Sardine Day

Yesterday – Sunday – was Sardine Day here in Medville.
And no, we have no idea what that means.
Well, we know what a sardine is, obviously.
And we understand day, as a word and a concept.
But that’s it.
Barriers and signs and strange contraptions appeared on Saturday, building anticipation in the hearts of the eager populace and a sense of dismay and horror in the feeble minds of your ruminating reporters.
Anyway, this strangely named event was equally strange in its production.
It comprised of a race which wasn’t a race, more a course for people to run, amble or stroll around.
It was described by one of the organisers, in wonderfully contradictory French fashion, as a ‘petit marathon’.
The photos describe the rest of it better than mere words can.
Big inflatable chutes, or slides, at different places in town, most centrally at the Esplanade Sainte Estelle.
A foam-making machine beside La Maison De La Mer.
It looks like snow, but where is Frosty?

Lots of soggy smiling tube-clad folk wandering around in sodden Sardine Day tee shirts, dripping froth.
My kinésithérapeute displaying a magnificent pair of inflatable (I hope) boobs.
Or maybe he is being cuddled by a bug-eyed octopus who is clearly deficient in the tentacle department.

And not a sardine to be seen.
Just hordes of happy wet giggly slippery squelchy kiddies.
And adults.

And there was, as always, a band!
Just another day in Paradise.

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