The Life and Times of the Curious Cockroach

Location: deepest darkest rural France
Number of friends: 0
Number of stop-lights seen: 0
Number of stop-lights village website boasted about: 1
Number of grams of cheese tasted: 0
Emotional state: unstable

Have just arrived in village. Am in the middle of nowhere. Cannot write anything more. Can only curl into ball. And weep.

Signing off,
The Curious Cockroach

‘

PS. Tried to make myself feel better with food. Almost always works. Bought what looked like pesto sandwich. Bit into sandwich. Sandwich tasted awful. Sandwich tasted like something salty and dead. Went back into store. Bravely went up to counter. Showed lady pesto sandwich. Lady laughed, and said “silly girl. This not pesto sandwich. This snail-paste sandwich. Snails harvested out of shells, pickled in own juices, mushed up into paste. Then spread on bread. Understand me?” Regrettably, yes, understood every word.

So am in the middle of nowhere. And have pickled slugs in stomach. Stomach gone on strike and refuses to digest anything.

Cannot write anything more. Can only curl into ball. And weep.

‘

PPS. Must clarify that usually enjoy snails. Am not one of those conservative pricks who pretend to eat only cute furry things like lamb or bunnies. Baked snails, still in shells, bathed in garlic butter and parsley, can be very tasty. But not when pickled “in own juices.” Not when mushed into oblivion. Not when spread on bread. And especially not when made to look like innocent pesto sandwich.

Am officially weeping.