Comfort zones are precarious commodities. Just normal when they are intact, elusive and highly desirable when they have disappeared. It's minus 2 degrees outside and we have run out of gas for the heating. It was ordered but they don't believe in Urgent over here in France and they will deliver more to our 'citerne' when it suits them. No cooking either, of course. Pathetic attempt at porridge in the microwave this morning, with porridge exploding all over the place.
And then there is a different type of comfort zone. Where something unexpected happens and suddenly B does not follow A. Like when I drive to the Centre Commerciale to replace a light fitting which has inexplicably fallen in a shower of ceramic shards on the kitchen table.
I park, shut the engine off, withdraw what passes for a key from P's BMW and it flies out of my hand on to the floor. So far so good. Except it's nowhere to be seen. I look at the front, I look at the back. I push the seats forward and backwards. It is invisible.
A car parks next to me. An elderly couple get out. I play the helpless little woman. Actually, I am the helpless little woman ! I tell them I have lost my key. They join in the search. Everybody is about to give up when Monsieur reckons he can see it: a narrow black edge is found to be wedged between the driver's seat and the centre bit. I get out my long-tailed comb and push it clear. All is well. I am back in my comfort zone.
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