Purple is in

Even a surprise visit to church at Cafe Latin looked as if it would be fruitless. Normally on market day there will be a few ex pats with loose tongues prepared to dish the dirt and gossip about their compatriots. I like to consider that they have been scared away by the power of this blog, but was beginning to consider the fact that maybe nobody likes me. It looked as if even my style guru Mr Humphries was absent, probably giving his advice on what to wear to some other poor unfortunates.

But then it happened, he and others emerged from a private table in the corner where they had been hiding (I think I stayed long enough to make them realise that hiding was not an option), and to prove it, here is a picture he refused to pose for, but I took when he was distracted by a phone call (surely that calls for a fine, accepting a phone call whilst in church?, the reverend Jeff would be mortified). I am pleased to see that the colour purple features strongly in his wardrobe.

Purple reign, note the rather effeminate cigarette....

With the sun returning, and rejuvenated by 24 hours without a drink, lunch on the beach seemed to be a very sensible option, and as regular readers will know by now, I always select the sensible option, particularly if there is a glass of wine or two in it, but at the last moment some clouds appeared, and with that nice lady decorator in the middle of plastering a wall (I kid you not) lunch was postponed.

A year of blogging is approaching, the big day is 22nd March when I shall celebrate with a special feature, maybe featuring my favourite photos of the year. Those that have embarrassed themselves whilst I have been around and in possession of a camera be warned! Bribes happily accepted to keep those that wish to avoid a further high-profile publication of dodgy photos (Bill Colegrave in particular, please take note – money will do well although I feel lunch at Lou Fassum should do it).

Last night I made a decision. This is not normal, as obviously in my household, I am not judged at being good at decision-making when it comes to social occasions. I decided that I would like to check out the new Indian restaurant in Valbonne. Luckily that nice lady decorator agreed with me, so obviously it became her decision with which I readily concurred. As I am posting this before we got there, due to not wanting to get up at 7.30 am on a Saturday, you will have to wait until tomorrow for my verdict, unless I get the urge to report further this evening (that’s last night to you). Clearly, the restaurant in question will be hanging on to my every word of praise or otherwise as this column can make or break a new establishment in the village. This is what I would like to believe, but increased delusion arrives with age, and I have plenty of both.

I have decided to risk the weather forecast and play golf with the Landlubbers tomorrow at Grande Bastide, mainly, it has to be said, because of an email I received from stand-in organiser and sheep fancier Steve “Dolly the Sheep” Weston, praying for rain. The reason for his prayers was to provide him with some hope that I would not play and therefore he would be able to enjoy a week without ribbing (do sheep have ribs?), an outcome which would be welcomed with open arms by Steve, in much the way I am sure he greets his favourite sheep.