Crab

My hands are really too messy to write. I had a whole crab for tea, smashed over the plate and accompanied in the best way possible by some good bread and a wedged-up lemon. I sat there, in blissful solitude, for a good hour-and-a-half, poking the meat out of the nooks and crannies with a chopstick.

Earlier today, after buying the crab, and being duly propositioned by the fishmonger selling said crab (vive la France!), I got on the bus home. Halfway there, I am brought back down to earth from ipod-induced reverie by something brushing hard against my shin. Then a hard pinch. I let out a shriek and nearly fall out of my seat. Everyone is staring now. Suddenly realising what has happened, I peer down at my shopping. The angry little crustacean, frantically grasping at any last hope of life, has clawed its way through the reinforced carrier bag and is now frantically grasping at my jean leg instead.I prise the pincer apart and stuff it back into the bag, which I then hold up for my audience. "C'est un torteau" I tell my fellow passengers.

A few smile, one or two chuckle; matronly housewives simply nod knowingly at what is obviously a perfectly normal post-poissonerie scene in this country. I imagine the same scene back in England, and now I'm the one chuckling.

Hilarious, indeed, to think you'd get a live crab so easily in England.