Just got back from a short trip to France, staying in the loveliest house in the world.
Gerard Bertrand. Bertrand is an ex international rugby player, looks like super-fox Vincent Cassel and is one of France's best wine-makers, working in an area called La Clape (insert cheap joke here.)
L'Hospitalet, in the hills above Narbonne, for lunch.
La Distellerie (both meals excellent.)
*When my mother found out I was returning to this house, she asked if I was going to be gallivanting around naked and getting involved in weird Barbie doll role play, as per the book. Aside from the fact that last time I went to the house was with my mate Mavis, with whom there was zero nudity, my mother seems convinced that everything I write is true. I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered: does my mum think I'm entirely lacking in the powers of imagination, or is it some sort of backhanded compliment - my writing is so vivid she cannot BELIEVE it is not real. Hmmm. Wait till she reads the scene I've cooked up with Vincent Cassel, Alec Baldwin and me in a hot tub, in book two. Then I'm really going to get an earful...