Who did you say I was?

Several years ago, travelling back from one of our winter jaunts to somewhere in the south, we stayed overnight in a little auberge in the Touraine. Freezing cold evening, tiny village in the middle of nowhere, red check tableclothes, lots of wood, simple room and good food. That kind of thing. After the statutory wander round the village, we repaired to the bar for an apéro, where we we were the only customers apart from a couple of red-faced, pastis-drinking, blue-overalled ouvriers. With my nose buried behind the local paper, I did what I always do: I listened in to their conversation. It went something like this.

"Aaah ouais"

Thirty seconds gap.

"Thursday today"

A minute's gap.

"Ouais"

Another minute's gap.

"That'll be Friday tomorrow, then".

A minute's gap.

"Mmmm".

Thirty seconds gap.

"Ouais".

Another minute's gap.

"Market day, Friday".

"Ouais".

A minute's gap.

"Ouais".

"That'll be Saturday, then, then".

Another minute's gap.

"Ah ouais".

A good two minutes' gap.

"Aaah ouais - the weekend, eh, voila, quoi ...".

I remember this conversation not only because of its sparkling wit and repartee, but because it actually took place on Wednesday, not on Thursday. Oh, how we smiled to ourselves, in that smug and patronising way that metropolitains have when faced with deep rurality ...

Except that now the boot is on the other foot, so to speak. This week I have been so convinced that Tuesday was Monday, and Wednesday was Tuesday, that I have missed an appointment and also failed miserably to contact someone when I promised to do so. I can excuse myself by saying that when your head is down a soil pipe all the days of the week look the same. But in truth, I suspect that living in La France Profonde has got to me at last.