Sunday, June 30, 2013

happy days


We haven't spent a Friday night with Honey Jr and Honey's Honey in ages. Ages I tell you. Between her being in bee school in the Côte d'Azur, him being smack dab in the thick of honey harvesting season, and us being all over the place, the weeks have slipped by without a get together so the Friday night before The Husband's birthday we decided to change that.

Le Petit Bar is not what it used to be (thank heavens). Where before you could drive by on a Friday night to find the lights off and doors locked, with a frantically scrawled note from The Parisian stating that he had to close because he was simply too tired (this actually happened). 


Now Big Man has it packed and swinging. There's this funky little retro radio blaring out 50s and 60s French rock (if French Fonzie had sauntered in, I wouldn't have been surprised). The other fun new addition to Le Petit Bar is an old foosball table. 


Of course foosball isn't called foosball in France, it's called babyfoot,  and it took Honey Jr and The Husband all of five minutes before taking it over and turning our fun Friday night into one of extreme competitive competition (babyfoot is very serious stuff).


Honey Jr is like a babyfoot Jedi Master. He's ridiculously good. Me, not so much. I tried playing for a few minutes but my left hand is about as useless as an appendage could be. I could probably cut it off and be none the wiser. And The Husband, well for him force = skill, so the ball kept being hit so hard it was flying off of the table and bouncing on down to the dining tables. Luckily, most of the diners had finished and left.


It was definitely Honey Jr's night, but I have a feeling we'll be spending a lot of summer days at Le Petit Bar in rematch after rematch. Oh happy days.


{Fonzie in French!}


Saturday, June 29, 2013

Lyon: one bite at a time

The last time I was in Lyon was over two years ago. The Husband and I had gone to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. Unfortunately when we arrived home from our weekend away, we found out my father was gravely ill. My father's passing has kind of marred that Lyon trip for me. I remember loving it, but that weekend will always be connected to sadness in my memory so I've been anxious to get back to Lyon for a do over. 

Lyon is the gastronomic capital of France. Think about that for a second... France is already food paradise so Lyon is like the Disneyland of food. We were meeting my friend Sarah (she's the one who rescued us in London) and her husband for a weekend away. We decided on Lyon because while Sarah and I like food, our husbands like to eat. 


After checking into Mama Shelter we made our way to Brasserie Georges, a Lyon institution. Brasserie Georges specializes in Charcuterie which I thought for sure one of us would order but nope; Sarah had fish, The Husband ordered Boudin, I had a steak topped with the largest, most delectable pat of butter there ever was, and Sarah's husband had the Steak Tartare (he likes raw meat as much as The Husband does).


After lunch we headed straight to Les Halles, Lyon's indoor food market, in search of dessert and other goodies. 

Sidenote: I have wanted to go to Les Halles since my first trip to Le Petit Village. Before I flew over, The Husband and I thought we might have time to visit his mother (we didn't) and figuring I wouldn't have had a clue where Clermont-Ferrand was, or would had never heard of it, The Husband told me that his mother lived in Lyon (???... yeah I know), so here I was in Dublin, planning my holiday, doing all of this Lyon research and drooling over photos of Les Halles. Little did I know that 1. his mother actually lives over two hours from Lyon, and 2. it would be almost two years later before I would get to go there. 


After wandering around looking at all of the delectable goodies, we finally settled on dessert, a plate of fresh oysters and a glass of chilled Chablis. (I did however pick up an assortment of macarons for Honey Jr and Honey's Honey as a thank you for watching Fifty. The flavors were too fun to pass up.) 


On the way out we picked up a bottle of Rosé, brought it back to the hotel and kept it chilled in the sink. This wasn't any bottle of Rosé, this was a bottle of Miravel, Brangelina's new Rosé. At €18 it's quite pricey. (I'm talking Provence prices. I know that in other parts of the world you have to break the bank to get a decent bottle of Rosé, but here, you can get a good bottle for €8 and that's a GOOD bottle, I usually spend about €5.) It was also kind of MEH. It wasn't bad, it was just MEH... in short, I've had better. Sorry Brad & Angie. 

For dinner we ate at the Mama Shelter restaurant (just like we did in Marseille). There was a cheese platter on the appetizer menu. (Do you know that in France appetizers are called entrées? It's very confusing). Now that may not seem weird to you, but in France, cheese always comes after the meal, not before, but that still didn't stop us from ordering it. (My mother was having a dinner party back in Dublin when The Husband and I still lived there, and she had a cheese plate with grapes and crackers set up as an hors d'oeuvre, this basically made The Husband's head explode... and so did the crackers). 


