Ooh la la! A holiday to remember . . . or not

When the weather is awful, people’s thoughts turn to holidays. I hope they fare better than my friend and I did when we were 17 in the 1960s.

We went for an impromptu weekend to France by ferry. We aimed to stay in a hotel for two nights and spend another sleeping rough. In Boulogne on the first night we went to a restaurant for a meal. Soon there was an almighty crash, the chef ran out of the kitchen with a big knife and chased the waitress down the street. he returned alone and we had two delicious meals.

On day two we took a train to Amiens to see the cathedral. This was our ‘sleeping rough’ night. We were about to enter a park when a large man from Martinique offered us a room — we declined and ran to a cafe. It was some sort of drugs den and we felt obliged to try the hubble-bubble pipe. As we floated down the street, a Citroen stopped and two policemen spreadeagled us, checking for guns — there had been a military uprising in the city. We spent the night at the railway station surrounded by unsavoury characters. We returned to Boulogne on the third day and went from our hotel to a club for a drink and, after several absinthes, we realised that it was, in fact, a strip club, and I ended up with a bra around my neck! Via seemingly swaying lampposts, we got back to the hotel somehow.

The next day was my friend’s birthday. I was sick over him, then broke the toilet chain, which I had to pay for. heading for the return ferry, I collapsed in a flower bed and a gardener sprayed me with his hosepipe. I collapsed again in a toilet. A doctor was called, who took my remaining francs and gave me an injection which worked wonders. At customs, I stated I had nothing to declare — only to be called back, as I had a half-empty whisky bottle sticking out of my pocket. When I got home, my mother said she hoped that we’d had a good time in France, and asked if I’d changed my underwear. I told her that we had been too busy absorbing the culture!