... 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).
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).
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