Return (again) to the pink lozenge

Once again it was time to return to the big pink lozenge, this time he (the dentist) just wanted to check last weeks work and to see that the gum infection had died down after he filled my tooth root and gum at the same time. It was OK, so he's scheduled me in for another visit in three weeks time (trip to France sits inbetween) next time the new tooth will be installed and I think I was correct in what I saw, but I think he booked me in for a two and a half hour appointment, I'll take a book with me next time.

The dentist and his big pink lozenge chair is only two miles from the office, and downhill, which is just as well because my car is nearly out of deisel and has been for at least a week now so while I was spluttering down the road to the dentist I idly flicked the switch to get the computer readout to see how many miles I could do on what was left, it said four, four miles until the car stopped, then it went to three.

I've never seen it go down to three before, I usually lose my nerve around twenty miles to go, three was cutting it a bit fine especially as I usually have to drive around for a bit at the dentist when looking for somewhere to park, I chickened out and called at a Texaco garage for deisel.

Yesterday we were French again

Yesterday found our happy little bunch of pseudo Frenchmen attending the Les Catalans game at Castleford, we always enjoy going to Castleford because the people there never fail to live up to their stereotypical image. All you have to do to be a Frenchman in Castleford is to wear a Les Catalans rugby shirt, no fake accents, no pretence at not understanding their language, just wear the shirt and the Castleford folk, god bless them, all believe that you simply must be French.

The pub was the best place to start and JohnD asked in his normal Huddersfield brogue for five pints of Kronenburg six-cent soixante quatre, he asked in English, didn't pretend to be from France, didn't put on a silly French accent, all he did was just pronounce the name of the beer as the French would. "Oooh 'ave you cum from France" the barmaid asked, and two lads at the bar turned to our little party obviously impressed that French people would choose their boozer for a pre-match tipple.

"No love, I'm from Huddersfield" he explained
"Oooh nice" she said, obviously not understanding, probably quite pleased that she could understand French all of a sudden.

It continued at the ground where Rob tried to give the turnstile operator a 20 euro note, he didn't have to put the accent on, the turnstile operator looked at the Les Cats shirt, then at the euros, and then tried to explain very patiently that they only accepted pound notes.

In the packed bar inside the ground the request for "Trois vin rouge s'il vous plait" got everyone talking "They've asked for bloody wine, they must be Froggies tha knows", and finally on the terracing when the Catalan flag was displayed we took abuse all afternoon from every little kid who wanted to show off in front of his mates.

The best one though was after the match had finished when a father and teenage son approached us and shook Robs hand and very slowly and very carefully thanked us for coming to Castleford and wished us well for the season, you just can't let someone like that down and so Rob thanked him in his best French accent and wished him "bon chance aussi", but as his son also shook his hand Ron thanked him with a "cheers cocker". As at Salford last week it takes the average person about 20 seconds to realise that "cheers cocker" is not in your average French persons vocabulary, this young lad was walking on his way and several yards away before his penny dropped and he turned and gave us a very funny look as if to say "theres something wrong with those French blokes dad".

Next weekend the Cas fans come to Headingley and we'll be stood amongst them, so we've got four days left to practice the finger plucking chords for "duelling banjo's", we like them to feel at home at Headingley, they're all soft lads really.