We had a basket of tasty tempura calamari and eggplant too, which I pretty much hogged, which was good, because I ordered the hot dog for dinner (it seemed kitschy and weirdly, I was in the mood for a hot dog) and it was gross. It had obviously been left under the heat lamp too long... the bun was warm but the hot dog had gone cold. But even if it hadn't had gone cold, it was yucky. I think it was a chicken hot dog or something. BLECH. So in summation, don't order the hot dog at Mama Shelter. 


Because we obviously hadn't gotten our fill of food over the weekend, on the way home we stopped at The Gypsy's for a barbecue (he's currently between Lyon and Avignon). While we were there I made friends with this little guy whose going to be trained to hunt truffles as soon as he's old enough. And as soon as he graduates from truffle school, I'm think he should come for a visit and teach Fifty the truffle trade. It's about time that guy got a job. 

Bisou! 

Thursday, June 27, 2013

are we there yet?

This post is the result of three overtired 'adults' in a car on a road trip from Devon to London and our attempts at entertaining ourselves. The 'adults' in question are; Mrs. London, one of Mr. London's little brothers (I don't have a name for him yet) and me. Mommy London was doing the driving and The Husband and Mr. London were driving in another car along side of us (when they weren't being bumders and speeding on ahead). 

\\

We found a wee stuffed animal and named him Horatio. I think Horatio is a mole but I'm not 100% sure, either way he looks pretty darn distinguished in his makeshift monocle. Don't tell me you've never seen a mole in a monocle before! Horatio kept us entertained for most of the way, he even read gossip magazines with us.


That particular article Horatio is enjoying is about a woman who weighs 742lbs and how apparently she makes over $75,000 a year because of it. (I weigh a fifth of what she does... if anyone wants to pay me $15,000 a year, that would be great, thanks.)


After awhile Horatio got bored with the gossip rags and hopped over onto Mr. London's little brother to listen to him play the tambourine. Don't tell me you've never played the tambourine in a car before! 
We pulled up alongside Mr. London and The Husband and I guess they were trying to entertain themselves as well, because Mr. London was pretending his McDonald's cup was a telephone (clearly, we're all a little nuts). 


And when we weren't playing with monocle sporting moles, tambourines and trash from McDonald's, we stared outside at the scenery, which was a good thing, because if we hadn't have been, we just might have missed this... 

Stonehenge, Salisbury, England

Bisou! 

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

my trip to Devon

Brixham, Devon, England

Sometimes you find yourself in places you never dreamed you would be (hello, Le Petit Village), life's twists and turns dropping you off in some curious spot or another. A few weeks ago my path led me to a small fishing town in Devon in the southwest of England where Mr. London grew up. (Mr. London was taking part in a charity rugby event down there and he asked The Husband to join him on the pitch. I decided to tag along.)

{source}

There was an old pirate ship (that I was desperately waiting for The Dread Pirate Roberts to saunter off of), and fish & chips and lots of little touristy shops selling sweets and postcards, and a donkey in a colorful bow tie and a clown wig (although I don't think he was for sale). 

Brixham sweet shop fudge

We even got to visit a psychic when we were there. She's located in an old shop shaped like a coffin (it's true, it's even called 'coffin house'). Pirates, psychics and a donkey in a bow tie... what else could you possibly want in a mini-break?

{hey number 14... pull up your socks}

The main even took place on Saturday at the rugby club. The Husband ran out on the field for the first time in almost six years. He tried blaming his lack of speed on his age, personally, I blame it on all the beers he and Mr. London drank before the match. But somehow, despite the pre-match beers their team consumed, they still won.  

After the match, everyone took advantage of the sunshine and lazed about the pitch. Mrs. London and I also took advantage of the delicious Pimms (it's like summer in a glass).


Do you see how The Husband has the shoe and sock off of one of his feet? Well that's because the day before, Mr. London had him shimmy through a window of the house (Mrs. London had the key, if they had bothered to call, we would have brought it to them... morons). For some strange reason The Husband decided to do this without his shoes on (of course he did) and in the process, stepped on a nail. This is something that could only happen to The Husband. So in hindsight, maybe it wasn't just the pre-match beers that slowed him down on the pitch after all, but the bleeding hole in the bottom of his foot... moron.

