Italian socket in Vallebona

Italian plug sockets will usually take French plugs, although it is a tight fit. So I should have known that when the nice lady decorator wanted to borrow my shoe to hammer in the kettle plug into the Italian socket for her morning cup of Earl Grey, that it might end in tears.  All was well to start with, my shoe survived the hammering, the plug was eventually forced into the socket and the kettle performed perfectly yesterday morning before we left Vallebona, but the trouble started as we were about to leave, as the plug refused to leave the socket. Much tugging and swearing ensued and eventually a spoon was used to try to prise it out. Before I could say, “that’s a shocking course of action and not wise, you might fuse the circuit”, there was a blinding flash and my prediction came true, although at least the plug came out. Sadly with my Italian, which is non-existent, and with the hotel staff speaking no English or French, I was unable to explain that the whole block had been short circuited by the insertion of a spoon into a live socket. Thus we left town rather swiftly. I was able to snatch this shot of the quaint old roads in the village on the way running down to the car.

The roads of Vallebona in the hinterland behind the Italian Riviera. Not much electricity in evidence at this particular juncture

The fact that we were not stopped at the border and accused of misuse of electric sockets must have been the result of what the French consider to be the very lucky deposit that nice lady decorator received out of the sky yesterday from a hummingbird (well it certainly hummed a bit). However, she claims it came from a great height from the giant arse of a mutant giant eagle or such like.

So we arrived back in the late morning, but as usual, there is no peace for the idle rich, so yesterday afternoon to Gerald and Pippa Maile’s for a the first of two barbecues of the day, the first one with the great and good of Currencies Direct in attendance. A team from the UK are here for close to a week to cover both Le Tour De Finance events, last week in Mougins and the upcoming one this Tuesday at the Boscolo Hotel in central Nice at 5.30pm. No excuses will be accepted this time for non-attendance, I know here you all live so be there, or risk the wrath of this column.

Later at a second barbecue at the splendid Bastide St Mathieu, Bill Colegrave claims not to have lost to me at on-line chess. When I show him the email from the web site confirming my win, he says he handed the game over to a friend to complete. This is a very poor line. Even I, as a very bad loser myself, would be ashamed to use this as a defence, in fact that defence was as poor as the chess defence he employed in that game: ie full of holes.

The Reverend Jeff responds to my column on Thursday when I suggested that by dodging the grim reaper by hitting it with a vacuum cleaner was Dyson with death. He suggests the I must have been hoovering on the brink.

This morning I will be getting gently roasted at the Grande Bastide golf course with the Landlubbers golf group, now that the weather is getting hot, and then I hope a quiet afternoon of contemplative solitude after the recent frenetic activity, unless of course that nice lady decorator has other ideas.

Chris France