When we queued up for the return journey home, I pulled the car up-to the French check-in booth at the port and handed over our passports to the rather stern looking official. It was safe to say that Harry had had a couple of drinks at this stage. He wasn’t driving and had taken full advantage of this during our latest booze run.
The French customs officer must have had garlic in his lunch; lots of it, as the little booth stunk of it, and I prayed to God he wasn’t going to lean into the car to check on us.
“Will you still be needing the disabled priority boarding?” he asked me. And before I could reply, I heard a voice next to me say “No. We’ve just come back from Lourdes. You fuckwit.”
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