There's a book that has recently been heavily promoted by a company I occasionally work for, called French Women Don't Get Fat. I know nothing about this book, other than it appeals to British people who are envious of the stereotypical Gallic frame. It was particularly noticable, walking around Marseille today, that there are very, very few people who look even remotely overweight. “It's odd, but I think I'm the fattest person in this city,” I said to Jenny, who said “Don't be ridiculous,” as she unsuccessfully scanned the sidestreets for proof that she was right. When she did eventually see someone, they were toting the regulation shorts'n'camera uniform of the American tourist.

Chemist shops over here are unbelievable. There are loads of them, and they're massive. Three floors, full of remedies for bags under the eyes, thinning hair, saggy knees, everything. You go around corners and see a set of shelves like this -

– containing treatments devoted only to, I dunno, cuticles of the right hand. It's amazing. The jaw-dropping moment today, though, was seeing this product:

It's some kind of powder or tablet called AppetitControl. Look at that picture. Hilarious. A woman who has stuffed herself stupid with portions of AppetitControl, in order to make herself resistant to an enormous piece of cake, possibly a Black Forest Gateau. The streets are also full of artisan bakers, who are presumably baking huge cakes in sufficient quantities and with sufficient mouth-watering decoration to offset the possible effects of AppetitControl on the local population. But is it working? I don't think so. All the cakes are being bought up by tourists, seduced by the 3-hour TGV train from Paris. Just like we were. All day, Jenny and I have been refusing portions of food with an outstretched hand and a clipped “Non!” – just like the emaciated woman above – before saying “Oh, alright then” and cramming it into our gobs.

We picked up a hire car today. It was nowhere near as easy as it should have been, owing to misunderstandings too boring to be documented in even this journal (unbelievable, I know.) The rain continues to drive hard, hard into the pavements of Southern France, and tonight impressive electrical storms lit up the Mediterranean like a huge luminous carpet. Which has to be a good thing. But to be honest, it's spoiling the holiday. We drove up the A7 to Aix-en-Provence today, and I wouldn't be lying if I said that the view below was the most pleasurable, such was the power of the incessant rain slamming into our umbrellas.

“Il pleut tout nos vacances,” we said to a taxi driver earlier, after excusing our poor grammar. “Hahaha,” he replied. “C'est dommage,” he continued. “Hahahaha,” he said. “Hahahaha.”

EDIT: Now, of course, we're lying on the bed in the hotel singing “Non… Je ne regrette le gateau…”

Holiday isn't so bad after all.