You Had Me At Bonjour. Jennifer Bohnet

train to Italy was packed but it was a lovely journey along the coast, watching the glittering surface of the ever-moving Mediterranean out of one window and the countryside out of the other.

      I managed to grab a window seat and enjoyed daydreaming about the villas and apartments we flashed past. Small bijou cottages, large tower blocks, lavish villas… they’re all here along this bit of coastline. We passed the famous Baie des Anges with its marina and apartment blocks built to resemble waves. Too modern for me, I decided. I’m definitely a Belle Epoque villa type of girl. In my dreams!

      The tunnel from Cap d’Ail down into Monaco seemed endless. As the train finally pulled into Monaco I was half tempted to get off and spend the day there exploring, but decided to stick with my original plan.

      Ventimiglia market is huge. I found it quite disorientating. So many people jostling to find a bargain. Lots of kitchen equipment, leather, pasta, handbags, cheese, clothes, oh you name it there was a stall selling it. I could have spent a fortune. There was one pair of leather shoes that positively had my name on them.

      Stupidly I’d forgotten to take a shopping basket, so I treated myself to a straw one to hold the pasta, the olives, the Parmesan cheese and some lovely shiny aubergines I couldn’t resist buying. I did resist a fake Chanel handbag though – something I was glad about on the way home.

      Had lunch in a lovely restaurant with a covered terrace overhanging the edge of the beach. I was surrounded by Italian and French families and the noise level was unbelievable. Italians are so vocal when they get together. Luckily the waiter spoke a bit of both French and English so I managed to ask questions and order the food I wanted. And a glass of Prosecco, of course.

      The main course was good – tagliatelle with basil – but O.M.G. the tiramisu dessert was to die for. Promised myself I’d be strict for the rest of the week to make up for all the calories I was eating.

      The train journey home was exciting. We were raided by the customs contraband police – would you believe!

      Seeing the faces of the women on the train as they watched the police tear apart their recent purchases with sharp knives, I was so glad I hadn’t succumbed to temptation and bought that fake Chanel handbag. Eliosa had warned me about buying stuff like that when I told her I was coming here.

      ‘It’s not worth the risk,’ she’d said. ‘Save up for the real thing.’ At least my cheap straw basket was safe from the knife wielding cops.

      6th March.

      I’m really not sure about this conversation class I’ve been going to for the past few weeks. If it doesn’t improve soon I think I’ll drop out.

      I seem to spend all my time talking – in English – to Colette, who is desperate to improve her English so she can get a job in London, where apparently “eet is all ‘appening.”

      There are two or three English couples there who treat the morning as an excuse for a gossipy catch-up and a bitch about their French neighbours. Been tempted to ask them “if you don’t like it, why don’t you go home?” So far I’ve managed to restrain myself.

      The two French women I try to talk to don’t understand my accent so that gets pretty fraught. Beginning to think I need a more structured class with a teacher setting pages of verb homework to be learnt. One to one tuition. Must pluck up the courage to ask Marc if he can recommend anyone. I’ve been avoiding asking him anything since my faux pas with le cinq à sept.

      I keep thinking about Eliosa’s sleeping dictionary suggestion. Finding one of those though, even if I wanted one, is clearly not going to happen in a hurry. It’s not as if I can walk into the local bookshop, find the section marked “Dictionaries” and have a selection to pick one from.

      Seen Nino visiting Eliosa a couple of times this month. Nice that he keeps an eye on her, although it always seems to be very brief visits. I guess he’s busy with the yacht.

      Walked home via the market after the class and bought some red geraniums for the roof terrace pots and a couple of trailing white ones for the balcony baskets. Finally bumped into the Swedish woman from the garden flat in the entrance hall. After we’d introduced ourselves, Lotta invited me in for a coffee.

      7th March.

      Turns out Lotta’s a life coach and a keen gardener. Her garden is an oasis of calm and immediately had me nostalgic for my – soon to be Samantha’s – garden. Lotta’s lived here for five years and speaks four languages fluently – Swedish obviously, English, French and Italian. We seemed to be on the same wavelength from the word go, and I found myself telling her about my split with Ben and how worried I was about Katie.

      Maybe it’s just that she’s easy to talk to, but I even found myself voicing the fact that I was considering giving up on my gap year and going home. I feel a bit old to be taking a gap year if I’m honest.

      Her advice was simple and to the point: get rid of the negative thoughts; concentrate on getting on with life down here. You’re only here for a short time so make the best of it – don’t waste time worrying. There are heaps of opportunities to enjoy life. Basically, her rallying cry is “Think Positive.”

      Back at chez moi, planting up my pots, I resolved to do just that – think positive and enjoy life. Ben could sort out the Katie mess – it’s all his fault anyway. Hopefully Katie will eventually stop blaming me for the break-up and realise it was Ben who wanted his freedom, not me.

      9th March.

      Plucked up the courage today to go and apply for the job in the boutique I saw the other evening. What a hoot! A waste of time but a hoot.

      Madame the owner – all tight white leather jeans, cropped top and gold jewellery – spoke a bit of English, so we ended up talking a broken Franglais with me trying to convince her I would be an asset with the foreign tourists. But she wasn’t having it.

      ‘Non, non, non,’ she said, wagging a scarlet tipped finger at me. ‘The clients Francais would no like you no speaking Francais. They would try to cheat me. They no buy from someone they laugh at.’

      ‘But the English would love being able to ask questions in their own language. And I’m sure my French would improve if I was using it every day.’

      ‘Non. Go away and learn le Francais. Peut-être in six months I give you a job.’ And with that I was firmly shown the shop door. Oh well, it’ll have to be Plan B then. Except I haven’t got a Plan B.

      10th March.

      On the home front, things have been quiet for a few days now. I’m holding my breath for the explosion that’s sure to happen. Katie was very subdued when I spoke to her last night, muttering something about her dad being a complete..... well we can agree on that. Didn’t realise she knew that word though!

      12th March.

      I’ve taken some great photos lately – think I’m getting the hang of loading them onto the computer. There’s one I took from the balcony two evenings ago that I particularly like. It’s of the sunset over the Esterel mountain range – the sky is so red it looks as if it’s on fire.

      It’s Mimosa season down here. I managed to take one absolutely stunning photograph of the tree in the park. Brilliant yellow against the deep blue of the Cote d’Azur sky. It looks wonderful. Maybe I could start a new career as a photographer?

      Probably not. Must admit to missing my old job though. I loved writing the women’s page features for the paper. Not that I wrote many of them in the last few years. I commissioned most of them from various freelancers.

      DUH! It’s official. I am one stupid cow. Just had a light bulb moment as I typed that paragraph. I could be one of those freelancers. I don’t have to be in the UK to write for magazines do I? Next time I speak to Bella I’ll run the idea past her. Between us we should have loads of contacts.

      She’s coming over for Easter at the end of the month. Jacques will