Thursday night was date night. And by date night I mean that my partner and I cooked together and ended up watching TV. Just as we have done most evenings since March 11th.
We all lose people every day. A friend emigrates, a partner decides they don’t need us in their life anymore, or we grow apart from someone we used to know very well.
Lille’s complex history is visible in the architecture of its prominent buildings. From the cobbled quarter of Saint André, to the tinted glass of the Euralille shopping centre, a walk through the city tells a story of constant evolution through the diversity of its façades.
I hadn’t expected it to start with a hill. As a lime green man-kini and its host buttocks pulled away up the gravel path, the tiny town of Reuil dropped away behind me, and I puffed my way through the first kilometres of France’s strangest sporting event.
We pulled out to sea from behind an angular fortress. Minutes later, white water frothed up the sides of the boat and sharp morning rays glared down on my back.
If Provence were splashed over an artist’s palette, huge dollops of ochre, greens and blues would run into each other, punctuated by bright dots of violet, yellow and deep, blood red.