Sir Lunch A Lot in town

I have had several more flashbacks to Saturday at Biot. I think it is fair to say that I have been struggling a bit today after an entire weekend of quality debauchery, and if flashbacks are the only lasting damage, then I will once again have got away lightly.

Anna, our host on Saturday claims that she hopes to “bump into” Peachy Butterfield some time, I guess to give you an idea of scale, Titanic bumped into that iceberg, but she must have a death wish, as anyone who bumps into this man mountain can expect to be seriously physically damaged. There is however little chance of that in the coming week, as he is returning to the UK today for at least a week. He is missing his pigeons, and wants to see how his whippets have enjoyed the first time the sun has ventured above the horizon in months, in the little known northern enclave of Cheshire.

The idea then, of rising from my pit and then trailer emptying and collecting pebbles, in said trailer was not one I relished. That nice lady decorator spotted the first ruse, and reset the alarm clock accordingly. The next excuse, that I had suddenly remembered a doctor’s appointment was dismissed in a trice, so it was back to the “shrapnel defence”, which I outlined yesterday, but it was to prove no more effective.

So I emptied the trailer, and the dutifully collected the exact pebbles the nice lady decorator had decreed from the quarry yard. The prospect of shoveling these labouriously, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow, onto the terrace surrounds for the expected three trailer loads was so impossible to contemplate that I developed a plan that rather astonishingly worked. I managed to persuade her that the depth of pebbles, if lowered somewhat from the level she had decided, would perhaps give more differentiation to the visual amenity created. In other words, a way if completing the job for one-third of the expected materials, work and costs.

Thereafter, all that was required was straight forward bribery of a nicotine challenged son to do the real hard work and the day began to look up. Until that moment, looking up is not something I could do without a feeling nausea. I must also move some money from the UK today and looking at today’s exchange rate I see another reason for nausea.

My picture today was taken before the terrace reached maturity and was ready for a good stoning.

That terrace. Note the ghostly figures, probably the spirits of earlier labourers employed by that nice lady decorator

Today, 9 holes of golf with Mr Clipboard will be followed, as night follows day, by lunch, but at this stage I know not where. Auberge St Donat looks a hot favourite as Mr Clipboard will be paying due to my estate agent services rendered for him recently. I shall of course suggest that Michelin Star Lou Fassum is nice at this time of year, indeed any time of the year.

9 holes is, as golfers will know, only half a round, but Mr Clipboard has become so decrepit, despite being younger than me (looks can be SO deceiving don’t you think?) he could claims not to be able to finish a whole one.

This lack of ability to complete or even tackle a whole round of golf is however not matched when it comes to the meal table, where he is always able to finish, and is always happy to help out his fellow diners by relieving them of any food that they find surfeit to requirements. Sir Lunch A Lot, as he is also known, will deny any claim that he is overweight through over eating, claiming to be “well-built and heavily muscled”.

I shall, as is customary, win the golf, but also as is customary, I shall almost certainly be denied victory on the surface due to the uncertainties and vagaries of the handicap system. For non golfers, this means that good golfers are often denied victory by bad golfers. But I shall not sulk (for long) as there are bigger issues to confront in life than losing at golf although off the top of my head I can’t think of any at this moment.

Chris France