Little squashed bat

In the early hours Mu got on a bus in Newry, flew out of the blue skies of Dublin and wound up in Toulouse under dark clouds.  
I'd packed a bag of kitchen paper, book etc and headed shakily towards Toulouse worrying about bursting tires,  engines going up in flames, auto-planing and space debris hitting the moon.

The car rattled and rocked worryingly up the A61.

Bernie didn't pee when we met Mu at gate 4, making the kitchen paper obsolete.

Safely back in my comfort zone, we checked out the stair lift at N°25. 
I recorded its functionality for Ju, filming Lizzie giving a running commentary as she went up and down. 
The sending lagged so Ju and I got into a little trans-Pyrennean  tennis
match of words.  
39 steps (him)
Upstairs downstairs (him)
Game of Thrones (me) (lame)
Up and Downton Abbey (me - not bad)
Bringing up the bodies - Hilary Mantel  (me, very good -)  That made him both laugh and shut up, so I think I won.

Meanwhile Mu lay on the sofa like a tired, squashed, jet-lagged bat and Nico sat in a small ring of lamp light trying to decipher the digital display window of the boiler which he'd turned off yesterday (it was 20°, today it's 8°) .
Cast ne'er a clout....  
We now have no heating or hot water.