Purple Reigns

When one is looking for inspiration for this column, Cafe Latin in Valbonne is perfect to recharge the old gossip banks. It is a Friday morning ritual, known as church, often with quite a large number of worshippers although the only worshipping I see going on is the worship of coffee.  Yesterday morning I went to church gathering for the first time in ages and met the delectable Helen Humphries taking  a few well-earned days rest from her demanding  job as a presenter on QVC, the shopping channel, and her doubtfully attired husband Neil Humphries (yes he was free), a long time devotee of this column, resplendent in purple and mauve.  

Now call me old-fashioned, but personally, I believe, although as he is a Magistrate, so I have to be careful with my wording here, that you have to be one of two things to wear such bizarre colours as a man, either far too much in touch with your feminine side to be good for you, or gay, or both. 

Nancy Allen, who was present at church suggested that perhaps he was Grand Poo Bar of some weird religious sect worshipping the colour purple, just like his purpleness himself The Artist Formerly Known as Prince (who enjoyed his only ever No. 1 record in the UK “The Most Beautiful Girl In The World” courtesy of my good self).  I publish here the picture I took of him (Neil, not Prince) yesterday morning, and would draw particular attention to his belt, so you decide. The Canadians recently told him he looked err… very European in his quaint cardigans.  One final note, as a martial arts expert he admitted to be interested in getting involved in cage fighting (!).  I just wondered who he would like in the cage with him! easy tiger! 

I think that is a sheep on his belt. Steve Weston, can you confirm?

Peter Lynn send me a scurrilous note saying that the pope refused to kiss the tarmac at Edinburgh airport when he flew in recently because it was more than 8 years old, Peter, you should be ashamed.  I have said I will only publish stories that I think are funny in this blog and that’s  not funny. 

Last night was planned to be quiet, until it was just getting past 6pm, beer o clock, or the gin and toniclock as it is could become known in the future in this household, when my Currencies Direct French Ayotollah, Pippa swept up the drive clutching bottles of rose. Then this morning I thought the Merc had been stolen, until I remembered. After lending my car to the wingco in summer and finding out he drove to Barcelona, not once but twice, I made a resolution not to lend my car again, but gradually after helping her and Gerald, her husband drink the gifts, I found myself becoming ever more sympathetic to his plight of being unable to hire a car in the area due to the Cannes Boat Show.  He has to go to an ill relatives funeral or wedding or something, I forget exactly, so the car is  loaned out for the weekend which luckily I remembered before calling the gendarmes. 

Chris France       

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