Our return to the UK started with a delayed and fractious Easyjet flight - the food and drinks trolleys were so slow that the last few seats - yep including ours - were served just a couple of minutes before everyone was ordered to lift tables for landing.
But then there was the delight of An American in Paris, the best West End show I have seen in years. I could have done without the gigantic head in front of me (Russian, I decided) that made the first half a bit of an ordeal as he bobbed and I bobbed (while feeling guilty about what that meant for the people behind me).
Fortunately, the joys of the production were lost on him. He and his party scarpered at the interval. Oh, and the Dominion theatre needs to sort out its binoculars. I inserted a pound. Nothing. Then I noticed a curled-up sticker saying "do not use new £1 coins' and, having no idea whether that was the problem, slotted an old one into the next binocular holder. Still nothing and the well-meaning but harassed usherette did not keep her promise to return to my seat with a pair.
Then came a sad awakening to the problems facing small London businesses. Northfield Avenue in Ealing, already awash with takeaways and restaurants to replace the interesting shops that once traded, has lost Richardson's, a superb family butcher, after 60 years. You paid a premium for shopping there but took home meat of the highest quality, as witnessed by the long queues every Christmas Eve - they'd serve mulled wine while you waited - and what seemed a brisk daily turnover.
A notice in the window said closure was due to retirement. But good, knowledgeable staff worked there and they are now, presumably, out of work. "It's telling that no one took over the business," said another local shopkeeper, bemoaning the latest closure, a florist who could not meet the council's ripoff demand for £1,500 a year to place some flowers on the pavement in front off her shop.
The English weather was mostly kind to us. So there was time for a picnic in the garden with Maya, our lovely granddaughter, and her French schoolfriend Mila (we then went bowling and Papy - Monsieur Salut - naturally won), a trip to the magnificent New Forest followed by a couple of hours in Poole and, it being close season, no Sunderland football to spoil everything.
We could not avoid the election, however. France still hasn't done with its voting as Macron's victory is to be followed this month by the legislative elections. But the British general election is a horrendous spectacle.
Do I use my postal vote according to tribal instinct and vote for a Labour party headed by a man I see as decent, backbench material but no leader? Do I opt for the Lib Dems since only they seriously oppose the wretchedness of Brexit, while also seeming useless on most other fronts? Or do I abstain (voting Tory is something I just don't do)?
Stephen Glover was whinging in the Daily Mail during our return about the occasional Nazi slur attached to those who support withdrawal from the EU. He is right, of course. Not everyone who voted Brexit has neo-Nazi sympathies (very few, I suspect). Nor are all Leave supporters racist, utterly stupid or selfish. And I can see why the Mail, given its 1930s experiences, would be sensitive to such an insult.
But is it not the case, cliched as this question may be, that everyone who hates foreigners, especially those with dark or olive skins, harbours far right thoughts and is prepared to swallow such lies as "vote Leave and we'll see £350m a week back in the NHS's coffers" supports the decision to leave the union?
There is no obvious sign that my postal vote application will actually work. That is probably as it should be. I suspect I could vote honestly only for Corbyn. But I blame him so massively for Brexit - his support for Remain was at best tepid, indicating his own dislike of the EU - that abstention may be the best answer.
Back to France, with some relief, tomorrow. But see my update in Comments below re the election.
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