Plump Lumps

A rest day. La Tour-du-Pin.

Team Philosophe is enjoying a picnic on the banks of the River Bourbré.

Belle opens the picnic basket. An aniseed scent issues out.

Sausages? asks Vello.

Yes, says Belle. Three types. These are rosettes de Lyon and these are jésus de Lyon. The aniseed ones are called murçons. Help yourself to the cheese.

Did you say...? asks Sweezus.

Cheese, says Belle. It's a Saint Marcellin.

No, the second type of sausage, says Sweezus.

Jésus de Lyon, says Belle I thought you'd want to try them. See the plump lumps of white fat? They represent tightly-swaddled babies.

Too much information, says Sweezus.

Let's see, says Vello. They look fine to me. I'll try one.

David peers at the sausage.

This one's got a face, says David.

That's pepper, says Belle.

What's to drink, dear? asks Vello.

Some Grenoble wines, and a bottle of green Chartreuse, says Belle. I couldn't resist the Chartreuse. It reminds me of Arthur. 

Let's get stuck into it, says Sweezus.

He opens the Chartreuse and pours himself a large shot.

Easy! says David.

I miss Arthur, says Sweezus,  pouring himself another. What was that poem.....?

Does a beast on the way to the slaughter house/ dream of fine herbs? says Belle. I remember that one.

Convulsing intestines of riders/ sucking in power/ excreting exhaustion/ in discarded paper bags, says Vello, spitting out a plump jésus.

Papa! I'm surprised you remember! says Belle.

It was quite a good poem, says Vello.

I hear Richie has finished his poem, says David. Has anyone seen it?

Yeah, says Sweezus. It goes like .....Once on Lingshan Mountain...

Really? says Belle. That sounds like something Shu might come up with.

It kind of does, says Sweezus. But the rest is pure Richie.

Go on, says David, licking his fingers.

Once on Lingshan Mountain, (says Sweezus)/ when I was the Richie who rode for Team Sky/ 

two Chinese ecologists thought/ that I might be a pilot.  

                    (Ha ha! laughs Vello. Team Sky!)

Several times at Stage Nine/ I've been forced to abandon/

I once believed nine was unlucky/ the number for cats.

                   (Cats? Oh, cats. I see, says David).

My first poem, a mash-up/ was about a potato/

eaten with butter and salt/ and black pepper.

                   (Belle smiles. She remember the potato).

I'm thirty six now/ I give myself two more years/

at this level/ and it won't be with Trek Segafredo.

And that's it, says Sweezus.

Fighting words, says Vello. Bravo Richie! 

He pours himself a large shot of Chartreuse.

Belle takes a tarte from the basket, a grande tarte aux noix.