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The random ramblings of a Chesire, as told by himself.

MorMor, Night Vale, LotR and BBC Sherlock

April, 11th

We did make it to Calais and the first thing Jim demanded as we step on French ground is that I fall to my knees in front of him and shout ‘Vive le roi’. My French is rusty yet I don’t need a translation to that part. I tell Jim to sod off but his reply makes me change my mind though as he tells me if I don’t do it /he/ will drive the car.

I hate it when people stare at me as if I’m the crazy one.

*

After a heated discussion (with himself none the less), Jim decides that we head for the Burgundy first. On the way there we grab a few delicacies for a picnic later on. Say what you want about the French but they know good food and they know how to live.

*

Our car ride is relatively peaceful. Jim is still playing French chansons but at a more humane volume. The only thing he’s complaining about while playing ‘Angry birds’ on his cell phone is that the French really should stop driving on the wrong side of the road. He claims its making him nervous because he doesn’t want me to crash into another car. I don’t bother reminding him that I haven’t had a car crash in years unless Jim was involved.

*

We stop somewhere on a small road that leads into the country side. I’m just glad there’s no volcano’s involved this time. Our fancy meal consists of cheese, baguette and cider. I can’t help but notice that Jim keeps looking over to the cows in the fenced area of the nearby field.

*

I must have fallen asleep because I suddenly dream of sexy French girls swooning all over me. Fat chance that’ll happen with Jim around. When I wake up Jim is nowhere to be found. I really shouldn’t be surprised about this anymore but I still go into full bodyguard mode whenever it happens. I hope he didn’t climb any of those nearby trees. Or took the car and left without me. Ugh.

*

Okay, the car is still there. Good. Jim also didn’t climb any trees. Even better. But I still can’t find him anywhere. Not so great.

*

I found him. He’s on the nearby field. Obviously he took more interest in the cows than I estimated at first. I wouldn’t say he made friends with them but he somehow managed to lure one towards him and now he’s sitting on top of it, looking all smug. I’m really not sure what has gotten into Jim, seeing he’s usually not very fond of animals (hair on his Westwood, y’know), but maybe he found a soul mate in it?

I hope he didn’t see me grin. Or take photos of him.

Oh, okay, now I understand the cow riding business. Because Jim is kind enough to explain it to me. Obviously Jim decided he’s in need of a new pair of elegant footwear. And such is made of leather. And leather is part of a cow. And…well…

To make a long and ridiculous story short- he named the cow ‘Shoes’.

*

Jim is still ignoring me when we reach the Burgundy because I failed to squeeze the cow into the trunk of our car. I never tried to be honest and I told him that Toyotas were not built for this purpose. He’s still acting as if I don’t exist when we park in front of a fancy Hotel. I am almost worried he’ll have me sleep in the car but he decides to be merciful and books a room for two.

*

After dropping our luggage and a quick change of clothes we explore the area so Jim can get his expensive wine. They seem to offer some guided tourist tours with wine tasting and visiting the wine yards and even pretending to make your own wine but Jim just scoffs and says he doesn’t want to be associated with people wearing sport caps and cameras and act like they’re cavemen. I just stare at the sport cap he is wearing as part of his ‘tourist disguise’ but bite my tongue otherwise.

*

There are a lot of places selling wine and there’s a lot of testing going on. I try to hold back with said testing while Jim turns it into a show with sucking air in and moving the wine around in his mouth and all this shit that supposedly helps bringing out the true flavor. He looks completely ridiculous that way but hey, if it makes him happy. It’ll keep him from bothering me at least.

*

God… My head is killing me. I just woke up in our bed, half dressed with the sensation of a thousand jackhammers giving a live concert in my brain. My tongue feels as if a cat slept on it and seeing Jim stare at me bleary eyed tells me he feels the same. I need a cold shower and a coffee before I can function normal again.

*

According to what memories I managed to salvage from my alcohol tortured brain the testing went a bit too far and we ended up with a group of tourists. Jim obviously pretended to be French and confused and scared the hell out of the bunch of Americans when he claimed that the French wine is made from virgin maiden’s blood. And that the French king bathed in Champagne instead of water. Afterwards we must have ended up in a wooden tub full of grapes that we attempted to stomp into wine and Jim was giggling about drowning after slipping the umpteenth time. I don’t remember much after that. I think I stay away from wine for a while though.

*

Since we’re both feeling like shit Jim decided that we should relax the rest of the day. The hotel has a spa area and he drags me along to make sure my skin gets the needed nutrients. Fuck this, I’m not going to let somebody put some cucumber slices on my eyes and smear some crap on my face to make my skin smooth like a baby’s arse! I’m a sniper, not some model! I better let Jim know that I rather spend the day face down on the bed. Interrupted by an occasional smoke.

*

Great. Just great. Would it surprise anybody to hear that Jim didn’t listen to a word I said to him? Now I’m sitting in another tub. Just this time it’s not filled with half squashed grapes but with hot mud that goes up to my neck. Jim is sitting in the tub next to me and seems too amused by the face I’m pulling to care about the fact that we’re both neck deep in brown hot sludge. He then tells me that it’s supposedly helping with tenseness. Very funny, boss. Very funny.

*

Of course Jim picked a male masseur for me. He couldn’t let some pretty girl knead around on me. I’m just glad the guy who’s working my back over doesn’t look like he could crush stones with his hands. Instead it’s rather enjoyable. So much so that I’m falling asleep in the middle of it.

*

When I wake up again the massage is still going on but it feels different. It takes my tired brain a moment to really grasp what’s so different. First of all nobody is kneading me anywhere. It feels more like somebody is slapping…my…arse.

Jim must have climbed on top of me after the masseur left and I must have been so out of it I didn’t even feel it. I suppose I deserve his spanking then. As he realizes I’m awake he climbs off me and leans down so he can look at my face. I can see he’s holding his cell phone in his hand and I vaguely remember seeing him write some texts while we were relaxing in that hot mud.

*

Jim just announced that I should be eternally grateful and jump in joy because he decided we should go to Paris. Because I deserve a vacation obviously.

I know bad things are going to happen. Mark my words.

*

I think Sebby could use another mudpack. He looks suddenly so tense again. ~Jim

13 notes
  1. dieclickenhufenheirbbsaft reblogged this from cheshiresden and added:
    I love this Travel Blog series.
  2. cheshiresden posted this