved bag up in my room, took off coat and boots, left them on my staircase (round the corner so it looks like I’d put them away). Started making mums birthday cake. Learnt that attempting to melt 800grams of dark chocolate = chocolate everywhere but especially all over the brand new white not painted only primed wood units. Mum walks in while I’m juggling beating eggs and sugar to white froth, stopping chocolate in pan from burning, mopping up escaping chocolate and keeping bloody stove supplied with coke. Make mum a cup of coffee and give her a hug (in that order – you need to give mum ten minutes unwind time when she gets in from work). She asks what’s going on with chocolate melting as there seems to be rather a lot of it. I tell her that’s what the recipe says. She looks at recipe and points out that I’ve misread my own handwriting and its not 800grams of chocolate/almonds but 8oz which is considerably less and makes more sense as the butter/eggs proportion is that of a sponge cake. Flowers finally arrive. Wish mum a happy birthday.

Cake finally gets made. Pick up Auntie V (my godmother/Jboys mum) and drive to Chinese take-away in Burnopfield. Get take-away, eat take-away, A.V gets cab home at 11pm. Split another bottle of wine with mum and settle down to a good talk. Crawl to bed around 2ish

Saturday 27th of January. Mum and I supposed to be going to town to look at clothes. I really need some shoes (no, I really do –something I can wear with long skirts, I’m thinking Edwardian’ish either laces or button fastening with Louis quinze heels, possibly in either aubergine or brown leather/calfskin) and there are no decent shoe shops in Edinburgh, mum needs some new tops. We don’t quite get round to getting there – by the time we’ve decided what to wear (going to Newcastle is very much a dressing up occasion) and then realised we have to pick up Grandma at 4 we decide to go tomorrow instead.

Spend most of day sitting at kitchen table reading. Read the Devil Wears Prada – don’t bother, some book by the woman who wrote Fried Green Tomatoes - quite good, and the Poisonwood Bible – very very good). Can’t remember what mum read, but she said it wasn’t very good. Go to Grandma S’s at 4pm to pick her up for church. We all decide not to go to church, GS tired, mum getting a stinking cold, churches make me cry. Buy fish and chips instead. Give GS some birthday cake (which turned out beautifully in the end), and a glass of herebes whisky. Take her home around 7ish. Have some more whisky at Grandmas (special reserve stuff) and a glass of her homemade raspberry gin (because it’s good for me). Call in at Auntie V’s as P supposed to be there. No P. But have coffee at V’s. Get home.

Sunday 28th January. Mum’s cold much worse so no Newcastle. Make Sunday dinner. Spend rest of day at kitchen table reading while mum does work for school. Auntie R turns up with 2 jars of homemade marmalade and a jar of Norfolk chutney for me. No idea why she’s trying to bribe me with homemade preserves but I’m not complaining. Not to be outdone, mum adds 3 jars of plum jam and 2 jars of mango chutney (also homemade). J arrives with A and R – the gorgeous goddaughters. J appropriates a jar each of my jam and mango chutney and, by the time A and R have gone through my make-up bag I’ve also lost 2 lipsticks, a green glittery eye shadow and the hearing in my right ear. Have somehow also been talked into cat sitting Geli (mums psycho kitten) when she goes to visit herebe at half-term. Hand will have recovered by then I suppose.

Monday 29th of January. Get up with mum at 6.30am. See her off to work, do dishes, feed cat. Pack bag. Sit at kitchen table reading until 9am when it’s time to get bus into Newcastle. Faint on bus (no not sure why – but it was very hot and crowded). Wobble into station and realise I have an hour and a half to spare before train arrives so buy large white coffee (not latte – I don’t believe in them) and sit and smoke and smoke and smoke and smoke (because I can). Get on train.

Arrive in Edinburgh. F picks me up at station, get back home. Have coffee. Go to sleep.

Tuesday 30th January – Woke up at 7.30. Put washing in machine, do dishes, Hoover. Sit down in front of computer and continue work on bloody portfolio. Thoroughly sick of it all by now.

Wednesday 31st January – Wake up at 10am…go on guess what I did for the rest of the day.

Thursday 1st February – Slept in. Woke up at 8am but really couldn’t face bloody Unilever document. Who’s bright idea was it to create a front cover which features a kitchen, all cupboard/fridge doors open and every single product they manufacture on the shelves. Oh yes…I remember mine. Genius. That’s what I am. Bloody genius.

Friday 2nd February - Spent entire day sitting in front of computer attempting to learn how to use indesign. Managed to complete (finally) bloody Unilever cover.

Saturday 3rd February - ? Woke up. Grabbed mug of coffee. Sat in front of computer at 10am. It’s now 19.16. And the day has gone, where? Am now going to off licence to buy some red wine. Should really have something to eat too I suppose.

Promise I’ll type up the next bit of India stuff tomorrow.