Keir Royale

Stepping off the boat onto Albert Pier throws me into a parallel existence - a Sliding Doors scenario of what is, what was, and what could have been.

I’m a returning bean heading for a school reunion, walking with a quicker step because I’m minus the rest of my family, and I’m a lovelorn teenager strolling to the end of the pier with my boyfriend, stopping off for a bacon sandwich on the way.

Jersey does that to me, every time I come.
Each corner throws me back to some other age.

The place I crashed my car when I saw an ex-boyfriend kissing his new girlfriend.
The smart hotel, then a bus station café where we all met up after school.
The seawater bathing pool where I learned to swim and spent day after day of endlessly sunny summer holidays.

It sends me into a daze, which this time isn’t helped by an early trip from St Malo on Corsaire’s first ever run between St Malo and Jersey.
They even gave every passenger a certificate to mark the occasion.

My first port of call is to the hairdresser I used to go to when I last lived here.
“Can you make me look like I did ten years ago?” I ask.

She smiles. It’s such a relief to be sitting in front of the only hairdresser I’ve found who can converse without asking me what I’ve got planned for the weekend.

She laughs when she hears I’ve come for a school reunion.
“Lots of people get their hair done for those,” she confides.

I then spend a day swimming in the sea with friends, before ringing to check exactly where tonight’s do is.

My former classmate is silent on the phone, then says,
“Please don’t tell me you’re calling from Jersey.”
“Yes, why?” Another silence.
“I didn’t know you were coming for sure, and we postponed it until next weekend because lots of people couldn’t make it this weekend.”

Another silence, from me this time.

I’ve come to a non-existent school reunion, missing a moules-frites evening and a couple of promising vides-greniers to get here.

“Never mind, I should have rung to check before I booked, its OK, I can see some other friends anyway, don’t worry about it…”

I put the phone down, and re-adjust my plans.

Which is how I ended the day tasting the contemporary Jersey sapphic experience at the last ever night of Cosmo’s, where I danced until 1am… which was probably more fun than sitting around talking up my shining career and glorious family with people I went to school with.

I haven’t told Mike yet that he’s had the children for two days for no particular reason…

I thought you might like to see some vrai Kir Royale.

I’m not sure if the googlers of Keir Royale are looking for me, or are mis-spelling the drink in a frustrated desire to find out how to make it.

Here, you can kill two birds with one stone.

Just put a splash of Crème de Cassis at the bottom of a glass, fill with champagne, but not good champagne or you’ll be masking the taste of an expensive and delicious nectar.

Sip slowly and chat, preferably outdoors, with friends and/or family.

I hope those of you who are googling for the drink, but find me instead, can now -

a) spell it properly
b) make it
c) read my blog anyway

Cheers!

I’m sure you’ve heard the expression, using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, and the one about looking for a needle in a haystack.
Well Mike has been hovering somewhere between the two this week.

He bought Ben a bow and arrow, and a target.

His first surprise was how powerful the bow was. We discovered this when Ben shot an exploratory arrow which went across the garden, over the roof of the house, over the road and into the garden of the poterie opposite.
We found it the next day when we visited the poterie, and luckily no-one had died in the meantime.

Secondly, he was reminded that when you’re shooting arrows at a target, many of them miss the target. They end up beyond the target, where there is a field with thigh-high grass.

When the arrow situation reached crisis-point – eight arrows lost in the long grass – Mike went out to a vide grenier and bought a 30 euro scythe to find a few 2 euro arrows.

Ever since his purchase he’s been in the field scything, especially when there’s something tricky to do – like cooking dinner for eight, getting over-tired children into bed or setting the table.

I think he’s missed his metier.
He describes himself as “un homme casse” on account of his aching back, throbbing shoulders and deadened arms.
But he’s happy as a guinea pig in hay, or even on Uncle Albert’s lap.