The Wound.

In all it's technicolour glory. This is after several hours (it's still manky now...)



Feel free to shower me with sympathy - I can't afford to keep paying pharmacists to do it!

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Pharmacists in Nice are better than Boots...

Lovely people, pharmacists. All sympathetic and soothing of my hypochondria - and I now have waterproof giant plasters (unfortunately not ones with cartoon characters on, for extra awesomeness) so I can even go swimming. And much pain - alcohol wipes for disinfecting things are *brutal*.

We're going to sign our contract today, so as of tomorrow when the builders supposedly finish, we should have a brand new flat! And we can get a bank account and register with the local council and all those good and sensible things we need to do before everyone goes on holiday at the beginning of August.

I haven't forgotten about the European Petanque Championships (Sweden has a petanque team; I bet you didn't know that. They won, too...) but this blog is all about me, and right now, my aching knee is the centre of my world. I had forgotten the grimness of the French police, too - walking back from the beach, they were chasing some poor guy, and started beating him up in front of the hotel. He might have done something to deserve it, but I somehow doubt anyone deserves that...

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Treachery on the streets of Nice

Holes in the ground, even those with broken glass in them, are not marked as they would be in the UK. They are not, in fact, marked at all.

I know this, since I just fell in one, walking without looking at the ground. (Dangerous because of the dog shit, in any case. But I digress.) My knee is cut to pieces, my trousers are ruined, my blood has poured over the streets of Nice. And a very nice pharmacist disinfected me and gave me a plaster, all for free. And without laughing at me.

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