What do you dream of on the West Coast when my head is aching in GMT?

In which we road trip and there are too many characters: the Cub, Badger, Bunny, Bunky, Powerjam, brother, sister, as yet un-nicknamed cousin, Nakiska, Flipper and friends. And, unsurprisingly, too much drinking.

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The offices

“D’you speak English?”

I turn around. Before me is a stereotypical American guy, about the same age as my dad, in a baseball cap and an Italian soccer shirt. I’m really very tempted to retort with a gallic shrug and a, “Non, je ne parle pas l’angalais,” but I don’t. I’m very clearly reading an English book and what if we’re stuck in this line for the gallery for ages and I need to ask someone something and have to do it in French?

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