My father in law, this hero.

This is the final chapter from our trip to Brittany. Now, where were we? Ah yes—the party in my pants. Not the fun kind. Not the sexy kind. The kind caused by just one “not so good” mussel.   I had paid my tribute to the seafood god.  And of course, as any self-respecting Frenchman would, we started thinking about lunch.  How very continental!

Marina has a flat just opposite where Gisèle, my mother in law, lives, and had made the very kind offer of feeding us that lunchtime.  Virginie, my wife, was asked if she wanted oysters for lunch.  No she didn’t, Maman. Did I want oysters?  Thinking back to my uncomfortable tribute to the seafood god, not for me, Gisèle. Oh I must have eaten a mussel that wasn’t bon…  Possibly Gisèle…

Gisèle still opened all the oysters she had and laid them out on a platter.  We would take said oysters with the leftovers from yesterday’s mammoth family lunch.  Yes of course I could take this, and that, and t’other….

The plan of the day: eat with Marina, Vincent, Raymond and Sylvie, and then go and see my father in law in hospital before heading home.

We ate with Marina and the others, and it was a lovely meal and we were made to feel so welcome.  Champagne to celebrate the 14th of July.  Ah well, I took one for the team and had a glass.  I wouldn’t be driving anyway.  My wife would be driving since I don’t know how to drive, and when I do, I drive like an old man.  My mother seems to like me driving like an old man, so there, Virginie!

The meal and company were both delicious, but like all good things had to come to an end.  We were going to the hospital to visit my father in law.

The poor chap hasn’t been well for some time, and has battled through cancer, botched operations, and old age.  This was the man I had met 32 years ago.  He was the Pasha.  The main man.  The man.  He was the archetype of a French male.  A man that I had grown to love and respect over the three decades.  Not always easy but what is?

We wandered through the hospital, and we eventually found Monsieur Jacob in his bed watching Arte, and films starring Jean-Paul Belmondo.  He was in pain but so happy to see us.  He looked nostalgic when watching the film, similar to the way I do when listening to the music of my youth.  However, he was no longer the man I had once known.  He had lost his right leg, and actually started to look old.  He looked like a shell of the man I had first met all those years ago.  His hands, once so strong they could crush a walnut, now trembled slightly under the thin hospital sheet.  Virginie held her father’s hand with such love and his eyes were telling her how much he loved her.  She told him about the trip to the UK to see my parents this summer, and about the children.  How Killian was back home, how Kate was changing schools, and how everything was good at home in Vendée.

We didn’t want to tire him more than necessary, and he had a date with Belmondo.  He hugged his daughter, then took my arm and kissed it.  Time moves on whether we like it or not.  He might no longer be the Pasha, but he’s still the man!