First round since 1973 shocker

That nice lady decorator, formerly known as the resident plasterer and now wanting to be described in future as the resident gardener, surprised all and sundry last night by offering to buy a round.

This has not happened to my almost certain knowledge since 1973, or perhaps just before decimalisation. As the purse was dusted off from the depths of her handbag, I contemplated the possibilities. Would there perhaps be 10 shilling note, some sixpences or threepenny bits? I knew there would be a smell of camphor from the inevitable moth balls, but even my imagination could not have predicted the presence of a 1935 penny.

First view of 1p coin since emerging from in house gardeners purse

It got worse, as she tried to pay part of the round with it, (“it’s a 2 pence piece isn’t it?). As proof, it is pictured here.

I look forward to the next time she decides it is her turn to buy, probably in about 2039, or at least after I am dead.

Dunno what happened yesterday. There was a weird title to yesterdays blog, 882 which I didn’t write, and will correct after finishing my pint of Tribute, a Cornish beer I have discovered down here which is passable.

Yesterday morning, after a 4 mile jaunt around Baggy Point, a well-earned pint was on the agenda, the sun was past the yard-arm (at least it passed the yard-arm as we arrived at The Rock Inn
In Croyde) which, joy of joys, was also serving Timothy Taylor Landlord, the second best beer in the world and the only good thing ever to come out of Yorkshire.

Had there been Fullers London Pride, I may even have asked for an extension of the English prison sentence (see blogs passim) no Paul North, it’s not a football expression, its Latin.

Talking of Paul North, I do hope the doyen of fridge magnets has managed to sell a decent quantity of his very questionable merchandise ahead of our golf clash on 26th July. I urge all my readers to buy as many as possible so that he can save the £10 he will owe me after I have slaughtered him despite his girls handicap.

After several pints of the local brew, we adjourned to the local beach, where they tried to charge me £6 to park the horrible hire car for an hour on a beach!. £6? Outrageous!  Just when, with the sun threatening to emerge from the clouds, and a decent beer on board, I was just beginning to soften about being back in the old country, a car parking disaster  happens!

Truly outrageous! even the best car park, even the Cafe de Paris in Monte Carlo where there are dickey bowed valet  parking attendants who will bring ones Bentley to the door when one asks, open the door and wish you a good day, would be embarrassed by a charge of £6, around 7 20 euros at today’s exchange rate.

And when you see where one was supposed to park, on a slope near a collapsing cliff alongside caravans and people from up north with their tins of Special Brew and their kiss me quick hats, I realised that it is a false dawn, and I want to return to the land of plenty. Plenty free parking that is in France.

Chris France       

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