Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
terned throw. This had 'Crazy Horse' emblazoned across it and lay on the bed, ready for
use.
The oak-wood floor was mostly covered by an extremely large cowhide rug. This last
decorative detail obviously appealed to Jack's dreadful sense of humour.
“Was this the cow that got left behind then?” said he, piping up. “Hah, hah!”
Unfortunately his version of slapstick humour was met by a totally blank expression
from
madame
. Presumably it was because the rug had either been a cherished pet or there
had been a problem in translation, either of which resulted in the total failure of his joke. I
stared at him imploringly in case he was warming up to entertain us with further inappro-
priate thigh-slappers and quickly moved on.
The last interesting item in this room was, for me, the pièce de résistance. I gingerly
side-stepped the bovine treasure to get a closer look at what appeared to be a sort of interior
totem pole affair. It was around twice the diameter of a telegraph pole and was covered in
carvings.
“This is my Indian pole. It is made from the red cedar wood,”
madame
informed us.
“It tells the story of my 'usband, but ee eez not 'ere now so I keep it in 'ere. It is
magni-
fique
,
oui
?”
“Oh yes, tremendous and how practical,” I replied gesturing towards the symbolic
wooden arms that were now used as a 'hanging' wardrobe.
It was an ingenious use for the old relic and perfectly in keeping with the rest of the
room. Unfortunately Jack didn't share my level of enthusiasm. He was now sulking be-
cause I had cut him off in mid-flow and muttering about 'bloody hippies'.
Conversely, looking rather satisfied with the décor,
madame
rattled various bangles
jubilantly as she pointed out important features, the scenes on pictures and the stories they
told. She ended by assuring us (with a quick arch of her eyebrows) that this was a
very
private guest apartment, which allowed her to use the rest of the house exactly as she
wished. We nodded sagely, not entirely sure what any of that actually meant and followed
her back into the galley.
Jingling along serenely,
madame
stopped midway, then indicated vaguely.
“Here is my boudoir,” she said.
This was foxing because try as we might, all we could see through the smog were
the herds of divans, comfy chairs and joss stick holders. Sensing our confusion, she tri-
umphantly pointed towards the ceiling. How peculiar! There it was, a sort of hanging loft-
space, accessible only via a ladder, which was better suited as an access route between bunk
beds. I think we'd completely missed this because of the decorative chaos below.
Anyway, we were invited up to view this intimate space which Jack clearly felt was
most irregular. Firmly reminding him of our purpose, I managed to coax him up, rung by
rung, to have a look which, in the end, turned out to be a one-person activity.
