A Kleptomaniac in Kalais. (Rock Werchter pt. 2)

... Despite the promise of Bruges our intrepid subjects (and this narrative) still had to experience the first place all British tourists in France find themselves, Calais. Unless, of course, they go some other way than the ferry from Dover.

Robbie scrambled on the pavement outside a French chemists baking in sunshine. The instructions for an adhesive light alteration left nothing but doubt in his mind while his fingers swayed between positions. Eventually he settled on a location (probably incorrectly) and softly pressed the sticker across a faint line carved into the plastic.
"OW, fuck," a startled Andrew cried from the rear of the car.
A lesson had been learnt. The lesson being that to grasp a recently removed bulb is unwise and can lead to a sharp pain in one's palm.
"It probably heated up in the sun", he stated, stupidly.
During the course of their combined blundering, the third person in the small group scanned the unassuming French landscape for any opportunity to heist, peculate, swindle, plunder, poach and pillage. Drugs from the aforementioned chemists drew her gaze and the bank called out to her with the promise of challenge and great reward. Yet, it was a largely insignificant object that twinkled the most with malice aforethought. A plastic fork adorned the side of a less than enticing salad and she could think of nothing else than to rip it from its moorings and run screaming from the quaint supermarket that would have to pick up the insurmountable pieces of her treachery.

.... minutes later...

"AAAAHHHH", screamed Chloe as she ran from the shop, the fork clutched tight in her criminal hand. "I stole a fork! I feel so alive!"
Robbie and Andrew looked at each other in mutual despair, instantly regretting any and all decisions that lead to Chloe's inclusion on their European jaunt.
"Well, I guess it will come in useful", muttered a sullen Bob, "it will help to spread this cheese, at least".

And so it was that the three of them, and a stolen fork, enjoyed baguettes with cheap ham and garlic-y cheese; sat atop duck shit and gaulish grass. Discarding ribbons of fat into streams and discussing something or other they realised they were only a quick walk away from driving towards Bruges and the disorientation and movie references that would follow....

Coming up next, In Bruges (for real).

An Introduction to Domestic Departure (or Part 1 of Rock Werchter)

Hello.

Before I begin, I feel like I should apologise. I realise that, present within you, there is the possibility for the festering of two emotions. One of those is relief. Relief because, after months of waiting, you finally get to see the product of my nonsensical keyboard bashing. Therefore I am sorry that I kept you waiting so long. Of course, it might be more likely that right now you are curled up on the floor, wailing in despair at my sudden reappearance in the masses of blogs of little note being produced each day. To you, I rescind my apology. If it is so bad then just stop reading you cretin. Bizarre introduction over, here is what happened on my awkwardly awesome holiday....

A speedy getaway from Chepstow with little time to spare left us gasping for breath in the shadow of the ferry about to consume the three helpless figures smoking in front of it. The recently retired driver, Andrew Steel, pranced about amongst other potential tourists enjoying the feel of stretched legs and attempted to divert his guilty cigarette from influencing the lungs of tiny pre-adulted beings. A short, skinny, bearded child climbed out of the vehicle minutes afterwards. Hang on one second, that is no child! It is Andrew's good friend and confidant, Robert Lynn Harries Jones, the sarcastic backbone of the trip begged his significantly larger pal for a similar instrument of fiery, poisonous relief. Within the minuscule  purple automobile that would serve them so well in the week and a bit to come sat the blonde spectre of one Chloe Boulton. The very near future would see her spurt many a word of wisdom while she struggled with the unassuming and horrendous demands of the festival-goer who decides to over do it.

Then they got on the ferry....

Next time: In Bruges.