My salad dressing days

‘I’m a bit concerned…’ he says.

Oh God, I think.

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Well, let me show you.’ [He opens out a map as if he is about to brief me on the rules of engagement for an imminent airstrike on Pyongyang.] ‘Do you see this small patch of land? Just here? Without any cross-hatching or diagonal lines?’

[The patch of land, even for my geographically- and mathematically-challenged brain, appears to be 25cm sq.]

‘Um, yes…’

‘Well, it’s unaccounted for! It’s neither part of the public highway nor is it part of the private road leading up to your house!’

‘And this is a problem because…?’ I query.

‘Because you will have to cross this piece of land whenever you want to get from the road to your house.’

‘And?’

‘And…supposing the person who actually owns this piece of land decides he or she wants to start charging you to walk or drive over it?’

I recoil in horror. For some reason, I am imagining this person as the three billy goats gruff’s nemesis.

‘What are we going to do??’ I wail.

‘Well, I’m going to talk to the developers and we’ll see what comes back on the local authority searches.’

*******

[A few days later.]

‘So…? What was the deal with that patch of tarmac? Is a nasty troll going to charge me three gold bullions each time I want to drive to my own house?’

‘Eh? Oh…that piece of land! It was a drafting error. It’s part of the public highway. Nothing to worry about! Now…did I mention to you that piece of contaminated land adjacent to your back garden?’

but if you are it helps.

Why else is it that the only English newspapers we can buy at our Alpine campsite are The Daily Telegraph and Daily Mail?

It’s enough to make a gal choke on her morning pain au chocolat.

So she sticks to Liberation and a dictionary.