After an unexpected call mid-July, informing him of a sudden opening on a pastry course, our hero* found himself tasked with defeating various administrations in order to update his status with them and hopefully obtain some money.
It is slightly winded and rather more panicked that he reached his destination, Rouen, on the Saturday before the start of the course, taking possession of a flat on the same day.
After two nights that did not lend themselves to restful sleep, First Contact was established on the Monday.
More paperwork, though most of it had been filled properly.
The students were sorted into groups. The lack of a Hat and ordinariness of the group names did put a slight damper on what could have been jolly good fun, and the lack of a feast was felt.
What really smarted was the contents of the timetables, which indicated that Tuesdays would start at 6am, in the lab, in uniform. (More on the uniform later.)
Fortunately this would be the only such ungodly day, and all students were granted weekends free of work.
(Though homework was strongly advised.)
After a mostly sleepless night, it was time to wake up, get dressed, go to school, get undressed, put on the uniform, and pretend to be fresh and rested, and Definitely Not One Of The Undead. On the bright side, most people were in the same sorry state. Most people, however, did not enjoy a panic attack. Interestingly, the symptoms were mostly the same as those of gastroenteritis, an old foe. (For the unacquainted: shivers, cold sweat, nausea, and dizziness.)
Thank Om for cold, steady surfaces to grip. And thank pig-headedness for keeping panic at bay, on the basis that the course had been expensive enough, and none would be missed on the first day, thank you very much.
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After a basic presentation of the laboratories (no sign of green bubbly liquids, a real shame) and processes, we were instructed on the way to make paper cornets, and sent on our merry way to pipe chocolate, the tale of "5 miles to school under the snow and upwards both ways" being that our tutor, as an apprentice, had to cover the workbench with "Happy Birthday"s small enough to fit a cake, every single day. He recommended that we obtain some chocolate spread and practice at home.
We then graduated to the icing bag, and made pretend éclairs (or attempted to), with margarine. While a good exercise, it is also somewhat revolting.
The rest of the week passed without too much trouble, as the recipes were relatively easy, and included sablés (biscuits), flans and a fruit pie.
We learned some of the technical jargon, some tips and some Stuff You Should Not Do, but the most important lesson is that when you work in those labs for six-hour sessions with a 15 to 20 minutes pause in the middle, you are pretty much shattered by the time you are allowed to go home .
*
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Long story short, and no descriptions of The Works as this isn't a JRR Martin novel, it soon was December, Exams happened, and Exams were passed. No limbs had been lost. Not entirely. A diploma was obtained. There was much rejoicing in the land. And now back to our irregular scheduling.
*Yes, yes, we know.
