One of the pleasures of spending two weeks in Nice, on the French Riviera, in August, is that I get to spend the first week on my own. I can relax, pick and choose where and what to eat and drink without having a debate and without having to wait for an eternity (I can hear someone whispering in the background that a permanent arrangement can easily be made).
On my first night in Nice (18 May) I ambled over to Moris’s Bar on Rue De France and waited for my overpriced beer with two inches of head. Having relieved my thirst I was drawn to a one-sided conversation between a couple in their 50s. The wife, I assume the wife, spent the next 20 minutes updating her husband on a mutual friend’s recent bowel cancer treatment including a gruesome operation. The detail was horrific. At first I thought that maybe she could even be the surgeon, but she looked too dense. There were references to part of the bowel being removed, obviously the bit containing the tumour, then, joining the two ends back together again. The husband continued to nod for 20 minutes whilst simultaneously flicking complimentary nuts into his mouth, before washing down with Perrier. He was beginning to look quite pissed off and decidedly sick, especially when she started to poke his stomach, then stated with little discretion that he should go for tests due to his alternating bowel habits. He continued to nod, dreaming about porn and a different solitary life. This is not what holidays should be about!
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