That's pretty much my trip to Devon in a nutshell. I never did spot The Dread Pirate Roberts though, but it was loads of fun nonetheless. Of course, we all know how it ended... 

Bisou! 

Saturday, June 22, 2013

bloop


++ It is 100% summertime in Le Petit Village and I freaking love it! For awhile it felt like we were running away from summer since we spent the early days of it in non-summery places like Dublin, England, and Paris (not that these places don't have summers, they do of course, they just don't have a south of France kind of summer), and I was missing out on my vitamin D. But now, I'm back home, it's 29°C/85°F and I'm in heaven!

++ Since we're finally home after being here, there and everywhere, we've been spending our evenings glued to the couch (we're tired) and on a Nashville bender. We can't get enough of it, especially The Husband (somebody has a crush on Connie Britton) but I kinda want them to make a show called, Austin.

++ We celebrated la fête des mères (mother's day) at Papa's house. I spent it sitting next to 91 year old Louisette (Papa's Wife's mother), listening to her tell stories about being a child in Casablanca during World War II (apparently, it wasn't that bad). She's a walking, talking piece of history and I want to keep her forever.

++ I've finished reading Winter of the World and while I anxiously await the final chapter of Ken Follett's Century Trilogy, I'm reading Edward Rutherfurd's new tome, Paris. Two questions... what are you reading and are you on Goodreads? And a follow up question, if you are on Goodreads, want to be my friend?

++ It's really hard to find plain tortilla chips here. They're either cheese, paprika or some other weird flavor, but not plain. This breaks my heart, especially since my friend Sarah just gave me a jar of salsa from Texas. Yesterday The Husband went to the store and he called to ask if I wanted tortilla chips, I told him only if they are plain, he assured me that they were. I did a little happy dance and waited for his arrival so I could get my Tex-Mex on. When he got home, I saw that the 'plain' tortilla chips were actually 'fajita' flavoured (YUCK!), and when I showed him where it said 'fajita' on the bag, he told me that he thought that's what they were called, 'fajita tortilla chips'. Obviously someone has to get back to Texas for a refresher course in the Tex-Mex food groups.


++ Why is Philippe Saint-Andre still the coach of the French rugby team? I'm just throwing that out there but If any of you can answer this and put me out of my misery than I applaud you. Moving on.

++ A couple of months back I told you that not only is The Croupier pregnant (she's due in November) but that Baby Cousin's girlfriend is too... well add The Cousin's wife, Mrs. Cousin to the list (they're the couple with the baby named after an X-Men character). We're in the midst of a mini-baby boom and soon Le Petit Village will be deafened by the pitter patter of little feet.

++ The Husband said he was 'easy breezy' yesterday. This may not seem like a big deal, but to those of you who have a spouse/ significant other/ friend who is not a native English speaker, than you know how cool it is for them to not only say an English expression, but to use it correctly.

++ The easy breezy utterance occurred when I asked him what he wanted for his birthday dinner and he replied, "Just a chicken ceaser salad, that's it, I'm easy breezy." #sostinkingcute

++ So yeah, tomorrow is The Husband's birthday. We're keeping it casual this year, no big barbecue, or cool soirée, just relaxing by The London's pool, soaking up the sun and as per The Husband's request, eating chicken ceaser salad, you know, easy breezy. What are you guys up to?

Bisou!

P.S. For those of you who keep up to date on life in Le Petit Village via Google Reader, don't forget as of July 1st it's no more. If you don't want to miss out, you can follow my adventures via Bloglovin, my tweets, or like my Facebook page (oh and Fifty wants me to remind you that he has a Facebook page too). 

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Paris?

Top 14 Rugby Final 2013 Toulon Castres

On Saturday June 1st, The Husband, Mrs. London and I went to Paris to watch Mr. London and the Toulon rugby team battle Castres in the French rugby championship. Our train left Toulon at 11AM, and we returned on the 11:20AM train the next morning. This is the story of what happened in that 24 hours. 

Toulon TGV
{Toulon train station swarmed with fans traveling to Paris}
Do you want to know something nuts? In the three plus years that I've lived in France (three years, eight months, and six days to be exact, but whose counting) I had never taken the TGV. Never. Not once. I've dropped people off and picked them up at TGV stations, but never before had I boarded that high speed train and whisked off somewhere until that Saturday. To be honest, I was kind of excited.

