The law according to the decorator

I should have known. Rules are rules even if you don’t know about them. It seems that there is a rule, that applies only to me, that I should be home in time to have a sun-downer with that nice lady decorator before the sun has, in fact, gone down, if she decides to enforce that rule.

This usually only happens if she herself is not busy with something, and so it is often a difficult rule to interpret. Punishment for any indiscretion is at the same time swift and lingering. By that I mean that it starts immediately and lingers on, sometimes for days.

Part of understanding the “law of the decorator” requires intimate meteorological knowledge, in real time, of whether the sun is out and shining into our pavilion at the correct angle in Valbonne. No account is taken of whether the round of golf took longer then expected or if play started later than expected, or if shopping was required on the way back or if there was traffic. I am not saying that any or all of those occurred, the fact remains that if, and it is a significant if, the nice lady decorator has decreed a sun-downer, and even if one has not received the message issuing said decree, one must comply or expect the punishment.

English law states that ignorance of the law is no excuse and the nice lady decorator enforces that sentiment with a rod of iron. What makes it so peculiarly difficult is that this kind of legislation is a constantly developing animal; laws can be made at the drop of a hat and without warning, so my normal ignorance is then exacerbated in her eyes continually.

And so, it was with this backdrop that we tried again at the Indian restaurant in Valbonne, the Kashmir, and I am very glad we did, with the kitchen this time functioning smoothly, it was excellent. All we need now in the village is a Thai restaurant of similar quality, a pub serving London Pride on draught, and I will never need to leave.

Luckily several friends had a similar idea to try it out, so the effect of the punishment, which was still lingering, was dulled by the fact that at least my friends were talking to me.

Back to the golf. It was all going so badly that at halfway, I struck a bet with one of my playing partners, the follically challenged financial whizz kid Mike Lorimer. Whilst he may be at the top of his game when it comes to financial structuring and investments, as a betting man, he will be today ruing the bet with me as to who would finish last between us. Modesty precludes me from revealing the result of this wager, but regular readers may know the signs, and my dampened forehead supporting a bank-note in the bar after the event may lead the more astute amongst my readers as to the result of this wager.

Golfing partners Bob Jones on the right and Nick Kail on the left. Mile Lorimer the last of our quartet is here being impersonated by a duck.

Yesterday was the first sunbathing opportunity of the year, so who am I to deny myself this possibility. It was perhaps inevitable then, that a lunch time beer would reawaken the rose taste buds. Rose wine can of course only be consumed properly when the sun is on your back, and luckily I had sufficient foresight to purchase the customary 6 different bottles of rose (total cost 21 euros) under £18 at today’s exchange rates, less than £3 a bottle) in order to decide which particular win will be selected as the summer bench mark. As usual in these tasting ceremonies, decisions are taken, but seldom recalled the next day, necessitating a re-run of the tasting ceremony time and time again until the remember button works.

Finally my new grumpy old git blog on angloinfo, Happy Mondays, posts this morning, and is particularly vicious. I like it!

Chris France