cheese dreams and litres of chocolate glace

I have slept so badly whilst being on holiday. I hate to admit to a negative aspect of this wondrous stay, but sleep has been low on points. It's probably my fault. Eating my own weight, and more, in cheese each day (mostly Roquefort), three quarters of it about 20 minutes before I go to bed, is probably not the best way to start the precious bed-time. But also, being a true Brit, I like to snuggle up in bed, under a duvet, feel cosy, have a little cold pink nose sticking out of the top, and frankly in these hot places its all I can do but have a thin layer of sweat and a threadbare sheet covering my skin. Cosy, I think not. My threadbare sheet and thin layer of sweat couldn't save me from the mozzies, or the witches flying around the house at night (the local village of Villefranche has some strange Witch Legend going on down there and not only do all the women look like real live scary witches with double jointed fingers and black teeth, but all the shops have fridge magnet witches, doll witches, witch-pencils, witch dangly things to hang off your rear-view-mirror - and its because of the Qant-legends de sourcerers, which none of us could work out what it was about - but they're definitely outside my window at about 3am when I really need the loo and my sheet feels very thin...). But despite witches and strange frog noises outside the window at night time, this has been a very stupendous holiday.
A highlight was when Liz was sitting on a fold up chair, which then folded up and ate her, as a venus fly trap may eat its fly for the day. If we'd not been outside to witness it, we may still be looking for Liz today.
Another highlight was my brother trying to be brave about jumping into the swimming pool every time Mol counted to THREE. It wasn't a very cold pool.
Another highlight was having Liz rub suncream on my legs. She took a lot of pride in this work.
Another highlight was walking for croissant each morning down the road past a smelly goat who sunbathed with his great smelly goaty balls hanging loose, and past a house with a garden which could only be called Gnome Heaven. A proud man snipping at weeds each time I walked by. C'est joli I called to him one morning. Oui. C'est vrai. He replied sincerely.
Another highlight: the sun.
Another highlight: my kids running around in no clothes for 12 days.
Another highlight was Liz in the Prades town square, where we had a baguette and some coffee with the locals, and she for absolutely no reason hit a boy and then hit a girl (who burst into tears) and then I gave her a right royal bollocking and she then totally had a melt down turning puce (I think that's a word?) and screaming really loudly. Any one want a child? Anyone? going cheap. or free, even.
Eating a lot of crevettes on the bbq and getting pink fingers.
And now. Well, its all just a distant memory... Tomorrow. Ryan Air. Stansted. Gross-o public transport back to London. My garden - it'll be awash with fucking slugs. I'll have to catch up on 8 episodes of East Enders (has Stacy finally gone to the nuthouse?) and Husband will be back to work and highly busy and stressed.
It'll all just seem like another cheese fueled dream...