Speeding away from the scene of the crime, half expecting to be chased by an irate owner, I felt a tiny surge of – well, if not exactly pride, then certainly triumph.
It was an absolutely shameful reaction under the circumstances and one further compounded by the downright lies I subsequently told to cover my tracks.
But the flash of knowledge was undeniable: I had finally unleashed my inner French woman. I was at last at one with most of the nation. Actually, it didn't really feel that good but there was no doubt it was rather exhilarating – in a bad way.
Such revelations were not anticipated when I headed to the garden centre to buy the obligatory geraniums for the window boxes; the lavender to continue its march down the drive; and the begonias for the pots cornering the table.
Summer has at last arrived in a rush. After an extended wet winter, temperatures have been hovering between 25C and 28C. My tired, grey skin of the past few months has quickly returned to the deep brown common to all of us fortunate to spend months outdoors.
I take pictures of my arms, hand reaching for a glass of rosé under a blue sky, and ping them off to friends in Scotland who bravely boast of sweltering in 13C heat. Cruel, I know, and further proof of too much time on my – gorgeously bronzed – hands. My (sun-kissed) shoulders are broad enough to take the returning abuse.
The wisteria is thick and heavy with flowers and the climbing rose, intertwined with honeysuckle, is covered with strong, rich, glossy green leaves.
Las Molieres is looking almost pretty again, its crumbling render hidden behind the artfully drooped and trained foliage; glimpsed through the ready-to-bloom guardian horse chestnuts.
The blue and white striped cushions have been tied to the well-weathered chairs and two sun loungers sit on the decking surrounding the above-ground pool, which will never look pretty but does its cooling job. The parasols are out of storage to keep the fierce heat off those for whom it's too much.
I need the house to look good, because after two summers of incapacity, mine or Portia's, I have visitors arriving week by week, month by month.
The cuckoos and the hoopoes have long returned and apparently so has a nightingale, as was pointed out by a friend who heard its song.
(As far as I'm aware it was my first nightingale and having heard so much about its magical virtuosity, I was rather disappointed. I suppose I was expecting the bird equivalent of Maria Callas in full diva mode.)
Any day now the feckless, sexually promiscuous dove menage-a-trois will start building their ramshackle nests; precarious wombs for the chicks who tumble out long before their time, or are abandoned as the parents frolic on my telephone lines all summer long.
Right, enough of the delaying nature notes. Time to cut to the chase and hope you'll understand and accept what is to follow.
Having filled the back of the car with plants worth €200, my nostrils buzzing with the intoxicating smell of the lavender, I reversed between two lines of cars in the tricky, very small car park.
I am not good at reversing. I find straight-back lines a touch challenging.
That day I had to congratulate myself as I did a perfect reverse, even adding a touch of speed as I positioned myself below the exit.
Flushed with success, I somehow missed the large pick-up truck behind me, so was rather stunned when my merry, professional manoeuvre came to an abrupt, body-shattering, ear-splitting halt.
It's amazing how much information can be processed within seconds: my new – obligatory – insurance document was on the kitchen table, not on the windscreen, which bore an out-of-date stamp. Gendarme time.
The pick-up was an ancient, open steel truck and surely had done more damage to my car than I'd done to it.
The secondary noise I'd heard was the sound of plants overturning and spewing earth out of their pots. Wasn't it?
And, finally, as I rammed the car into forward gear and raced for the exit, surely nobody could have heard or noticed?
All the times my car has been rammed in car parks; all the tell-tale dents on French cars; all the witnessed, unreported smashes ran through my head.
I took off like a bat out of a hell - I unleashed my inner French self and did what the French do.
As I made the main road I looked through my rear-view mirror, convinced of pursuit. Bugger – I no longer had a rear window; that was the sound I heard. Smashed, gone, fresh air wafting over my still upright plants.
Several days later, sitting at my kitchen table with Miriam and Roslyn, I admitted what I'd done and how I'd said I'd found it like that to have it sorted on insurance.
They looked at me quizzically. The message was clear. Duh! What else would you have done? There's an option?
The Brits I told were horrified. You didn't stop? You just drove off?
Oui. Je suis francaise.
cookfidelma@hotmail.com
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