I have found strange sausages in my fridge. They are white, and waggle like nuns' fingers . . .
A girlfriend of mine is having an affair with a married man and they're so worried about being spotted together in London that they come to the country for their trysts. They're in such a hurry for their illicit jiggy-jiggy by the time they get here that they barely say "hello". They shoot straight up the stairs (as it were) and I put Radio 3 on to drown out the sound of the antique headboard banging against the wall. They stagger down when they're ready, hair tousled and legs quivering. They don't have time for tea because he has to get back to his suspicious wife. I didn't like to tell him his T-shirt was on inside out. Well, I hardly know the man.
I've had a gay couple visiting from Paris. They arrived in a flurry of cashmere berets and chic luggage and disappeared into their room every couple of hours to make l'amour. They brought me some Mont d'Or cheese, which was so strong that my kitchen smelled like the laundry basket of the Lowestoft rugby team. "Cut the crust off and don't be put off by the musty smell. It's delicious!" said Maurice. Yes, well, he's not the first Frenchman to make that claim. I'll say no more.
I was anxious to show them the beautiful Kent coastline, but it was grey, wet and windy - the kind of English winter weather that makes even Kew Gardens look like a disused adventure playground on the wrong side of Aberdeen. Nevertheless we briskly trudged the length of Dymchurch beach. "Beautiful, isn't it?" I enthused. What with the wind and the waves and their expensive scarves wrapped around their frozen bouches, I didn't catch their reply, but it sounded suspiciously like French for "You must be 'avin' a laugh, mate".
The trek back to the car proved too much for André. His knees buckled and he confessed to a blood sugar condition that left him weak and near to collapse unless he had some carbohydrate within minutes. "I usually carry a piece of bread in my pocket, but I didn't realise we were going so far!" he said accusingly. Maurice cradled him in his arms and stroked his clammy cheek while I did a mince-trot to the nearest newsagent's. When I returned (quite clammy myself) I forced a fig roll between André's trembling lips and he recovered from his near-coma with suspicious speed.
The next day, we attempted a more leisurely stroll through some picturesque woods. "Look, a woodpecker!" I whispered, just as Maurice slipped in the mud and landed on his pert rump. "Are you OK?" I asked. "Non!" he said crossly.
On their final day, they opted to stay at home busying themselves in the kitchen, while I took the dog for a lovely but uneventful walk across the Romney Marshes. When I returned they were doing something unusual in a wok. "We always sauté our carrots in marmalade," they told me, as if anyone who didn't was a caveman. They weren't to know, but they had used a jar of my mother's home-made marmalade. I am allocated only one precious jar a year, and this I eke out like a junkie with his methadone, spreading it on my toast as thinly as lip gloss.
After they'd left and I'd put their sheets on a boil wash, I found strange sausages in my fridge. They are white, and seem to waggle at me like nuns' fingers whenever I open the fridge door. I think they're made with milk, or something unsausage-like. They're called Boudin Blanc, rather imaginatively, and I have been left instructions to "tremble" them for 20 minutes. This means not quite boiling. The water must just pucker at you, never breaking into a spit, or all is lost with the albino bangers.
The French are always making us feel inadequate. We British are no good at fashion and hopeless at romance, and now we can't even boil water. I thought we were good at drinking, but as Maurice and André got through six bottles of red wine and a litre of gin before dinner, I was obviously wrong.
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