3 girls, 1 cup (that brimmeth over)

Oh yes, my cup doth indeed brimmeth over.  Forsooth and hey nonny nonny.  It brimmeth over with encounters with fair maidens of this parish.

Why the Shakespearean tongue, I doth heareth you cry.  No reason, just that I'm trying to be whimsical.  OK, you can all stop moaning and read.

The last 24 hours have led to an encounter with three 'lovely' 'ladies' of a certain age.  By which I mean that I'd peg them all between 50 and 60.  Give or take.

Now, I know some real head-turners that do this category of lady a huge favour by remaining as young, as beautiful and as vixen-like as ever.  These three ladies were not cut from the same mould and would appear to be spending their lives on different planets to the rest of us.

First encounter was yesterday afternoon.  I was walking, laundry in hand, to my local blanchisserie - where the lady does remarkable things with my big laundry (bedding, etc, being too much of a ball ache to try and dry in my mignon apartment).  My hands were full.  Literally.

I approached the laundry and a friendly older lady smiled at me.  Being well brought up and respectful of my elders, I said a friendly 'bonjour Madame' to her.

She gave me a rather lascivious smile and asked if I wanted to 'have some fun'.  Now, if ever there was a hooker who didn't know her target market, this was her.  God bless her.  I smiled sweetly and minced off, sheets in hand.

Then today, I ended up in Valenciennes of all places.  Shit, this place was horrible.  We searched in vain for a decent place to eat (that didn't sell kebabs or pizza slices) and ended up in what appeared to be a cute little brasserie.

In fact it turned out to be the local equivalent of the Darby and Joan club, with elderly people sucking away on boiled vegetables.  

The waitress came over.  She was a jaunty little number, no taller than five feet and wearing a black mini-dress - which flattered her plump little legs - and a pair of high top reeboks straight from Flashdance.  She was at least 60 years old.

I asked her for the menu.  

"I am the menu" she said.  I panicked.  Was I going to have to choose which part of her I wanted served up?  None thanks, she looked a bit tough.  Chewy, even.

But before I could get too het up, she started to list the dishes.

"Blanquette de veau.  Escalope milanaise.  Salade composée.  Bavette à l'échalote...."

Fifteen dishes later she'd finished.  My Escalope milanaise was served pronto - in as much time as it took to take it from the freezer and plunge it into hot fat.  Gorgeous, it wasn't.  Cheap, it was.

Our host repeated the exercise for desserts but stumbled on the tarte selection.  After a few seconds of cogitation, she ended up by saying "..ah oui, il y a aussi quelques tartes..." - oh yeah, there are some tarts too.  Classy, like.

Having luncheoned and then spent the afternoon interviewing in a local hotel, it was time to head back to the bright lights and sanity of Paris.

On the TGV, Debbie and me ended up sat in a group of four seats with another special lady and her cat.  The cat was in a box, but this didn't save me from having a lovely allergic reaction.  However, no matter how much sneezing I did, this girl was not waking up.  The cat owner had fallen asleep upon sitting down, and was happily snoring.

I say snoring - it actually sounded like the farmer was driving cattle home down a long and echoe-y tunnel.  Lord.  

As we started to enter the Paris suburbs, she stirred.  She rolled to one side, pointed her ass clearly at Debbie and farted.

Yep, she let rip.

Good old girl pushed one out all over my dearest Debbie.  And boy did we know about it.

The smell disturbed the cat, who started meow-ing like there was a horny tom in the area looking to steal her cat cherry.  The commotion woke up the woman, who turned to Debbie, smiled sweetly, and said "my cat doesn't like you".

"I think you'll find," said Debbie, "that it was your breaking wind that woke her up".

The old girl looked startled.

Jeez, Debbie is good value.  I'm so glad I gave her a pay rise last week.