Cleaning the Gîte
She’s cleaning the gîte again. It’s that time of the week; the latest batch of lobster-skinned, over-deodorised, indulgent guests with their squall of untethered children have vacated, so out comes the bucket, the mop, the rubber gloves. She’s waved goodbye to them as they trundle through the gate in their overloaded people-carrier, eyes flickering her way as they tap the route to the ferry into the satnav. Can’t possibly have programmed it in the night before, she knows. Can’t possibly turn their Beaujolais-soaked focus towards home and work, not when there are hours of holiday still to be squeezed out.
The youngest child in the group stared at her as they drove past, finger idly up its nose. Its hair was so long she couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, and she hat
