Oh yes


Thought of one more on the way home last night. Sixteen years young and hitch-hiking around Europe alone.

[Off topic: when I was young I often hitched and had some really good experiences. I vowed that when I was grown up and had my own car, I’d always stop for hitch-hikers and treat them to a meal or something – absolutely no strings attached, just passing on the good ‘karma’ to the next generation. So what has happened? Where are you all? You used to see hundreds of them all over the place, now the only ones I see are carrying licence plates.]

So there I was, somewhere in Southern France with my thumb out, dreaming the dream of all young (male) hitch-hikers, of the white convertible with the beautiful ever-so-slightly older woman with a fine command of English, yet an adorable accent, who has packets of money and a lovely chateau in the vicinity, parents are in the Bahamas for the summer, I’m so lonely, would you like to stay for a night, or maybe a week…or two? and as you stow your back-pack in the boot and walk round to the passenger door, she leans over to open it and you can’t help noticing that she’s wearing a low cut dress with no bra; the hem reaches half way to her knees, but has ridden up a bit, and she turns to you with her perfect hair and lively eyes and laughs as she sets off up the road, the wind ruffling (but not spoiling) her hair, she brushes your thigh accidentally (surely not) as she changes gear and asks you to light the spliff she produces from the glove compartment (leaning over you to open it)…

And then a truck stopped for me. Grateful for any sort of lift, I climbed up to the cab with my pack and inhaled the scent of the wizened French truck driver: old, very old, and ancient Gaulois or Gitanes filterless fag-smoke smell, overladen with his own very special sweaty aroma. The seat I was on, and the floor at my feet were strewn with the trucker’s detritus, stale food, food wrappings, fag packets, invoices, delivery notes, perhaps a couple of small rodents – it was hard to tell. He spoke no English, I had ‘O’ level French i.e. abso-fucking-lutely useless for speaking to French people. He also had the French equivalent of a broad Yorkshire accent sprinkled with dialect, or perhaps he was Spanish.

Anyways, we travelled along, towards my destination, possible Carcassone or Montpellier and he tried to converse. After a time I managed to discern that he was offering me some work when we reached our destination. Yay! thought I, I could certainly do with some dosh, and he seemed to be offering 20 francs for an hour’s work. In those days, ff10 was about a quid and a quid was worth something (we even had pound notes!). Not bad money for unloading a truck.

“Qu’est ce c’est exactement, ce travail?” I said in my best English accent?

Now, I can’t remember exactly what he said, but it dawned on me that what he wanted me to do was to ‘rub his back’ for an hour for ff20.00. Needless to say I declined his kind offer and got off at the next services. If he hadn’t been roughly 4’ 6” tall and fairly weedy though with a big beer gut, I might have been scared, but I wasn’t.

And that’s the story of how I might have lost my gay ‘v’ plates if things had been a hell of a lot different.

OK, I know, nowhere NEAR on topic really, but what the hey! It’s a quiet day at work for a change.

A bientot,

Now, back to that beauty in the convertible…where was I?...
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 31 Oct 2006, 11:57, Reply)