Perhaps as a result of a Catholic upbringing, I have always feared and loathed Good Friday. When I lived in London, no matter where I was, or who I was with, I always felt that there was more fun to be had elsewhere.
So I am happy to find that in France Good Friday is just another working day. The Man arrives in the morning with croissants but I am stroppy with him as he has not been paying me enough attention lately. I tell him I am just on my way out.
‘Where are you going to Minx?’ he asks.
‘The recycling bins,’ I reply huffily, unable to think of anything more exciting.
Unfortunately, I am wearing a blue and white paisley print smock top (acquired on my recent shopping spree in London) with jeans. It is very Woodstock hippy and very ‘of the moment’ but, unfortunately, on me, it is not a very good look. It is difficult to be taken seriously in such a get-up. The Man calls again after lunch and asks if I would like to go for a bike ride at about 4.30pm. This is devious as he knows that I will never, ever say no to cycling in the French countryside.
Bluebells, daisies and buttercups have all pushed up through the ground in the few days since I last went cycling. The countryside is beautiful in the spring sunshine, even if we are having a raucous argument as we breeze past the suddenly lush green fields.
We stop in a secluded spot overlooking a river and I berate him for only sending one text while I was in London. Then he gets his revenge by asking me to sit among the bluebells - and it transpires stinging nettles - so that he can take a photo. My hands are badly stung but at least he finds me some dock leaves to wrap around them.