I'm sitting under a cornflower blue sky. The Atlantic Ocean is a five minute walk away. I have a choice of restaurants to eat in this evening, all of which sell the best, freshest fish I've ever tasted.
There's a pharmacie up the road that's stuffed to the gunwhales with Nuxe, La Roche Posay, Klorane and Korres. Next door to that is a Carrefour - and we all know what French supermarkets are like. Apericubes. Lays. Petit Prince biscuits - double chocolate. Pâté I'd swop my dog for.
And there's a boulangerie a stone's throw away that sells croissants that have clearly been baked by angels.
I'm supposed to be going home tomorrow. It'll be rainy, and grey, and Theresa May will still be in charge, and Brexit will still be a monumental slow-mo fuckup, and I'll have a sweaty sandwich from the co-op for lunch every day.
So, what I'm saying is, can I claim asylum and stay here, pretty please?
Lighthearted not really