D'accord. J'ai pensé que je peut écrire en francais parce que j'y suis avec ma famille... but it's taken me five minutes to write that in all its mis-spelt, mis-conjugated, 'B'-at-AS-Level glory - plus the keyboard has insufficent accents, I only known how to do é or á... so I reckon I'll stick with good old English.

Yep, France - to quote Alan Partridge, the "home of French people". I can confirm that this is indeed true, as myself, my mum and my pops are shacked up for a night with some old family friends just outside Paris. We're making our way down to some kind of villa down on the south coast, via Versailles tomorrow (where my A-Level history is sure to come flooding back - I remember the decentralisation of French government following some Parisian riots, and lots of mirrors) and Lyon where we have to pick up my sister and, I hope, a fake football top. We're meeting Ben, George and the lil' nephew Zak in the villa. All in all, it's a pretty comprehensive family gathering, and I'm looking forward to it. This four-day drive down through France, however, is being regarded from the back seat with headphones in and sunglasses on as much more of a means to an end...

It's interesting to see my parents in different situations than I am accustomed to. Yesterday we stayed in Folkestone so that we could make our early tunnel thing this morning, at the house of Michael, an old school friend of my pops, and his wife Monica. Is that how I am going to be with my old school friends when I'm 63? Awkward silences galore, I tell you. I just hid behind a newspaper.

Admittedly, pops and Michael's respective conditions are hardly conducive to flowing conversation. I'm sure I must have previously detailed in this blog my dad's MS-like condition which affects his motor skills quite badly, meaning he walks very slowly with the aid of two sticks and the occasional proffered arm, and speaks equally slowly at a low volume. Michael, meanwhile, has grown progressively deaf (this is beside the point, but he has also grown progressively bald, a condition he attempts to rectify with an Elvis impersonator-style toupé (that accent again) - my Dad's gone for the Zidane-eque dignified shaven pate. Respeck). This means that my dad will say something that Michael simply can't hear, and so a few loud "yes yes of course"s are thrown out there to hopefully bridge the gap between entirely unconnected subjects. I think my dad was trying hard not to laugh at some points.

Lynn, meanwhile, was engaging Monica with the usual catch-up spiel - kids, houses, grandkids, jobs, etc - and occasionally looking longingly at the open window, clearly contemplating the friendship-ending spontaneous leap-and-run; through the window were visible trees, hills, life. Of course, my father's condition meant that the leap-and-run was simply not a viable option, so she gritted her teeth and continued - took one for the team. I continued to observe from behind my Observer.

The thing is, Michael and Monica remain very dear friends of my parents - and as Lynn pointed out as we pulled out of the driveway at half past nine this morning, at least it meant we didn't need to get up at 4 in the bloody morning. That's what friends are for, etc... such conversations and stop-overs simply represent the direction many friendships go - Geoff seemed pleased to see Michael, misunderstandings or not. They shared a few spontaneous chuckles which hinted at what once was, and made me think: in 40 years I could see Joel, or Ed, or Adam, or G, or whoever, having seen them once every 3 or 4 years, and it'd be ok. I like that thought a lot. Plus, y'know, in the era of emails and texts and blogs and all the rest of it, it's easier and easier to stay in touch, even if fleetingly... me and Ed text each other maybe once a week and it feels like contact is successfully maintained. Is this a sham? I don't know, and to be honest I don't care - the odd phone call thrown into the mix, and it's definitely a friendship.

Anyway. The friends of the family this side of the channel seem to have a greater knack of the gabble - French stereotype, is it? I don't know - and so today's Chinese buffet was a great time. The husband is a Chinese immigrant and we had a decent conversation about recent Chinese cinema while my dad tried in vain to remember a single Chinese film he'd seen recently.
"I've got one!! That one with the monk on the island... Autumn Winter Spring Summer, or something"
"That's Korean, dad"
"Bollocks. Eat Drink Man Woman?"
"Taiwanese"
It was like John Motson trying to present Jonathan Ross's Asian Invasion.

Ok, I am being usurped from my position at the computer (l'ordinateur) so that my parents might get some sleep and thus not doze off at the wheel tomorrow. Probably won't get on here again until I'm back in England sometime around the 10th. So I sincerely hope that all the lovely weather disappears and I have timed the holiday to perfection. Yes I do, I'm that selfish.