A Typical OGGY day

Since our arrival here over 5 weeks ago the old gits haven’t taken that many days off skiing and the tendons, ligaments and muscles are now creaking with the strain. (I am not expecting any sympathy!). We have also been blessed with some fabulous weather and stunning views.
We had decided to take a rest day but then our friend, who owns a chalet nearby, asked if we would like to join her in exploring a new ski area a few miles away. In usual OGGY style we had collected her in a matter of minutes and headed for the Grande Terche, St-Jean d’Aulps. It was a little disappointing with a long and very uncomfortable button lift and quite stony pistes. Our friend would normally have sought out a good restaurant but she hadn’t reckoned with the budget obsessed Old Gits… we ended up perched on a deck chair munching very cold and squashed sandwiches. Lunch was over in a blink of an eye and we hit the slopes again before finally retiring to a welcoming bar at the bottom of the mountain for a chocolat chaud. It shows how used you become to the costs out here when FOG (Female Old Git) comments on how reasonably priced the hot chocolate was... €4.50 for a small cup!
A benevolent mood hit MOG and I volunteered to take our friend to the garage to collect her car, also to undertake the food shopping and wash my own vehicle; it was so caked in salt the paintwork hadn’t been visible in weeks. Collecting our friend we found the garage on the side of the busiest road in the area, naturally, there wasn’t anywhere to pull in or park: that would have meant a sense of customer service. I finally managed to edge into a large doorway and my passenger hurried off to see if her car was ready. The large doors were suddenly flung open and I was faced with four Frenchmen pushing a car towards me. Reversing rapidly back into the main road, all hell broke loose. The road was now completely blocked with my car and our four Frenchmen with their unmanned vehicle careering down the road. The traffic was virtually backing all the way to Paris by this time and I did manage to edge over a little, accompanied by a multitude of horns; I could just about understand what the other drivers thought of me. Well, they do say the best way to learn a language is to live in the country. Her car, of course, wasn’t ready so we returned to the chalet and turning into her road (it was now dark) was greeted by the sight of an old Renault hurtling towards me with no lights on. A rapid acceleration meant I just avoided the oncoming car, only to collide with another coming up from the side road, also with no lights on: it must be a French way of saving energy. My friend, whose French is infinitely better than mine, jumped out and took the hapless driver to task. We agreed on knock for knock and he limped into the road, still with no lights, his rear bumper dragging along behind him. My German tank had only had a few layers of salt scrapped off. I dropped off my ashen faced friend, who I suspect headed straight to the drinks cabinet…
I returned to the supermarket and now, adept at shopping, had scooted round in no time at all and stood in the ever present check out queue. Suddenly I realised, as I started to empty the goods onto the conveyor belt, I must have inadvertently swapped trolleys half way round. Reversing out of the queue I caused yet more chaos and spied a very angry looking lady in the distance checking every trolley that passed her. Keeping well out of her way I discovered my trolley and, hauling both of them into a quiet alleyway, exchanged the goods just in time as the irate woman rounded the corner. I ambled off, nonchalantly studying the shelves, only to realise I was in the female hygiene section…
My final chore was to wash the car. I entered the booth and clambered out and slid several yards away. A huge slab of ice covered the entire area, which was made more treacherous by a layer of soapy water. Slipping over to the high pressure washer I pushed in my €2 coin, whereupon the ‘gun’ activated itself (there was no trigger to operate it) and grabbing the cleaner like a rifle, advanced towards the car only for the pressure to force me backwards and out of the booth… All attempts to clean the car failed miserably…
Frustrated, and now a touch angry, I did resist the urge to stop at the local bar but righteously made my way home. As I entered, laden with shopping, I was greeted by the sight of FOG trying to iron with the ‘family heirloom’. My mother had bequeathed her travel iron to us, which was about the size of a credit card and well over forty years old. A pang of guilt and concern stung me. When we had rented out our home everything electrical had been tested and checked to unbelievable lengths.
There was my nearest and dearest trying to iron my shirts with an old machine that I wasn’t sure was even earthed. I squeezed passed her, tripped on the flex and the iron did find earth but, unfortunately, via the FOG’s foot.

My benevolence wearing thin and dumping the bags made straight for the local bar, but it’s not quite the same as the Dysart…!