RCT Rosé

Besides getting to see the French countryside fly by as you whiz past at 200mph, you get to be freer than you are on a plane, like free to have picnic. So of course we had to go shopping for picnic goodies. We came across this Toulon Rugby wine. Festive, isn't it? 


The journey took us just about four hours. Apparently it was slower than usual because they sent three train loads of Toulon fans up at roughly the same time. We were train number three and kept getting caught up in TGV traffic. But we had plenty to distract us, like a picnic, and gossip, and cute babies wearing miniature rugby jerseys. 


When we arrived in Paris, a bus was waiting to take us to the hotel. Checking in was pure madness. In some bizarre twist of lunacy, both rugby teams and their entourages were booked into the same hotel and the lobby was jammers. But it didn't matter anyway (except for the regular holiday goers that were there, I felt bad for them) because less than two hours after checking in, we were back on the bus and driving to Stade de France.

Top 14 Rugby Final Stade de France CRS 2013

The riot police were out in full force (Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité). But I guess after that whole Paris Saint-Germain victory riot thing a few weeks back, they weren't taking any chances. They could have stayed home though, rugby fans aren't hooligans (P.S. that was me being b*tchy).

Top 14 Rugby Final 2013 Toulon Castres

The opening ceremony was a bit kooky. Men and women in togas walked out circling the field holding torches. It was cool, but a bit confusing. I guess they were going for like a gladiator vibe, and I get that, rugby is a pretty hardcore sport, but it's not 'win or get thrown into a pit of hungry lions' hardcore. Then a guy on a horse rode out with a falcon followed by other guys on horseback, each carrying a flag representing a team from the Top 14 (the French national rugby league). I captured the Clermont guy as he rode past, you know, because that one is my favorite. (SHHH!)

Top 14 Rugby Final 2013 Toulon Castres ASM Clermont

And after a guy in a chariot waving Toulon and Castres flags paraded around, these Las Vegas showgirls in orange feathers pranced about. I didn't know there were Las Vegas showgirls in ancient Rome. You learn something new everyday I guess.

After two hours of grueling play, Toulon lost 19-14. The Husband, Mrs. London and I headed out of the stands as soon as it was over to beat the foot traffic. And on the way, we walked past the rugby commentators setup to do the post game. Marc Lièvremont was there (I LOVE HIM). I blew him a kiss and he smiled at me. HE SMILED AT ME!!! The Husband asked if I wanted to go back and take a photo (you know, so it would last longer) but I said no, because I'm shy.

So yeah, after the whole Marc Lièvremont blowy-kissy-smile thing I really didn't care who won the match. And once we got to VIP Room for the after party, Mr. London didn't care either.


He's blurry because he was shaking his groove thing, just like these podium dancers (I know it's hard to make them out down there, but try please). There were two girls and a guy (think Miss Lawrence from Real Housewives of Atlanta). The Husband, Mrs. London, and I decided that we should move to Paris and take over that podium. We'd rock that podium. 


Somehow we were able to flag down a taxi at 4AM and get back to the hotel. Less than four hours later, we were up having breakfast. The bus back to the train station was leaving at 9:30. It was the most whirlwind trip to Paris ever. I saw the inside of a bus and a stadium, but not Paris and that just wouldn't do. So after breakfast, I ran out of the hotel searching for the one thing that I knew would prove to me that I actually was in Paris. And I found her... 


Bisou!

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Dublin: Days 4 - 7

Dublin Fish Pedicure

(This post rounds out and finishes up my trip to Dublin in May. In case you missed how it all started, check out Day 1, Day 2, Day 3 Part 1 & Part 2)

++ The Husband got a fish pedicure (see above). I think this was day six. Mrs. London and I dropped him off in St. Stephen's Green shopping centre and were able to shop huff and puff free for thirty minutes. He loved it so much that he asked if we could get a fish tank at home. I told him that I don't think it works like that.

++ Mrs. London was supposed to fly home on the Sunday (day 4) with the other player's wives but was having such a good time soaking up the glorious sunshine, she decided to stay until Wednesday. Of course it rained on Monday, but that's Irish weather for you.

