QUEL EMERGENCIE

 

In deepest Perigord, John’s caravan holiday was interrupted when he ran out of toilet fluid. Wandering into Nontron he came upon an iron mongers. On entering he found it was dark and dismal, dimly lit and empty of customers.

 

A door squeaked open. Madame crept into the shop between the packed shelves.

 

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour. Parlez-vous Anglais?

“NON.”

 

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“Ah, avez-vous pour le toilette ….er….er,” with a flapping of arms and a sitting on the toilet mime.

“Ah, monsieur. Oui.”

 

And there standing proudly on the top shelf was the blue fluid that would become his liquid gold.

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