Anyone who has ever travelled on the Tube will know that the British famously travel in silence. Never mind the fact that the Tube train is absolutely full, you’d be able to hear a pin drop over the soft rustle of the newspapers and hushed shuffling of feet.

Travelling on the train is much the same – the vast majority of people on the train are regular commuters, reading their newspapers, working on documents, or checking their e-mail on their Blackberries. Those who travel together may chat quietly, but they’re always aware of those around them. Occasionally mobile phones ring, met with a roll of the eyes from other passengers, but generally callers have moved beyond shouting “I’M ON THE TRAIN…THE TRAIN!” and keep their conversations quiet and short.

I say “generally” because there’s always an exception to every rule. Avid readers of my blog will have already been introduced to Ms Squeaky, the woman who loves to chat on her mobile phone for the entire commute each day. For those who are interested, it appears that she’s now back with her boyfriend, though they’re on shaky ground. But that’s not important – what’s important is that this woman breaks the unspoken rules of silent travel, day after day.

An Englishman is characterised by his endless patience and his stiff upper lip. He’s raised on a lifetime of “mustn’t grumble” and silently and stoically endures the worst that life throws at him.

But every man, even an Englishman, has his breaking point. And when one of his inviolable rules has been broken, he lashes out.

And so it was on my train this morning.

The tension has been building up for several days. One passenger has been exchanging frustrated glances with another. Comments muttered under one’s breath. A collective sigh of relief as we all stepped off the train.

This morning, though, one of our number snapped. After Ms Squeaky made her third phone call of the morning, the gent sitting next to her pointed out just how inconsiderate her phoning was. This was met with cheers from the other passengers. Backed into a corner, Ms Squeaky became defensive and proceeded to assert her “rights” to telephone, and began to call our chap all manner of colourful names. She threatened to make a complaint to the railways authority. She demanded that he stop taking her seat on the train. And she demanded that he stop taking the train all together, as he was too annoying to bear.

It all got ugly very quickly.

I, on the other hand, reverted to that other stalwart of Englishness. I spent the next 40 minutes studying a Powerpoint slide and avoiding eye contact with anyone else.

I’m no fool. The safest place in any battle is beneath the parapet!

We went to see the Buena Vista Social Club in concert last night, and I’ve got to admit it was a little disappointing. I don’t know whether it was the venue, the fact that the majority of the crowd were over 50, or the fact that most of the music was new jazz pieces designed to highlight the soloists rather than the vocal classics that made them famous, but something about the concert didn’t work. Maybe it was the fact that very few of the original Buena Vista members are still well enough to tour with the group, or maybe it’s that those who are still well enough have lost some of their ability due to their declining years.

Don’t get me wrong – it was an enjoyable way to spend an evening, and the young pianist playing with the group was as good as any I’ve seen – he clearly has a great jazz career ahead of him. But it fell short of the magic that the elder statesman of Cuban music, Compay Segundo, managed to create at his concerts – even at the age of 91. And that was the magic I was after.

A couple of mojitos later, I didn’t care.

Neil wrote to tell me that he was getting some funny e-mail after signing up for my blog — something about a spam remailer. It’s working fine for me — if anyone else is having trouble or receiving similar e-mail, please drop me a line and I’ll dig a little deeper.

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Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe that Anne-Laure is another year older. It seems only yesterday we were wishing our French amie a “Very Hoppy Birthday”. Here she is a year ago, young, single, happy and free.

A year on and it’s all “my boyfriend this…” and “my boyfriend that…”, sighs and groans as her aging muscles and joints fail on her, and claims that she has to go to bed at 9pm because she’s too tired to cope.

All kidding aside, we had a great meal at the Dog Inn in Wingham. Even though it was her birthday, and she was already the centre of attention, Anne-Laure had to up the ante and shine the spotlight squarely on herself by spilling her wine rather spectacularly over the most of the table (and what didn’t hit the table went straight into Dave’s lap). She maintained it was an accident and that she felt terrible about it, but we secretly all know that it was an attention-seeking ploy.

Anne-Laure, the birthday girl

Her friend Juliette…

…and Juliette’s husband, Dave

Aude’s rather daring Tarte Tatin with flambeed Calvados

Has her birthday wish come true?

The gang outside the pub

The gang outside the pub

My mother and I were speaking on the telephone the other night, and I was describing the farmer’s market and restaurant across the street from our house. Still, a picture’s worth a thousand words — so I figured I’d save the cost of a 45-minute transatlantic call and include about 5,000 words worth of description here:

Fruit and vegetables stall — locally grown and organic

The restaurant at the back of the food hall. Most of the ingredients are sourced from the market.

The French charcuterie, which keeps Aude in saucisson.

A view over the entire hall from the restaurant.

View of the front of the market, as seen from our front door.

Say what you want, but I’d rather have this across the street as our “local shop” than a 7-Eleven anyday.