++ Since the Sunday was epic in the history of Irish weather (sunny and 19°C in Dublin actually feels like 29°C in Provence) we spent the day in Claire's back garden. The boys (The Husband, Gatz, Mr. London, and Nephew) were tossing around a rugby ball until we shooed them out onto the field in front of the house prompting Niece to say, "gardens are not for playing rugby, they are for drinking wine." Wiser words have never been spoken. P.S. she's eleven.

++ Little Niece asked if Mrs. London was a pop star which was pretty much the cutest thing ever. For the record, nobody has ever asked me if I was a pop star.

++ Since Mrs. London was sticking around for a few extra days, I brought her to my old haunt, La Cave because heaven forbid we go a few days without a glass of Provençal Rosé. (Sidebar about La Cave... it's where I brought The Husband on our first date. Since he was new to Dublin he asked me to pick the place and I chose La Cave because it's where I'm comfortable, not because it's French which is probably what he thought. When I realized that, I felt like an idiot.)

++ Besides La Cave, I always pop into The Octagon Bar when I'm back in Dublin for a cocktail. If you find yourself there, try the Chili Mojito, it's a revelation.

++ Ireland has been in a recession since 2008, but every time I go back there, I'm like, "what recession?!". The shops are always crowded and the restaurants fully booked. On the Friday (day 2) we were going out to dinner and were turned away from four restaurants before getting a table at The Green Hen which we only got because a booking didn't show up. It worked out well though because The Green Hen was delicious... but French. So that means while I was in Dublin, not only did I hang out at a French wine bar, I ate at a French restaurant. Clearly there is something wrong with me #Frenchified.

Bisou!


Friday, June 14, 2013

The Road Is Long

Luberon, Provence sunrise

You know how I was in England this past week (Devon and Essex to be precise), and Paris before that, and Dublin before that? Well before I tell you about our latest trip, and the weekend in Paris, and finish up my Dublin Days tale, I'm going to tell you about my journey home because we finally arrived back in The LPV about 54 hours late last night(that's totally a guesstimate). It was a calamity and I need to vent. Thank you for listening. 
.....

"What day do you want to come back?"

That was Mr. London asking about our trip to Devon (To answer the question that I'm sure you are all thinking... we were going to Devon because Mr. London was taking part in a charity rugby event and he wanted The Husband to participate. Plus that's where Mr. London's family lives and I'm pretty sure that he wanted to take his new boyfriend home to meet them.)

"How about Tuesday morning so we can spend a day in London before flying home." 

And that was me making a mistake. 

If only I had said Monday. We would have been fine if I had said Monday. Easy peasy pudding pie if I had said Monday. We would have flown home to France before the strike got out of hand. But no, I thought we should have an extra day in London after our long weekend in Devon. And we did, and then at the end of that day, we got a message saying that our 7:30 Tuesday morning flight was cancelled, and since the next available flight wasn't until Wednesday evening, we got an extra, extra day. 

We arrived at Gatwick late Wednesday afternoon and at 7PM when we walked up to our gate in time for boarding, we were told that our flight had been cancelled. But get this... this flight wasn't cancelled due to the strike in France, no no no, that would be too normal for me and my crowd... our flight was cancelled because they didn't have enough cabin crew for the plane. AND THEY ONLY REALIZED THAT TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE TAKE OFF??!! 

After waiting in a line for over two hours, we found out that 1. there wasn't another available flight to Nice until the following Tuesday, 2. we could however fly to Lyon in the morning, 3. but the flight to Lyon was leaving from Heathrow not Gatwick, 4. all of the hotels at Heathrow they could put us up in were already fully booked, 5. we could stay at a hotel at Gatwick but the only one with rooms left was a fifteen minute taxi ride away and the coach to Heathrow that we would have to take was leaving from Gatwick at 3:50AM, 6. a coach would drive us from Lyon airport to Nice airport.

Taking all of those fun facts on board we decided to 1. take the flight to Lyon, 2. forgo the roach motel and butt crack of dawn departure and instead take a taxi to my friend Sarah's house (you may remember Sarah from this post, or this one, or maybe this one), 3. skip the Lyon to Nice coach which you know would take F O R E V E R and be 100% pure T O R T U RE  and rent a car instead.

Essex --> LGW --> Camden --> LHR --> Lyon --> Nice --> Toulon --> The LPV

Our taxi to Heathrow picked us up at 6AM and miraculously, our 8:30AM flight to Lyon actually took off. By a little after noon we were back in France, in a rental car driving four hours southeast to Nice airport. And after picking up Mr. London's car in the parking lot, driving to Toulon to pick up our car, and rescuing Fifty from camp, we drove into Le Petit Village at 9PM. Bedtime.

