A good eight inches

I have noticed that the nice lady decorator has a slight speech impediment, every now and then she stops talking in order to breathe. This of course in no way detracts from the quality of her output, how do I know this? I know, because she has told me (without having to breathe).

So a late barbecue lunch with the wingco was the plan. Late because he is habitually late, it is built into his genes and late because lunch tends to become dinner and turns into a session, so a later start is less dangerous. It is impossible for him to be on time as he is a musician, and I was so looking forward to some nice fresh red wine, but the thunderstorm gods struck again with a vengeance not seen since Noah’s heyday and at least 6 inches of rain was  deposited during the morning, whereupon I took this picture of my garden. I am sure that the famous weather forecasting faux pas where that big blonde Scandinavian (Agnieta ?) weather girl on UK TV suggested after a heavy snow fall that she  “had a good eight inches this morning” before realising what she had said may be on youtube within 5 minutes, would have had something to say about it.

So barbecue plans were put on hold whilst the deluge was dealt with. I directed the flood relief team from the safety of an upstairs room.  It was being led by that nice lady decorator,  supported by my son and a friend, trying to rescue tortoises and also trying to stop the torrent from entering our back door. My exhortations to them about trying not to get too wet as they filled sandbags and erected temporary flood relief measures went unheeded, and indeed a couple of drops of rain actually splashed on my clothing as well, but no matter, that nice lady decorator can deal with that later. My pool which had been a little short of water due to a leak needed pumping out but the sun returned for early evening so what else to do?

That reminds me of another job for that nice lady decorator, orange rope holding up my hammock? what was she thinking of?

And so with a beer in hand I contemplated the coming week, and realised that I have only two days into which to force nearly a months work for Currencies Direct. The reason is that the Savins are coming on Wednesday for their annual carnage inducing trip, where almost certainly I will be able to spell out Janie Savin in empty rose bottles before they leave after 5 days. Longer term readers will remember Janie as that wonderful blonde person who spent the last trip assiduously watering my fake banana palm every day. We did not have the heart to tell her, but then miraculously, due entirely to her irrigation skills, a tiny bunch of bananas appeared on the palm on her last day. If I can get the permission of old friend Moya Janko, who holds me to account when publishing previously published photos, I will use it this week sometime. Moya, speak now or forever hold your breath.

Their annual junket also involves golf, where I will once again be relieving Pedro of some of his ill gotten gains (he is an accountant but likes to  call himself a fund manager) on the golf course, indeed my forehead is moistening nicely in expectation of having one of Pedro’s many bank notes stuck to it before long. Expect full details later in the week, unless the impossible happens and his handicap benefit throws up the wrong result, in which case no more will be said.

Chris France