So here's the funny thing about all of this... tomorrow morning, The Husband and I are driving back up to Lyon to spend the weekend with our London emergency crash pad hosts, Sarah and her husband, for a mini-break that was planned weeks ago. How's that for a nutty coincidence.

Please bear with me as I go radio silent for awhile. This is not a test.

A bientôt mes amies,
vous me manquez.

Bisou!

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Dublin: Day 3 {Part 2}

After the match, Mrs. London tweeted this photo of herself with the caption, 
"This is going to be the best night ever!!!" She was right. 

The match was over, Mr. London had won, and it was time to celebrate (in fairness we would have been celebrating even if he hadn't of won because 1. we're Clermont fans and 2. I had an epic night already on the books... I like to plan these things). 

Table for twelve was booked at 37 Dawson Street (me, ten cousins, and Gatz... of course Gatz). It was a mini family reunion of sorts. Mrs. London hadn't been around her Irish cousins in yonks and I thought she was due a wee reminder of how awesome we are (we're a very modest family).   

Cocktails first (proper cocktails... Dublin I missed you so!), dinner, lots of chatter and naughty laughter (we're a naughty bunch my cousins and I), followed by more cocktails. The restaurant happens to also be a late night bar (and now you know why I chose it) so we were in no hurry to leave, which was good, because a little bit after dinner, Mr. London abandoned his Heineken Cup duties and came looking for his man. 


Actually he came to collect him and then go off with some of the other players (we made him take Gatz as well) which was great because that meant that Mrs. London, cousin Lou and I were left with an evening to ourselves.


We look so sweet and harmless don't we? MUAHAHAHA!

Since it was already almost 2AM and as much as we loved 37 Dawson Street, it was kind of, been there, done that, we sauntered off looking for our next adventure... Grafton Lounge wasn't it. We walked in, and walked out. Not our scene at all. So we gave Lillies Bordello a go. I used to like it there, but it's definitely lost it's je ne sais quoi. And that's when I had a stroke of genius... Temple Bar. 

Sure Temple Bar is raucous and full of tourists, but two of us were sort of tourists, so why not. But first we had to get there. Now anyone that knows Dublin knows that the walk from Grafton Street (where Lillies is) to Temple Bar is not a long hike, but when you've been wobbling on your stilettos for hours and the clock is on the wrong side of midnight, it feels like miles, and that's where Diego came in. 

Diego was the bike taxi man we found outside Lillies.  He delivered us safely to Temple Bar despite the heckles from the cab. Diego was our hero. (Poor, poor Diego. After peddling us around, I'm pretty sure he promptly quit and went searching for a quiet office job first thing Monday morning.


Unfortunately at 3AM,  Temple Bar is beginning to shut it's doors to new customers, but fortunately, the third time was the charm as the third pub we walked up to finally opened it's doors to us.  Of course that was all down to Lou's plea to the bouncer... "Please sir, I just want a quiet drink with my cousins. I never get to see them and after tonight, I don't know when I'll see them again. We won't be any trouble, I promise. Please." It was pathetic, and I'm pretty sure there was a pouty bottom lip involved, but it worked. 

And that same pathetic, pouty lipped plea worked when the pub was closing and everyone was being asked to leave. The Polish bouncers took pity on the pouty plea and our sad faces, walked us around to the residence bar of a hotel where they know the bouncers (I think all bouncers know each other), and sat with us while we had our final drink of our adventurous night and they had they after work dinner/ breakfast. And then as 5AM crept up, our own private Polish security squad, escorted us to our taxi and sent us safely on our way home. The end. 

Bisou!


P.S. The Husband arrived home even later that we did! He walked in a few minutes before 9AM. But as he had picked up the newspaper on his way, my Aunt and Uncle assumed that he had already been home, and had gone back out to get the paper. The moral of the story is... if you ever need to sneak into the house in the wee hours, pick up a newspaper on the way. 

P.P.S. Despite how I ended this post, this is not in fact the last chapter of my Dublin tales, there's a little bit left to tell you. I wrote 'the end' there simply because I felt like it, not because it's actually, the end. However, there will be a brief intermission... I'm flying to England in a few hours and won't be back until next week. À bientôt mes amies! 
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